Northumbria, 1066
Edward the Confessor, King of England, was dead. He’d left no natural heirs, and many powerful men with claims to the crown had gazed hungrily upon the throne while he still reigned. Now, however, the big seat was vacant. Now, the game of thrones would reach its climax.
Harold Godwinson, the Anglo-Saxon Earl of Wessex, East Anglia and Hereford, and the most powerful noble in England, had snatched the crown first. He’d made his move the moment Edward stopped breathing, being crowned king the very next day. Having laid the groundwork for his ascension years prior, he enjoyed support from many of the local nobility, especially due to his relation to both the late king and Cnut the Great, who’d forged England, Norway and Denmark into the North Sea Empire a generation ago. He could say he was loved by all, with one glaring exception.
Tostig Godwinson, Harold’s brother and former Earl of Northumbria, now exiled in Scotland, burned with envy. His brother had ignored the Earl of Mercia’s coup against him, expelling him from his rightful seat and driving him into exile so that brother dearest’s ascension to the crown would be uncontested. When Harold was crowned, Tostig knew that now would be his only chance to get back into power. Every monarch was weakest at the beginning of their reign, and his claim was just as valid as Harold’s. The problem was, to press his claim, he needed money and manpower, two things that had been plentiful while he was still a powerful noble, not so now that his fortunes had reversed. He’d done some raiding on the Mercian coast with mercenaries, but he wasn’t a military man, and Earl Edwin had chased him off with little trouble. Maybe he couldn’t challenge for the top spot directly, but he knew that if he could just get close to power, he could eventually seize it for himself. Tostig needed someone who could do all the hard, violent stuff for him. Tostig needed experience on his side. Fortunately, he knew a man who possessed that in spades.
Harald Hardrada, the warrior-king of Norway, saw an opportunity. He was a grizzled veteran, having travelled across the Mediterranean and Middle-East as one of the Byzantine Emperor’s personal elite squad, his Varangian Guard, after fleeing as a boy when Cnut had killed Harald’s elder brother, King Olaf of Norway. He’d fought battles against all kinds, from Sicilians to Saracens, from Slavs to Semites and many peoples in between. He’d amassed great wealth in the process, marrying the princess of Kiev and returning to his homeland triumphant. His nephew, Magnus the Good, had managed to retake the Norwegian throne after Cnut’s death, usurping the conqueror’s son, Harthacnut. Harald joined his nephew as co-ruler until the latter’s unfortunate early demise, leaving Harald as the sole king of the Norwegians. Having spent most of his life fighting, Harald, now a wealthy, powerful king, was content to rest upon his laurels. But he oft thought back to the glory days, hewing through Bulgarians, Arabs, Pechenegs and all the others, the days when the strength of your axe mattered more than the prettiness of your words. He was unsuited for a sedentary court life and he knew it, but what battles could he fight? He’d defeated all his enemies and kept Norway under an iron grip. There was nothing… Until he received an envoy from Tostig Godwinson, an English noble, with a very interesting proposal. A proposal he’d have to act quickly on, because unbeknownst to him, Tostig had hedged his bets and approached another as a contingency.
William the Bastard, Duke of Normandy, smelled blood. Born out of wedlock, he’d always known that his road would be harder than most, but even this early awareness hadn’t prepared him for the chaos his early reign as duke would bring. His father, Robert the Magnificent, had died on the return from his pilgrimage to Jerusalem, making the eight-year-old William the new duke over all the Norman lands in northern France. The duchy had erupted into anarchy at the news. William spent his childhood alternately being held hostage and evading capture, while the lower nobility all fought private wars and settled petty feuds in blood without the authoritative hand of a duke to keep things from spiralling. Once he’d grown older, his chaotic childhood transitioned into a chaotic young adulthood. After years of lawlessness, William had to essentially reconquer his own territory, having to wade through the snake-filled mire that was both Norman and wider French politics while facing rebellion after rebellion, even fighting off two invasions from the King of France, Henry. It was from this crucible that the Norman duke emerged, blood-soaked and victorious, now the preeminent noble in France, and eagerly looking to press his claim on the English throne as the late king Edward’s first cousin once removed. The missive from Tostig had only served to accelerate the ambitious young duke’s plans as he quickly sought papal approval for his planned conquest of England. The pope (whose lands in Italy were conveniently “protected” by other Norman lords) gave his blessing. And with God on his side, who could stop the Bastard?
