It took three days to round the northern tip of Britain. Steering southwest along the coast, Vig's longship entered waters thick with islands, fjords, and jagged inlets—landscapes much like Scandinavia. The only difference was the North Atlantic Current, which lent the region a milder, wetter climate. That alone had drawn many Norsemen to settle here.
On the fourth day at noon, a Norse-style temple came into view on a cliff top. Vig ordered the ship ashore. All donned their armor. Five stayed to guard the vessel; the other sixteen followed Vig up a weed-grown slope.
They had not gone far before five shepherd boys armed with slings blocked their path.
"Stop there!"
The shield-bearers closed ranks around their lord. Jorund raised the banner and stepped forward.
"Peace—we mean no harm. Tell us, where is the Isle of Skye?"
"Name yourselves," the boy demanded, keeping his sling taut, and whistled sharply for help.
Irritated by such insolence from twelve-year-olds, Jorund's tone hardened.
"Mind yourself, boy. Do you know who stands before you?"
He gestured to the black banner with its golden dragon.
"This is Lord Vig Hákonarson, Thane of Tynemouth, appointed by Ragnar, the God-Chosen, the Serpent of the North. Hero of Manchester, York, and Dublin. Bearer of Dragon's Breath. Have you understood?"
The name struck them dumb. The leader lowered his sling.
"This is Skye. What business do you have here?"
"To find family."
Vig pushed past his guards and strode toward a middle-aged woman running up from the distance.
"It's been too long, sister. You've aged."
"Vig?" Brita raised her eyes, disbelief plain. She reached up instinctively to touch his cheek.
"I thought the 'God-Chosen Vig' they spoke of was only someone with your name. I never imagined it was truly you. Come with me."
Beyond the ridge, a small settlement of fifty households sprawled on the slope, enclosed by a rough wooden palisade.
Most of the villagers had gathered at the gate, drawn by the fame of this "God-Chosen." At their head stood a grim, one-eyed man. Vig strode forward and embraced him.
"Brother-in-law, it seems you've found the life you wanted."
Helgi stiffened in the embrace. For two years he had heard the name Vig whispered across the North: God-Chosen, Serpent of the North. He had never reconciled that with the shy boy in his memories. Shock and disbelief welled up, until at last he could only say:
"It's been a long time, Vig."
A feast was laid for the guest. Helgi slaughtered livestock in his honor. Vig's men brought gifts: a golden torque and a suit of mail.
"Such treasures! My thanks."
Helgi pulled the mail over his shoulders, slightly tight, but his grin widened nonetheless.
"By Odin, I never thought myself worthy of such armor."
He called for slaves to bring every jug of ale. As the feast roared on, Vig steered the talk toward the Isles Alliance. Half-drunk, Helgi raised his cup.
"Word travels fast. In mid-May, two settlements raided the Gaels on the west coast and paid dearly for it. To answer their growing watchfulness, eleven settlements have sworn a league. From now on, we raid together."
An alliance?
Vig leaned forward, about to ask who truly led it—when a five-year-old boy clambered onto his arm, shaking it insistently.
"Uncle! Let me see your sword!"
"Only to look. Don't touch the edge," Vig muttered, exasperated. He drew Dragon's Breath, let the child gawk, spun the blade in a flourish, then sheathed it again.
"Uncle, can I have a sword too?"
Vig ruffled the boy's hair. "Of course, Leif. Come to Tynemouth someday. I'll give you a real iron sword, a pony, and many other wonders."
At last the boy scampered off. Vig turned back to Helgi—but the man lay sprawled across the table, drunk to insensibility, ale soaking half his tunic. He looked no different from any tavern sot.
The next morning Vig awoke with a pounding head. Outside was a clamor. Curious, he stepped out to see strangers entering Helgi's longhouse.
"What's happening?"
The guards at the door answered together: "New arrivals, my lord. From North Uist, by the sound of it."
North Uist?
Vig recalled Helgi's ramblings about nearby isles—too many names to remember. Only one stuck: St Kilda, farthest to the west, treeless but swarming with gannets, puffins, and wild sheep with curling horns. To Vig's mind, such bird-haunted islands might yield guano, a precious fertilizer. He made a note to see it someday.
He washed with cold water, tied his hair back in a tail, dressed, and entered the longhouse. His guards, long used to their lord's fastidious habits, followed silently.
Inside, Helgi introduced the visitor: Stein, lord of North Uist, reputed the strongest in the Isles Alliance.
The big bald man with a bristling beard gave Vig a hard, hostile look. Vig let his smile fade.
"I am Vig Hákonarson, Thane of Tynemouth, in the kingdom of Northumbria."
Both men bore the title of lord. Yet the Isles were poor, thinly peopled—altogether fewer souls than Tynemouth alone. The warriors at Stein's back were a ragged lot; if it came to blows, Vig reckoned he could fell half by himself.
Brita brought him a steaming bowl of mutton broth. Vig sipped quietly while Stein and Helgi spoke. The Isles Alliance, it seemed, was planning a raid on Glasgow—the Gaels' capital.
"I'll join!" Helgi cried, eager to test his new mail. "And with Vig here, all the better. He has led great sieges—York, Dublin! With the God-Chosen to command, Glasgow will surely fall!"
Stein tugged at his filthy beard.
"No. This campaign is revenge for our own dead. It is Isles business. We should not trouble a guest."
Isles business?
Vig saw through him at once. Stein feared he might steal the command, weaken his sway over the league.
Such a tiny pond, and already so full of squabbling frogs. Vig almost laughed.
~~--------------------------
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