Chapter 432: A Legendary Man
Before Ragnar could even form the very first syllable of his grand confession, a sudden sound escaped his throat.
It was a sharp, choked gasp of pure agony.
Ragnar’s dark eyes went wide, the pupils dilating instantly until they were almost black.
His hands flew up, grabbing the sides of his own head as if he were trying to hold his skull together.
"Argghhh!!" Ragnar gritted his teeth, his jaw locking so tight it looked like the bone itself might snap under the immense pressure.
Richard froze. He thought it was a joke at first. A pause designed to mock his desperate curiosity.
But then Ragnar’s heavy iron cup slipped from the edge of the desk, crashing loudly onto the wooden floorboards.
The strong, dark mead spilled entirely everywhere, pooling around the Iron King’s thick boots.
Ragnar violently slumped forward, his broad forehead slamming hard against the desk.
The sudden impact sent the ink-stained parchments and blueprints scattering wildly across the floor.
"King Ragnar?!" Richard gasped, the color draining from his face.
He instantly dropped his own cup and stepped around the desk.
Though the Iron King was a legendary man who had taken sword slashes and bullet grazes without shedding a single tear, he was now shaking.
Deep groans of agony tore through his broad chest. His entire massive frame trembled, out of his own control.
"My head... it feels like it’s burning..." Ragnar hissed, his voice distorted by the sheer pain.
His fingers dug into his own scalp, tearing at his hair.
He squeezed his eyes shut, his face turning a sickly, unnatural shade of gray.
Richard’s scholarly curiosity was instantly replaced by blind panic.
"What is happening to you?!" Richard shouted, his hands hovering nervously over the King’s broad shoulders.
He didn’t know if he should grab him or pull him up.
"Is it poison?! Did someone slip something into the mead?! Drink some water, my King!"
"No... no, it’s not poison!" Ragnar roared, a raw sound that entirely rattled the room.
He swatted Richard’s hands away.
"Don’t touch me.. It’s inside... tearing me apart... Argh!"
Ragnar slipped from the chair entirely, collapsing onto his hands and knees on the floorboards.
He pressed his head against the wood, overwhelmed by the blinding spikes of pain stabbing directly through his brain.
Richard didn’t know what to do.
He dealt with troop movements, supply lines, and flanking maneuvers. He was absolutely not a healer.
If Ragnar died right here, right now, the entire Iron Kingdom would collapse before sunrise.
The massive fleet in the bay would lose its mind. The three foreign marshals would turn on the northern Jarls.
The Frankish Empire would easily sweep through the fractured remains and slaughter them all.
"Hold on!" Richard yelled, his voice cracking with terror. "I will get help! Just stay entirely still!"
He spun around, slipping slightly on the spilled mead, and sprinted toward the door.
He threw it open so incredibly hard that the iron hinges screamed loudly in protest.
"Guards!" Richard bellowed out into the corridor.
The two massive northern guards stationed outside jumped in sheer surprise, their heavy repeating rifles instantly raising to their shoulders.
"What is it, southern man?!" one of the guards demanded, his eyes narrowing suspiciously at Richard’s panicked face.
"The King!" Richard screamed, pointing frantically back into the room. "Something is fucking wrong with him! He is collapsing! Get in there and protect him!"
After hearing such words, the guards exchanged a highly terrified glance. They didn’t ask any more questions. Both of them immediately pushed past Richard, their heavy boots thudding loudly, and rushed directly into the private room.
"King Ragnar!" the first guard yelled,
dropping his expensive rifle to grab his liege by the shoulders.
Richard didn’t wait to watch them. He needed a medical expert. He turned and sprinted wildly down the wooden hallway. His lungs burned as he ran through the quiet sections of the grand longhouse. He passed a few sleepy servants carrying bundles of firewood, knocking one of them over in his desperate rush.
"Out of my way!" Richard yelled, ignoring the scattered logs. "Where is Helgi?! Where is the King’s chief healer?!"
"He... he is in the lower courtyard, Lord Richard!" a terrified servant pointed toward the main stairs. "Tending to the men who got sick on the ships!"
Even so, Richard didn’t slow down. He completely threw himself down the narrow wooden stairs, nearly twisting his ankle as he bounded into the main hall. The massive center hearth was still burning low, casting long, dancing shadows across the empty tables.
He burst through the front doors of the longhouse, hitting the freezing, incredibly bitter night air. The sudden cold stung his sweaty face, but the adrenaline pumping completely through his veins entirely masked the chill.
Down in the lower courtyard, near the edge of the muddy path leading to the docks, he spotted the old, gray-bearded healer, Helgi. The man was holding a small wooden bowl of herbs, talking quietly to a shivering soldier.
"Helgi!" Richard screamed at the top of his lungs, his voice echoing loudly across the busy port.
The old healer looked up, entirely surprised by the frantic southern scholar running directly toward him like a wild animal.
"Lord Richard?" Helgi frowned, lowering his bowl. "What is the matter? Are the Franks attacking?"
"It is King Ragnar!" Richard gasped, grabbing the old man firmly by his thick woolen tunic and violently pulling him toward the longhouse stairs. "He is in his room! He collapsed! His head is completely in agony, and he cannot stand!"
"The King?!" Helgi’s eyes went entirely wide. He completely dropped the wooden bowl, letting the expensive medicinal herbs spill into the freezing mud. "Move! Lead the way, damnit!"
The two men scrambled frantically up the stone stairs, pushing past a group of completely confused Norwegian riflemen. Richard’s chest was heaving, his breath tearing through his throat in ragged, painful gasps. The absolute weight of the moment was entirely crushing him.
As they finally reached the upper corridor and ran back toward the private room, Richard could still hear the deep, agonizing groans echoing from inside.
They burst into the room. King Erik had apparently heard the commotion from the main hall. The giant Icelandic King was already there, kneeling in the spilled mead, using his massive strength to carefully lift Ragnar’s entirely trembling body off the floor and place him gently onto the simple wooden bed.
"What the fucking hell happened to him, Richard?!" Erik roared, turning his fierce, terrifying gaze toward the tactician. "Did you do something to him?!"
"I didn’t do anything!" Richard held his hands up in completely desperate defense. "We were just talking! He was completely fine, and then he just grabbed his head and screamed!"
Helgi rushed entirely past them, pulling a small leather pouch of dried leaves from his belt. He placed a cool, wrinkled hand directly onto Ragnar’s sweating forehead.
"His skin is entirely burning up..." Helgi muttered, his face turning incredibly grim. "But there is no physical wound. It is like a massive fire is completely raging inside his skull. Hold his arms down, King Erik! He is thrashing too much!"
Erik grunted, pinning Ragnar’s broad shoulders to the mattress so the old healer could safely examine his eyes.
Richard took a slow step backward, entirely retreating to the shadowy corner of the room. He watched the absolute chaos unfold, his mind spinning wildly out of control.
He crossed his arms tightly over his chest, trying to stop his own nervous shaking.
He looked at the ink-stained parchments scattered across the muddy floorboards.
The blueprints of the smoking metal machines.
What exactly just happened?
Ragnar was fine just a few seconds ago. He was laughing. He was drinking mead. He was incredibly confident.
And the second he tried to say it... the very moment he tried to speak the truth aloud... his brain had nearly split in half.
Richard couldn’t ignore the undeniable coincidence of the timing.
It was too perfectly timed... It didn’t look like a normal sickness or a lingering battle wound.
It looked like a rejection.
Richard stared intensely at the groaning, helpless King, a suffocating dread washing over him.
If there was a real reason for Ragnar’s impossible knowledge... was there also some kind of unseen force preventing him from ever speaking about it?