Raiding his way down the Northumbrian coast, the Last Viking, King Harald III of Norway had raised a massive fleet, 300 ships strong, to take what he saw as his. After stopping off in Scotland to collect another two thousand men from Tostig’s ally King Malcolm and meeting up with Tostig himself, who’d hired two thousand Flemish mercenaries, the Norwegian host descended on North-eastern England with fire and fury. Many towns immediately surrendered upon being faced with Hardrada’s endless ranks, at least twice the size of the Great Heathen Army that had once invaded the island to avenge Ragnar Loðbrok. Scarborough, a town filled with tough, stubborn residents, would do no such thing.
King Harald had it burned to the ground.
News of Scarborough’s destruction radiated outwards quickly, making even more towns surrender to the Norwegians and accept Hardrada as their new sovereign. This news also reached Morcar, the new Earl of Northumbria, who rightly guessed it was Tostig, the man he’d ousted, causing more trouble. He sent word down to his brother Edwin, the Earl of Mercia, and King Harold, who had gathered an army in the south to prepare for William’s invasion. Everyone knew it was coming, but months of bad weather in the Channel had prevented any plans of embarking an army, thus leaving both sides just staring at one another from across the water.
The new King of England was bleeding silver for every day his army waited for the dreaded invasion, and even disbanded the troops as he simply could not keep paying for provisions. A week later, however, he learned of the Norwegian invasion and, in a fit of cursing, resummoned the host as quickly as possible. Mustering what strength he could on such short notice, he raced northwards up the old roman road, unbeknownst to the norsemen.
In Northumbria, things weren’t going well for the English. Harald and Tostig had sailed into the Humber estuary, raiding all the way up the river system, deep into Northumbrian territory. Edwin and Morcar had hastily raised an army of levies supported by their elite Anglo-Saxon huscarls, but they were outnumbered and knew it. Deciding to strike quickly before Hardrada got his men properly oriented, they caught around half of Hardrada’s army in a marsh outside the town of Fulford.
A brief but bloody battle ensued, with Hardrada purposefully using Tostig as bait, positioning him on the weak right flank knowing that the English Earls’ hate for him would lead them to concentrate their forces on the traitorous noble instead of the real threat, the King of Norway. If Tostig died in the process, well, that would just be an unfortunate accident.
As expected, the English fell for the trap, wasting effort on Tostig and not even succeeding in killing him, while Harald and his battle-hardened veterans made mincemeat of the barely trained levies, massacring the assembled Northumbrians and Mercians. Crushing the two Earls’ resistance, they fled behind the walls of the city of York, while Hardrada retired back to his fleet, anchored at the village of Riccall, and accepted letters of submission from all the neighbouring towns.
Organising terms of surrender with the trapped Earls, Hardrada gave them a simple choice. York was the capital of Northumbria, Tostig’s former capital, and he didn’t want to see it burned. After all this was a war of conquest, not destruction, and he didn’t want to destroy the region’s wealthiest city, his future domain, if it could be avoided. However, if they forced his hand…
Terms accepted, Hardrada prepared to receive 150 sons from the wealthiest and most notable families within its walls, in exchange for the city’s “security”. Expecting no trouble, he set out with Tostig and about two-thirds of his army to the meeting point where he’d receive the hostages; an unassuming crossing over the Derwent River known as Stamford Bridge.
Karl’s world lurched into being. Acclimating almost instantly, he looked down at himself and nodded.
Second Trial. One can only hope that Nicola at least didn’t make it.
Glancing around, he noted the vaguely norse-looking men standing around him in what seemed to be a pasture, as there were cows dotted along the grass.
Accessing his body’s memories, he gave himself some much needed context. He was a Dane, Einar, who’d left the Danish King Sweyn’s service after seeing which way the wind was blowing and affixing his fate to the storied Harald Hardrada. Many norsemen like him had flocked to Hardrada’s banner after hearing of his plans to invade England. Everyone knew the island was fat with potential plunder.
