newbobooks Chapter 364: A Sudden Illness
Chapter 364: A Sudden Illness
"...And who said anything about escaping?"
Hakon stared at the warlord, his jaw nearly dropping to the floor.
He accidentally dropped a silver coin from his fingers, and it rolled slowly across the explosive black powder scattered on the ground.
"Huh?!" Hakon stammered, taking a step backward toward the stairs. "Are we going to die just to do this?! Ubba, I’m a thief, not a damned martyr!"
Hearing these words, Ubba threw his head back and let out a laugh.
"You foolish boy." Ubba chuckled, "Do you think I’m going to sit in a dark tunnel and light a fuse myself?"
Hakon paused, "Then... who will light them?"
"The inside man, of course," Ubba grinned broadly, leaning back in his chair. "Our greedy friend who runs the royal wine cellars. We promised him a chest of the Iron Kingdom’s gold as soon as the castle falls. But what he doesn’t know is that the fuse cords on those clay pots burn much faster than they look."
Hakon let out a sigh of relief, leaning against the wall. He wiped the sweat from his brow.
For a moment, he truly believed these crazy Vikings were going to force him on a suicide mission.
However, just as Hakon opened his mouth to joke about the doomed wine merchant, a loud commotion erupted from the muddy streets outside the bakery’s window.
The sound of armored horses galloping through the mud shattered the morning of the market district.
People outside began screaming, scrambling out of the way to avoid being trampled.
Ubba rose from his chair and walked quickly toward the boarded-up window. He peered through a crack in the wood, looking down at the street below.
Ten elite Irish guards wearing the royal palace’s blue colors were riding fiercely through the market.
The lead guard was blowing a brass horn to clear the way, while another rider was shouting at the top of his lungs.
"Hear ye! Hear ye! By decree of the Royal Palace!" the guard roared. "The High King of Ireland has fallen gravely ill. A terrible fever has struck him. The royal gates are now closed and sealed!"
The guard paused to yank the reins of his horse, turning the beast in the mud.
"The fighting tournament scheduled for next week is canceled until further notice." the guard shouted once more. "Return to your homes! Pray for the High King!"
The knights did not stop to answer the panicked civilians’ questions. They continued galloping down the street, their voices fading into the winter fog.
Ubba slowly backed away from the window. The smirk had vanished from his face.
"..."
"Ubba?" Hakon asked, looking at the hundreds of clay pots stacked around them. "What does this mean?"
"It means we’re doomed," Ubba snarled, kicking a chair across the room to shatter against the wall. "The tournament is canceled. And the royal gates are closed. Our inside man can’t smuggle fifty barrels of ’wine’ into a locked-down castle!"
Hakon’s face paled. "But we have a hundred bombs here... We can’t leave them above a bakery oven forever. If the city guards start searching houses because of the King’s illness, they’ll find this place!"
"I know!" Ubba roared, snatching up his fur coat. "The entire plan is ruined... I must tell Ivar!"
Ubba didn’t even wait for the thief. He stormed down the stairs, ignoring the confused baker on the first floor, and rushed out into the streets.
Despite that, while panic erupted in the markets, a different atmosphere hung over the high hills outside the city walls.
The crippled Ivar sat quietly on his leather saddle. He pulled his cloak around his neck, letting the Irish rain wash over his face.
Right beside him, sitting on a brown mare, was Kjartan. The scarred pirate-scholar had a rope coiled around his neck, and was using a small knife to clean the mud from his horse’s bridle.
Together, they were gazing down toward the capital of Dublin.
Specifically, Ivar’s blue eyes were fixed on the High King’s castle in the center of the city.
"It truly is an ugly building, isn’t it?" Kjartan muttered, "If someone placed three of your new bombs there... the entire side would collapse like a cheap tent."
"We won’t bring down a single wing, Kjartan..." Ivar smiled calmly, "When the tournament begins, I want the explosion to be so massive that Ragnar feels the ground shake even in Titan City."
"You’re a highly dramatic man, Ivar," Kjartan chuckled, putting his knife away.
Before Ivar could reply, the sound of a horse galloping desperately up the hill broke their focus.
Ivar turned his head. It was Ubba.
Ubba was panting, his horse covered in mud from the reckless run. Ubba yanked the reins hard, halting his beast next to his crippled brother.
"Ivar!" Ubba gasped, "The plan... the plan is ruined!"
Ivar raised a calm eyebrow. "Ruined?"
"...It’s the High King!" Ubba shouted, "Royal knights are riding through the streets right now... The High King has fallen ill, they canceled the tournament and closed the gates!"
Kjartan sat up straighter, his forehead wrinkling in surprise.
"A sudden illness...?" Ivar whispered to himself.
"What do we do, brother?" Ubba asked, his horse shifting nervously. "We have enough black powder in that bakery to blow up half the city... If we don’t move it, the guards will smell the sulfur sooner or later."
"Shut up, Ubba." Ivar ordered, raising a hand.
Ivar turned and looked at Kjartan. "You were a scholar in the Frankish court, Kjartan, tell me... how often does a healthy king suddenly fall ill one week before the largest political gathering of the year?"
Kjartan rubbed the burn scar on his forehead, a mocking smile slowly spreading across his face. "In my experience, Ivar? Kings don’t get randomly sick before showing their power to their followers."
Ivar’s gaze returned to the distant fortress. The rain continued to batter the hillside, washing away their original scheme while unearthing a far unseen opportunity.