The Vikings' plunder of the Slavic village lasted for two full hours.
Under Einar's command, his warriors did not commit the atrocities of slaughtering the inhabitants or burning down their homes. They acted more like a disciplined army carrying out a mission than a band of savage pirates. They rounded up all the livestock in the village—thirty-four sheep and seven cows—and gathered all the food they could find, which amounted to a mere three sacks of black bread and half a sack of salt.
The spoils were meager. The clansmen's faces were etched with disappointment.
They had risked their lives, and five of their brothers had fallen, all for this paltry loot. It was hardly enough to sustain them through the harsh winter.
Einar stood silently, observing the expressions on his men's faces. He knew what they were thinking. As their lord, he felt a heavy weight of responsibility on his shoulders. This could not continue. He had to find a new path for his people.
"My Lord, what about him?" the young Viking warrior from before asked, pointing at the priest Willan, who was now tied up and kneeling on the ground. "He's old and can't do much work. Should we just...?" The youth made a slitting gesture across his throat.
"He is my personal slave now," Einar declared in a firm voice that left no room for argument. "No one is to harm him without my permission."
The warriors exchanged confused glances but said nothing more. Their lord's commands were absolute.
The journey back was long and arduous. They marched for two days through the dense, snow-covered forest, their path fraught with peril. The plunder they carried was heavy, and the captured sheep bleated incessantly, attracting the attention of hungry wolves that trailed them from a distance, their eyes glowing in the dark.
At night, they had to take turns standing guard, huddled around a bonfire for warmth and protection. During this time, Einar kept the priest Willan close by his side.
He didn't trust this old man. Not in the slightest. At night, he would bind Willan's hands and feet securely, and he confiscated the small dagger the priest had hidden in his robes.
To the others, it seemed their lord was simply guarding his new slave. No one suspected the real reason for his vigilance: the secret of the atlas. Einar spent the nights feigning sleep, one hand always resting on the precious book hidden inside his furs. The leather cover and the crisp parchment within were a constant, reassuring presence.
After two grueling days, a small, humble village finally appeared at the foot of the snow-capped mountains ahead. Smoke curled up from the chimneys of the wooden huts, which were clustered together and surrounded by a simple defensive wall made of sharpened logs. This was Einar's domain, his home in this world: Coldwater Village.
As they approached, the villagers who had been anxiously awaiting their return rushed to the gate. Women looked for their husbands, children for their fathers. The air filled with a mixture of joyous reunions and heart-wrenching cries of sorrow. The families of the five fallen warriors broke down in tears, their wails echoing across the cold valley.
Einar's face remained stoic, but his heart was heavy. He dismounted from his horse and walked over to the grieving families. He spoke to them one by one, offering words of condolence and promising them a larger share of the plunder. It was a lord's duty, a ritual he had grown accustomed to.
Later that evening, inside the largest wooden house in the village—the Jarl's Hall, though it was little more than a large hut—Einar sat before a roaring fire. He had distributed the food and livestock amongst the villagers, ensuring the families of the fallen received their due. Now, he was alone with his thoughts, and with his slave.
Willan sat huddled in a corner, shivering from both the cold and fear.
"You, come here," Einar commanded, gesturing to the spot by the fire.
The priest hesitated for a moment, then scurried over and sat on the floor, keeping a respectful distance.
Einar took out a piece of roasted mutton and a chunk of black bread and tossed them to Willan. "Eat."
The old priest, who had been starved for days, stared at the food with wide eyes. He mumbled a prayer of thanks to his God before devouring the mutton ravenously, as if he hadn't eaten in weeks.
Einar watched him in silence. He wasn't being kind. A useful tool needed to be maintained. "From tomorrow," Einar began, his voice low and steady, "you will start teaching me. Your language, and the one in this book." He patted the Bible, which now lay beside him.
Willan paused mid-chew, looking up at Einar with a complex expression. It was a mixture of fear, reluctance, and a flicker of something else—perhaps the pride of a scholar. "I... I will do as you command, my lord."
"Good," Einar said, turning his attention back to the fire.
His plan was simple, yet audacious. First, he needed to master English and Latin to absorb all the knowledge available to him. Second, he had to use the nautical chart to find new, richer lands to raid—specifically, the lands of England described in the atlas. Plunder was still a necessity, but he would do it efficiently, targeting the wealthy monasteries that were brimming with gold and silver.
With that wealth, he could buy more weapons, recruit more warriors, and strengthen his village. He would build ships, not the clumsy longboats his people currently used, but faster, more seaworthy vessels based on the designs in his memory.
He would turn Coldwater Village into a fortress. He would become a power to be reckoned with, no longer a minor vassal living at the mercy of Jarl Bernard.
The Atlas of All Domains Under Heaven... It wasn't just a map. It was a blueprint for a new world, his world.
As the fire crackled, casting a warm glow on his determined face, Einar felt a surge of ambition unlike anything he had ever known. He was no longer just surviving. He was planning. He was building.
He was beginning his ascent.