So far their expectations had been met, as they’d carried off armfuls of loot in their raids along the coast and especially during the destruction of Scarborough. The brief battle at Fulford had secured their dominance over the region and they were already accepting tributes from surrounding towns and villages. The invasion had barely even started and this was looking to be a profitable venture. Karl could feel Einar’s excitement. He would finally have enough of a nest egg to settle down with Asta and the kids permanently. No more fighting.
Yeah, looks like I’m going to die.
He and the rest of the Norwegian host were split across either side of the bridge. It was a surprisingly hot day, and the march up from Riccall was fairly strenuous, so Hardrada had allowed many of the men to come up without armour, as they were simply receiving hostages and confirming terms of surrender with the city and the Earls. With their army destroyed, what resistance could they put up? Einar, more cautious, didn’t go anywhere without full armour, even under the hot sun. Karl approved.
Fanning out in the pastures alongside other soldiers, Karl was on the western bank of the Derwent, corralling cattle towards their camp. Yes, it was petty to be stealing the town’s livestock right after conquering them but armies need provisions. They were waiting for the hostage delegation from the city, mostly just lazing about the bridge and counting up imaginary riches in their heads.
Suddenly, someone cried out.
“Look, by the city!”
Ding!
Objective: Defend the bridge until Hardrada’s forces form up.
Karl quickly read the notification as a column of dust appeared above the city in the distance.
That must be the English.
He calmly checked over his equipment, most of the other men on his side frantically wondering what their orders were and whether the approaching men were friends or foes. He was dressed in full mail armour, with a large two-handed battleaxe in his arms and a shield slung across his back. On the field, from the confusion it seemed no one even considered the fact that the approaching army could be the Anglo-Saxons. The column moved closer and closer until the glint of steel was visible in the daytime light and the royal English banner flapped into view.
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Cries of “impossible” and “witchcraft” erupted from the Viking army. They’d confirmed Godwinson’s location before making landfall. Just a week earlier, the English king had been far off to the south guarding the coastline against a French invasion. The English had somehow traversed nearly 200 miles between then and now.
They’d caught the Vikings completely unawares.
An envoy from the English rode hard from the main group towards the disorganised Norwegian army. On the bridge, Harald and Tostig were pushing their way through on horseback in order to meet with this envoy.
Coming together between the two armies, the envoy’s words echoed along the grass.
“Tostig Godwinson, your brother and king has availed a most generous offer for your consideration.”
Tostig gave a wry smile.
“Has he, now? Let us hear it then.”
The envoy stared Tostig in the eyes for a second longer than was proper, before clearing his throat and making the offer.
“Your brother, King Harold II of England, offers full amnesty for your treasons, reinstitution into your previous earldom as well as the option to take another domain if you so wish. Simply leave the field of battle with your men and any brought here by your presence.”
Tostig whistled.
“Two earldoms? The situation down south must be more dire than we thought if y- if he’s willing to offer so much to avoid this battle. Say I accept this bargain. What is to become of my large Norwegian friend?”
Hardrada, content with sitting in silence, inclined his head to meet the envoy’s steely gaze.
“For him, we can avail six feet of English soil, or however much more it may take. He is, after all, larger than other men.”
Hardrada barked out a laugh, while Tostig shook his head resignedly.
“Therein lies the problem. I have few scruples, this is well-known, but if it were to be said that Tostig Godwinson brought the King of Norway to England just to betray him, neither I nor my house would ever know peace. The Great Heathen Army would be nothing compared to the pack of wild berserkers that would be loosed upon my head seeking revenge. No, our courses are set. For better or for worse.”
The envoy held Tostig’s eyes for a long moment, before nodding.
“For better, or for worse.”
And with a neigh, his horse reared up before galloping off back to the English. Hardrada and Tostig watched him go, Hardrada still chuckling lightly.
“Who was that man? His balls must have been forged in Niðavellir by the mightiest dwarves! I can only scarcely recall the last time someone was brave enough to taunt me to my face.”
Tostig, still watching the lone rider, suddenly turned, making for the bridge.
“That was my brother. We need to form up now! He won’t wait for us.”
With Tostig and Hardrada both calling for a withdrawal across the bridge, the way congested and progress slowed to a trickle. There were around two thousand men on this side of the river, arrayed directly against Harold’s ten thousand Englishmen. Who were now marching their way down towards the blocked bridge.
