The next morning, the coastal settlement awoke transformed. The streets had been cleared and the corpses of the Saxon guards were burning in great wooden pyres. The few surviving nobles remained locked inside the local monastery under the strict watch of Hárekr’s men.
In the great hall of the settlement’s chief, the same noble who the night before had tried to organize the failed defense, Hárekr stood leaning over a large oak table. Before him stretched an improvised map, traced in charcoal on leather by the Norwegian trader from the information obtained.
On both sides of the table stood his chieftains: Torstein, Thorir, and old Einar.
Einar was the first to speak, planting his fists on the wood:
"We could wait for the exact moment when the sons of Ragnarr launch their great attack from the south... Then we would fall on King ?lla’s rear guard."
On the surface it was the most sensible plan. It guaranteed a devastating blow against ?lla’s depleted forces and would grant Hárekr an incalculable reputation among the rest of the Scandinavian chieftains. However, Hárekr’s mind operated with a much colder ambition.
"Organize yourselves into raiding parties," Hárekr ordered, pointing to the marks on the periphery of the map. "Plunder every village and minor fortress nearby. Bring me all the gold, the silver, the grain, and the cattle that can be transported."
Hárekr made it clear that the immediate priority was to amass wealth and supply his troops. Einar observed him in silence, sensing that behind that order hid a much deeper and darker strategy.
When the chieftains left to carry out their orders, Hárekr remained alone in the hall. He settled on the bench, took a piece of roasted lamb for breakfast, and began to chew slowly, contemplating the lines traced on the map.
Finishing off King ?lla was a blood debt, but his aspirations did not stop at Northumbria. Hárekr contemplated the possibility of dealing a devastating blow to the king of Alba. Being the kingdom closest to the Norwegian sailing routes and to his future bases in the north, it was essential to bring it to its knees.
Each chieftain gathered his men and prepared to execute the order, setting out toward the different points marked on the map.
Torstein and his son Thorir showed no mercy on their route. They killed the men who offered resistance, plundered every cabin, and set aside the young women to be turned into slaves. In contrast, Einar adopted a different stance: although he did not spare the plunder or the supplies, he spared the lives of the peasants who laid down their arms immediately and surrendered without a fight.
By nightfall, the raiding parties returned to the main camp with carts full of plunder. No one dared show greed or argue over the shares; all kept silent, limiting themselves to looking with respect at Hárekr, who awaited them in the central square. The young leader asked them no questions and decreed immediately:
"Store the cattle and organize the provisions. We will stay here for a while. The riches must be safeguarded with order. If I discover any greedy man trying to steal for himself, he will be punished under the laws: death penalty and an atrocious punishment."
The three chieftains nodded firmly. Torstein stayed in the main hall, sat at the table to calm his hunger, and remarked between bites:
Hárekr nodded seriously, pondering the next steps, and instructed him:
"Send scouts toward the kingdom of the Picts. I need to know how they move, what defenses they have, and, if possible, that they bring someone back alive to interrogate."
Torstein understood the magnitude of the order. He left immediately to select the fastest, quietest, and most cunning warriors of the host.
During the following days, the camp remained completely sealed. Hárekr forbade anyone from leaving the limits of the settlement without his direct authorization, thus avoiding any leak that might alert the rest of the region or attract unnecessary problems.
The tense calm lasted until the scouts sent north began to return. The first of them presented himself immediately before Hárekr to deliver his report.
The scout began to relate what he had discovered:
"Beyond the border, the weather is completely different. It is not the plains or the gentle hills we have seen until now. The closest city to the coast is called Dundee... It is a fishing and trading settlement, according to what the trader accompanying us explained to me."
Hárekr nodded coldly and dismissed him with a slight wave of his hand. Finding himself alone with the three chieftains in the great hall, he declared:
"One of you must go to inspect the terrain. I need precise first-hand information. That coastal city could be the most suitable target."
Thorir offered himself immediately, stepping forward:
"Give me ten men. I will go."
Torstein observed his son and approved the initiative with his gaze; old Einar did the same. Hárekr fixed his eyes on his friend and warned him in a stern tone:
"Thorir, you are going to observe, not to fight. You cannot let yourself be seen or alert the locals."
Thorir understood the gravity of the mission and nodded. He left the hall, selected the ten fastest and most stealthy warriors of the host, and set out. As they moved away, the other scouts still to return presented themselves in the hall to report practically the same: the Pictish settlements were not near the border with Northumbria, but sheltered further north.
Thus a month passed. A long month of tense waiting in the taken settlement. One evening, Torstein and Hárekr remained on the stone dock throwing rocks into the frozen water to distract their minds. This story is hosted at g.com.
Einar approached them at a brisk pace and announced:
"Thorir is back."
Torstein let out a long sigh of relief; the anguish over his son’s fate had not let him sleep peacefully. Both headed in haste toward the main hall. Seeing Thorir with a gaunt face and his clothes covered in mud, Hárekr asked him to be brief and direct.
The robust young man related in detail:
"The closest city to the coast is, in fact, Dundee. It is protected by quite a few guards... Curiously, although it is the one with the greatest presence of men, it is also the most exposed for being next to the water. The other fortresses are walled in stone on the mountains and are almost impossible to climb."
Hárekr listened in silence, weighing Thorir’s words, and asked him:
"Which one do you advise, Thorir?"
Proud that he took his military judgment into account, Thorir answered without hesitation:
"Dunkeld or Dunnottar. Neither of the two is right on the coast, but they are much richer and heavily walled. An attack on them would have to be precise and fast; they would never expect a blow to the heart of their own territory."
Hárekr nodded. During the weeks of waiting, he had not remained idle: after rigorously interrogating the captured Saxon nobles, he had learned that the rivalry between the Picts and Northumbria was historic and bloody, which made a direct attack on the fishing cities of the border something predictable. Attacking the inland cities was a much more audacious move.
Staring at Thorir, Hárekr threw him one last crucial question:
"Did you find out where the Pictish king resides?"
Thorir nodded with a slight smile and replied:
"In Scone, north of the river Tay."