A year had passed. With the steady influx of Viking settlers, York had finally regained its former prosperity. But prosperity brought filth—stench, overflowing sewage, and swarms of flies. Vig wrinkled his nose at the sight.
Outside the royal hall, he spotted a plump young man in a pale-blue cloak, a striking woman upon his arm.
The son and daughter of King Erik—young Erik and Princess Eve? What business had the royal siblings in Northumbria?
Curious, Vig approached. They explained they had come to purchase arms: King Erik was preparing for a grand war, to crush every last resister in Norway.
As they spoke, Nils came panting up, bearing a fine gold necklace for Eve. Vig had little patience for such tiresome courtship. He turned to leave, but heard Eve's cool voice drift after him:
"My father is king, my mother a queen. My brother will be king one day, and my aunt Sola was wed to Ragnar. My whole family wears crowns—why should I stoop to marry a common man? Nils, you are good, and I do not despise passing some pleasant time together, but marriage is no trifling matter."
Inside the hall, Vig's eyes widened: Bjorn was there, boasting of his adventures.
Two years ago, seven nobles had denied him a lordship. Enraged, he had departed with two longships. Judging by his expression now, his gamble had paid richly.
"Father, I've roamed the Mediterranean nearly two years. I've brought you a gift."
At his whistle, a dark-skinned slave entered, bearing a longsword with a cruciform guard.
Ragnar rose from the throne. He drew the blade, tested its weight—swift, light, far superior to the coarse iron swords of the north.
Blue gems sparkled in its hilt; the blade gleamed with uncanny sheen. Ragnar's eyes glazed with hunger. He whispered, almost to himself:
"Kingship… that shall be its name."
Resheathing the weapon, he turned to the sword at Bjorn's hip. "And that, too, is rare steel?"
"Indeed. Two I gained—one for you, one for myself." Bjorn drew his own: a single-edged blade, slightly curved, its patterns flowing like waves, its style unmistakably Arabic.
The Storm. So he had named it, after slaying its former master.
When Vig's turn came, he handed his tribute list to Godwin. The spoils of Dublin had been plentiful; this year he delivered thirty pounds of silver.
"I've heard the full tale of Dublin," Ragnar said, filling a cup of wine with his own hand. "Well done, Vig. York, Dublin—no city withstands you. 'Chosen of the Gods,' 'Serpent of the North'… yet to me, 'the Battering Ram' suits you best."
"My thanks, Your Majesty." Vig bowed, then moved to the end of the right-hand line, as custom required.
Next came Ulf, who had spent the year hunting sheep thieves. The hills of Wales yielded little plunder, so he had sailed farther, raiding Cornwall just enough to satisfy the levy. The other nobles reported much the same as last year. Only Ivar remained absent.
At noon, a towering warrior strode into the hall with Ivar's tribute.
"My apologies, sire. Ivar is locked in fierce battle with two Irish clans and cannot break away."
Vig was unsurprised. Ivar never wasted breath on those he deemed weak, much less yielded to compromise. If Ivar had ruled Tynemouth, scarcely a third of the petty lords and village chiefs would still be breathing.
"Unyielding force without soft hand—he will mire himself in endless wars," Vig thought. "He'll be busy for years to come."
The feast began.
Bjorn was the star. Beyond the two Damascus blades, he had brought five barrels of cinnamon and pepper from the East, worth over a hundred pounds of silver, along with ivory, jewels, and a dozen Berber captives.
The nobles' eyes burned with envy. Many vowed to sail the Mediterranean themselves.
"Calm yourselves, friends. Without the proper charts and skills, such voyages mean only death!"
The more they coveted, the broader Bjorn's grin. He boasted of mastering Arab seamanship, of acquiring from distant Cathay a secret treasure that guided one's way across endless seas.
Their scowls only sweetened his delight. Once, his voyage had been driven by fury. Now, he felt born to this life—strange lands, women of every hue, sudden desperate battles, and spoils rich beyond imagining.
Odin above, thank you for granting me this life.
Parched, he slung an arm over Vig's shoulders. "God-Chosen, what troubles you?"
Vig set down the half-gnawed pork shank. His voice was low: "This treasure from Cathay—an object that points south, no matter where it lies?"
"How did you—?"
Bjorn's voice rang out in shock, the smile dying from his face. "Are you truly the Chosen of the Æsir?"
Vig gave no answer, only sipped his wine.
Bjorn let the matter fall. He leaned closer. "There is a tale that haunts me. Norwegian fishermen, blown westward in storms, returned alive. They spoke of a land—Jotunheim itself, perhaps—cold, barren, with a whale rotting on the shore and mountains spewing fire into the sky. Could it be true?"
Cold, barren, volcanic—surely Iceland. To Vig, it seemed worthless… until he remembered: volcanic ash. Roman concrete demanded it. With his domain growing, he would one day need stone walls, stone fortresses. If Bjorn found Iceland, Vig could reap the benefit.
He scratched his head. "I have some knowledge on this matter. In exchange, you'll recount your Mediterranean voyage in full detail—without your wild embellishments."
Bjorn sighed. "Very well. You win again." And he began to tell the tale.
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