Chatter rose nervously as those at the back of the line saw the glacial shuffle that those on the bridge were forced to use, compared to the constant thrum of thousands of English feet hitting the ground. It was becoming obvious that they weren’t going to make it.
Do I even have to be on the bridge to defend it?
Making a quick decision, Karl went around physically grabbing other Norse soldiers, rallying them together to form some sort of impediment to the Anglo-Saxon advance. It was a doomed effort, but Karl was only here until the Trial requirements were fulfilled. He felt no guilt at throwing bodies at the English.
Finally getting enough people to form a wall, the men closed ranks just as the English hit them. And hit them they did.
The elite huscarls were first to smash into the Viking line. Their one-handed Dane axes bit deep into shields and flesh alike, and they roared a challenge at the lightly armoured Norsemen, pushing them in toward the bridge, even as the Vikings held them from swarming the still-crossing army.
With a somewhat effective defense set up and no worries about immediately failing the objective, Karl let loose.
All the self-control, all the limiters he put on his raw aggression, it was all discarded as Karl threw himself bodily into the fray. For the first time, he truly understood what it meant to go berserk. Limbs, heads, appendages of every sort flew off as Karl, a whirlwind of violence with his heavy axe, lopped off parts indiscriminately while brushing aside the many attempts to put him down.
Gore sprayed all over him as his heavy swings tore men’s torsos open in a single blow. One man tried to kick at him, and Karl took his leg off at the thigh. A manic charge directly at him received a near-bisection, causing the man next to the brave soul to slip on his entrails. Karl decapitated him on the floor.
The sheer pressure of all the Englishmen were pushing the Vikings back despite how hard they fought, yet still, the bridge remained inaccessible to them. The men were hastily forming into ranks on the other bank of the river and riders were sent out to Riccall, to bring in the rest of the invasion force. It seemed this would be the decisive battle.
Karl’s vision tinted red, whether it was from his mental state or the sheets of blood cascading down his face he didn’t know. What he did know was, after half an hour of blind butchery, he’d regained his senses in the middle of the bridge, all alone.
Panting as he recovered from his episode, he saw the entire English army on the other side of the bridge, every man pushing the next forward in his place to challenge him, all of them scared shitless. He glanced downwards. Dismembered limbs and hacked off heads dotted the carpet of corpses he’d created in front of him. He glanced behind.
Really?
Most of the Norsemen were safely across, but they were still milling about trying to get organised. The objective specifically said he had to defend it until they were formed up. Which looked like it was going to take some time.
Turning back to the assembled English, Karl saw three more men walking down the narrow bridge to challenge him. He gripped his axe tighter.
Fuck it. Let’s go then!
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North-west Syria, 1192
Finishing the intonation, Kaveh stood up from the cool limestone, folding up his prayer mat, as the other assassins around him wrapped up their sunrise prayer, the salat al-fajr, and went to continue with their duties.
Kaveh checked the notification once again.
Objective: Make a Leap of faith.
Still there. Shit.
Strolling through the long hallways of the castle, soft Islamic chants in the background, Kaveh was deep in thought.
He’d been trapped in this Trial for about a week now and unlike his first one, it didn’t look like it had a time limit. The problem was, with nothing forcing him, he probably wouldn’t complete it.
He’d played Assassin’s Creed. He knew what a leap of faith was. Unfortunately, he had crippling basophobia. Mandla was the only person who knew, aside from his parents, that Kaveh was deathly afraid of falling.
Heights were fine, as long as he was secured or wasn’t high enough to hurt himself, but the moment he got above a certain threshold, he started hyperventilating. As a child in Tehran, he’d seen a suicidal woman, a building-jumper, splatter on the ground in front of him. This was only one of the reasons his parents had eventually emigrated, but it stuck out vividly in Kaveh’s mind.
The wet slap of meat hitting the road had replayed itself thousands of times in his memory, with his face transposed onto the woman’s shattered skull.
With that mental image, Kaveh had happily put the objective off and dove into learning about assassin culture, meeting real assassins, and generally marvelling at actually being in the past.
