Bjorn shook his head at Vig's judgment.
"You have Tynemouth. Ivar has Derwent and Dyflin. And me? What do I have? True, I love the sea—but every voyage must end somewhere. I won't keep crawling back to York. Queen Sola never hides her disdain for us three brothers. Every chance she gets, she jabs with her tongue. Utterly hateful."
He crouched, scooping a handful of soil, inhaling deeply with a blissful sigh.
"The longer I linger in that palace, the more it feels like being a guest in someone else's hall. No, it's time I find a home of my own."
Seeing Bjorn's resolve, Vig stopped dissuading him. Instead, he said he would need volcanic ash. If Bjorn truly intended to settle in a new land, perhaps they could trade—ash in exchange for supplies.
"You're serious?" Bjorn asked.
"I learned a formula in the East Roman lands. It makes concrete—but only if mixed with that ash."
Their discussion trailed off as the two returned to Tynemouth for supper. Over the meal, Vig casually raised the subject of Princess Eve. Bjorn only shook his head in regret.
"By all rights, she was the fairest woman I've ever met. Gentle, soft-skinned, pale as ivory. But her ambition…" He stared into the flickering candlelight, voice hollow. "She asked if I meant to seize the throne one day. What could I say? Above me, Ivar. Below, Halfdan and Ubbe. What weapon do I have but the sea? No stake to claim kingship."
He lifted his great cup, staring into its depths. "When she learned I meant to sail west, to build a home on some barren isle, her warmth turned to ice. Two days later, she was gone—with young Erik at her side."
His spirit sagged. He ate in silence, head bowed, then retired early.
For the next three days, Bjorn bartered in the market—selling goods, stocking provisions, readying his ship. At last, on a clear morning, he launched his expedition.
This time he had chosen a brand-new longship: twenty meters long, built of stout oak. Its pale-grey sail bore the emblem of a soaring gull—his chosen crest. Knowing "Jotunheim" was no farmland, he even brought six sheep aboard.
At the pier, Vig clasped his hand.
"Farewell, brother. May fortune favor you."
"Wait for my good news!"
Cheers rose from Tynemouth's folk as the ship slipped downstream, out to the sea. Hugging the coast, they sailed north, stopping two days in the Shetlands.
Compared to years past, these barren isles now held thousands of Viking refugees, even two noble families. When they heard Bjorn's aim, interest sparked.
"You're certain there's another great island west of the Faroes?"
"This word came from Vig," Bjorn replied. "He's no liar."
Some were convinced. By the time he departed, his fleet had grown to five longships—two hundred and three souls.
Two days' sail northwest, they reached the very fringe of the Viking world: the Faroes.
Jagged cliffs, winds unceasing, no trees. Thin soil fed no grain. Scattered settlements clung to the coasts, living by sheep and sea. Men showed Bjorn the "sea-parrots"—puffins, black-backed, white-bellied, with gaudy beaks.
"By the gods, delicious!" Bjorn tore into roasted birds, devouring five in one sitting. "Imagine eating these every day!"
With cheese and fish packed, they set out once more.
The ocean stretched endless, leaden clouds pressing low. Salt wind lashed their faces. Behind them, the Faroes shrank to a speck. Now they entered truly unknown waters. Storms, icebergs, thunder, sea-monsters—none could guess what lay ahead. Fear gnawed at their hearts. Men fingered amulets, whispering prayers.
The second day, the fleet met a savage north wind. Sails shredded to tatters. Waves crashed over the decks. One battered ship broke apart entirely, thirty men swallowed by the deep.
For three nights the fleet staggered on, soaked to the bone, losing men overboard with every swell. On the fifth dawn, someone spied the sea pale beneath them. Hope quickened. Bjorn loosed a raven.
The bird beat its wings, vanished toward the horizon. Hearts soared. Cheers thundered from one hundred and fifty throats.
Oars flashed. They rowed after the raven's flight. On the sixth sunrise, a shout split the air.
"There—land!"
A wall of cliffs, blue-grey, thrust from the mist, white gulls wheeling above.
"By Odin's hand—thanks be for your gift!"
The four surviving longships limped along the coast, half a day until they found a barren beach. A dead whale lay stranded in the shallows. Men cut strips of flesh, chewing raw.
"Freshly dead. The meat's still sweet. We'll eat well without hunting."
Thus, the gods had blessed them with a feast, freeing them to explore.
The land was harsh as the Faroes: windswept, stony, carpeted with moss. After ten days searching, they found a valley sheltered from the gales, warmed by sun, with a stand of birches and a clear brook.
"Here!" Bjorn declared. "This island we name Iceland. I, Bjorn Ironside, son of Ragnar and Lagertha, claim it as my realm!"
At his order, one hundred and forty Vikings felled trees, built houses, and cleared a slope for rye—the hardiest of grains, fit to face the cold.
"Let it sprout," Bjorn prayed, eyes on the sky.
Then the ground quivered beneath his boots.
From beyond the mountains, a column of black smoke writhed upward like a serpent, red glow staining the clouds, air stinking of sulfur. Birds shrieked, fleeing in terror.
"What in Odin's name—?"
Bjorn raced to a ridge. In the far north, flames roared against the sky.
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