Chapter 64: Surrender or Die

After spending a night at sea, the massive fleet of more than forty sailing ships slowly made its way toward the island of Faro by the afternoon of the following day.

Margaret stood at the bow, her face still dusted with fine salt crystals formed by the drying seawater after she had washed her face.

She gazed into the distance where alarm bells were ringing; there, enemy troops were rapidly gathering in preparation for the impending battle.

She smiled faintly, her eyes revealing a sense of disdain for the forthcoming duel.

Nearby vessels were bound tightly together by connected ropes, keeping the entire armada unified.

Sven and the other lords took turns making their way to Margaret's side by swapping places with her trusted huscarls.

"Your Majesty, how do you plan to conquer this island?" Sven asked curiously.

Margaret looked at him with feigned perplexity and retorted, "Conquer? Why would we conquer it?"

The lords exchanged confused glances, clearly taken aback by her response.

"Remember," Margaret continued, "every battle comes at a price. As lords, we should do our utmost to protect the lives of the men under our command."

"Then what is your plan?" Sven pressed on.

Margaret took a deep breath and said, "I need an emissary to convey our goodwill to them. If anyone is willing to step forward, I shall grant him a fief once we have taken the region of Rus."

Her proposal instantly sparked the lords' interest, and they began arguing, each wanting to be the chosen messenger.

"Silence!" Margaret's voice echoed across the fleet. She gently tapped the ship's rail with her scabbard to draw everyone's attention. "I only need one soldier!"

She could not afford the potential cost of losing a lord.

Her gaze swept over the crowd and finally rested on a soldier standing at the very front. She pointed at him and commanded simply, "Come here!"

The soldier was startled at first, then pointed at himself to confirm Margaret's order. His face instantly lit up with wild elation as he hurried toward her.

"What is your name?" Margaret asked.

"Yelma, Your Majesty!" the soldier replied, his voice trembling slightly with excitement. He was the very warrior who had advised Sven to wear his helmet before their departure.

Margaret gave him a deep look and said, "This is a dangerous mission. Listen well, and deliver my words without changing a single one!"

She whispered the message to Yelma. The soldier then removed his helmet and leather cuirass, clutched an empty wooden barrel, and plunged into the sea without hesitation.

Regardless of Yelma's fate, Margaret had already prepared herself.

Should Yelma be unfortunately slain, she would use the incident to incite the soldiers' fury, driving them to avenge their comrade while filled with the righteous anger of the aggrieved.

And if Yelma succeeded, the battle might not need to be fought at all, allowing her to directly negotiate the surrender of Faro's lords and incorporate the island into her domain.

After about ten minutes of strenuous swimming, Yelma finally reached the shore.

Enemy soldiers pointed their spears at him, grabbed his clothes roughly, and glared as they demanded, "Who are you people, and what do you want with us? Speak quickly, or we'll cut off your ears!"

Yelma violently shook off their grip and replied without a trace of fear, "Let go, show some manners! Our fleet carries over thirty jarls and an army of three thousand men. If I come to any harm, my lord and sovereign will immediately issue orders for vengeance! I want to see your lord!"

At that moment, an elderly jarl of fifty or sixty years stepped forward.

In this era, the harsh northern climate and poor medical conditions made survival to such an age a rare feat indeed.

The old jarl pondered for a moment before nodding in agreement.

Before long, Yelma paddled back in a small boat and was warmly hauled aboard the sailing ship by Sven and the other lords.

He reported excitedly to Margaret, "Your Majesty, the jarl on the other side has agreed to parley! However, he requests that both parties meet in small boats out front, accompanied by only a single soldier each!"

Margaret nodded in agreement. Her gaze fell upon Ralph, who bore a scar across his face and appeared to be the most ferocious man among them.

"Ralph, are you willing to come with me?" she asked.

Ralph deliberated for a moment, then nodded his assent.

Margaret and Ralph rowed a small boat toward the harbor.

Over on the other side, the old jarl had also boarded a skiff, coming to meet Margaret accompanied by a towering soldier.

Out on the open water, the two small boats drifted gently until they touched, well beyond the range of arrows from either side. Margaret carefully scrutinized the elderly jarl opposite her.

The old jarl looked at her with puzzlement, then shifted his gaze to Ralph beside her. "My lord, what is your purpose in coming here?"

He had clearly mistaken who was in charge.

Ralph shook his head and pointed toward Margaret, who was busy dealing with a splinter in her finger. A stray shard of wood from the oar had pierced her skin, and the tip had broken off inside the flesh.

The old jarl stared at Margaret in slight astonishment, his expression deeply peculiar.

She did not look up, ignoring him entirely. "I am giving you two choices now."

As she spoke, she continued to pick at the splinter in her hand. "The first choice is war. I will reduce this town to ashes."

The towering soldier opposite her had already placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, but Ralph was faster, pinning the man's hand down in an instant.

The soldier's pupils contracted. A chilling dagger was already pressed firmly against his throat.

Margaret seemed entirely unconcerned by the other side's threat and continued, "The second choice is to join us, receive our protection, and be granted a territory of your own."

She looked up toward the distant harbor town. "That territory will be no smaller than the one you have now. Well? Think it over. Surrender, or die."

The old jarl did not answer immediately. His gaze drifted anxiously toward the massive fleet not far away. The number of warriors aboard those sailing warships far exceeded anything the harbor town could hope to match.

Margaret finally extracted the splinter from her finger. She stood up, gracefully removed her necklace, and looped it over her finger.

Then, she extended her hand, fixing a resolute gaze on the old jarl. "Now, kneel and submit to me!"

The old jarl's face was a mask of inner conflict. His eyes lingered on Margaret's hand, flashing with a fierce light before he hastily tried to conceal it.

Margaret caught every bit of this, finding it intensely amusing.

"Are you trying to figure out how to kidnap me?" Her voice rang out suddenly, causing the old jarl to jerk his head up in utter shock, as if asking: *How did you know?*

"Submit to me, there is no harm in it, is there?" Margaret urged, her voice carrying an unquestionable majesty.

"How do I know you aren't deceiving us? What if you attack us once you come ashore?" The old jarl remained hesitant.

Margaret pondered for a moment, then held up an open palm and gestured toward the distant fleet. "If I wanted to attack you, you would already be corpses. Do you truly believe you can stand against a force five times your size?"

An impending threat and intimidation often carry far greater deterrence and impact than direct military action.

And that was precisely the effect Margaret desired.

For uncertainty and potential consequences are almost always more effective at arousing fear and respect in an opponent than actual events.