Being culturally Muslim, he was tangentially aware of Muslim traditions and the like. Assassin culture however, was unlike any sect of Islam he knew about. For starters, they prayed three times a day instead of the customary five. The wives and daughters of assassins weren’t required to wear hijabs. Strangest to Kaveh, was that they would ask for blessings and guidance from past imams, as well as Allah, much in the same way Catholics would ask saints for blessings instead of entreating God directly.
All these differences were fascinating to the boy. He went to the mosque every week, but it’s not like he actually listened. The mosque was more a social club, where prominent members of the Muslim community, like his father, met other prominent members and made connections, as well as where Muslim youngsters shopped for partners. If any of them believed, it was in an abstract way. What he saw here however, was fervent, zealous devotion.
Look into any random assassin’s eyes, and you’d find the quiet intensity that promises a willingness to kill without regard for any consequences. To these men, death in pursuit of the life of an enemy was simply a matter of course.
To these men, death was paradise.
But it wasn’t all violence. Each and every fida’i was taught to blend in wherever a target may be, thus they were shaped to perform that task to the utmost efficiency. They learned pain tolerance and acrobatics, they trained in all the Middle-eastern languages to operate freely within the areas of the caliphate, they were taught the European languages in order to infiltrate the crusader states, they were taught furusiyya, the Islamic code of knighthood, trained to proficiency in all manner of courtly fashion and political intrigue, and taught basic servant skills in order to complete their transformation into effective silent killers.
They could be anywhere. They could be anyone.
None were safe. From caliphs to kings, all had been touched by the assassins’ blades.
Still, the longer Kaveh stayed within the Trial, the guiltier he felt. He couldn’t just live out the rest of his days in here. He almost felt himself slipping into a routine.
None of them knew what happened if someone failed their Trial. Judging from the rest of… everything, whatever happened would not be pleasant. But even aside from that, staying in here meant leaving Nicola unprotected out there.
It meant ditching his best friend.
No matter how afraid he was, if anything, he knew Mandla would finish his Trial and there was no way he’d let his boy go it alone.
Gliding through the peaceful halls of the Assassin fortress, Al-Kahf Castle, Kaveh tried to convince himself to just do it, to just go over the side and get it over with, but he couldn’t overcome his instincts. Luckily, history itself seemed to grant him the perfect opportunity.
The next day, mind made up that somehow he would jump today, Kaveh finished all his chores and completed the daily training with a determined expression. The current Da’i of the Assassins, Rashid ad-Din Sinan, rang a gong, calling a group of fedayeen up to the walls. Someone was visiting.
Running past hallways filled with art, he made his way up to the walls atop the gate. Once there, Kaveh saw a large host, all adorned in shining metal and brightly-dyed banners, waiting far outside the gates of the castle, as a tall European was being led up to the entrance directly to talk with Sinan.
Even standing near the door, far from the ramparts, made his heart thud loudly in his ears.
A whiny voice rose up from below.
A quick scan of his body’s memories told Kaveh that this loud, obnoxious pale man was Henry, the King of Jerusalem.
He and Sinan were trading barbs. Boring stuff like “my army is bigger than yours” but all dressed up in fancy talk, Kaveh mostly tuned out. But his chance came when Sinan beckoned to one of the fedayeen.
The man immediately leapt off the walls, shouting "Glory to Allah" before he crashed into the ground, breaking upon the rocks below.
Gasps and cries of shock rang out from the gathered warriors. Kaveh, now interested, listened in to what Sinan was saying.
“-bers mean nothing to us. You can see for yourself, my fedayeen do not fear death. They do not fear pain. They will come for you relentlessly, tirelessly and unceasingly. You will see a fida'i in every corner, every nook, until you cannot even trust your own shadow. You will not be able to walk in public, you will not be able to meet new people, you will not be able to do a thing but sit there and die, because when you choose war with the Batiniyya, you choose war with Allah.”
At that, maybe for effect, Sinan beckoned at Kaveh now. Feeling his body react instinctually, Kaveh realised what was about to happen and very nearly stopped it.
But then he remembered what was waiting for him.
Paradise.
Fuck it. Let’s go then!
And just like that, Kaveh went over the edge.
Squeezing his eyes shut, the last thing he saw was King Henry’s shocked face, before everything went black.
Ding!
Objective: Make a Leap of faith. Achieved!
Level up!
Congratulations! You are now a 3rd Rung Ascendant! Configuring status…