"This is Surtr, the Fire Giant, breathing. We have disturbed his slumber!"
At the sight of heaven and earth in upheaval, most Vikings collapsed where they stood, praying desperately for the Æsir's salvation. The black plume rose through the night, painting the sky blood-red. Ash drifted down in dark flakes like cursed snow. Huddled inside the half-built temple, they waited in silence for the world's end.
When dawn came, the weary men staggered outside. From the mountain's crest they saw the northern horizon: the dreadful rumble had ceased. It seemed the Fire Giant had not come to destroy them after all, but had returned beneath the earth to sleep again.
"Patch the ships! We must leave this cursed land before he wakes once more!"
Such defeatist cries won ready support. Bjorn said nothing at first, sweeping his gaze across his people. Some bowed their heads; others dared meet his eyes.
At last, to steady their hearts, Bjorn raised his voice like a warhorn:
"This is still Midgard! Last night's eruption was nothing but a natural event!"
(Midgard: in Norse myth, the world of men, one of the Nine Realms.)
He pointed toward the volcano.
"The Fire Giants dwell in Muspelheim, a realm of molten rock where no life may endure. Yet here we have trees, birds, fish in the streams. Proof enough that this is no Muspelheim!"
His words swayed a handful to remain, though over eighty scoffed at his "nonsense." Within three days they hastily patched their ships, seized most of the supplies, and sailed away.
When the smoke cleared, only fifty-three remained. Bjorn set them to work—building houses, smoking whale meat for storage.
Days later, scraps of sailcloth, barrels, and shattered planks drifted to shore. Bjorn examined them: two different sails, meaning at least two longships had sunk.
"My kinsmen, I bring grim tidings."
His face was heavy with false sorrow.
"Those who fled have perished at sea. Their cowardice angered the gods, and Odin himself cast them down. Such deaths cannot lead to Valhalla… a pity indeed."
He saw fear ripple through the crowd, and inside he smiled. For now at least, none would dare leave. He had survived his first trial.
Meanwhile, at Tynemouth—
Six months after word was spread, four stonemasons arrived from afar. Vig dismissed the worst of them, hiring the remaining three at high price. Each was ordered to draft a construction plan:
Replace the town's wooden outer wall with stone, six meters high, base 3.5 meters thick, narrowing to 2.5 at the top.
Rebuild Tynemouth's inner wall to the same design.
Erect a stone keep fifteen meters tall.
Their estimates were similar: 250–350 pounds of silver for the outer wall, 60 pounds for the inner, 100 pounds for the keep.
In private, Vig and Helgi exchanged troubled whispers before asking, "Can the costs be cut?"
"Milord, milady, this is already the lowest," one mason replied. "Stonecutting is two-tenths of the cost, transport four-tenths. Luckily, you may quarry from the ruins of Hadrian's Wall and ship the blocks downstream. Without that, the cost would exceed a thousand pounds."
That night the couple lay awake, realizing their treasury could barely cover the inner wall and keep. The outer wall, at three hundred pounds, must be delayed.
Vig's reasoning was clear: the defenses must hold against raiders, especially if he were away. Worst case, if five hundred men came while he was gone, Helgi must be able to lock herself in the keep and hold out for a month.
"First the keep. Then the inner wall. The outer wall can wait. Four meters of timber will hold against small bands. If larger forces come, the shield-bearers retreat to the castle and endure."
Resolved, he summoned his people for labor, aiming for completion within two years.
Still no word from Bjorn, so Vig had the masons prepare mortar by traditional means:
Burn limestone to quicklime.
Mix with sand and water.
Add egg whites and fibers for strength.
"Egg whites? And how many eggs is that supposed to take?" Vig muttered, aghast at the extravagance.
Helgi pored over scrolls in the library, finally producing a passage from a Roman senator's memoir:
"My love, here it says—in Gaul, lacking volcanic ash, they used lime mortar just the same, strengthened with egg whites, flax fibers, even reeds."
"Wonderful. If we seize the peasants' eggs by the thousands, our reputation will sour in a heartbeat."
By June, Tynemouth had become a cacophonous worksite. Vig and Helgi poured their energy into this foundation of their house. So much so that when Ivar's envoy arrived, Vig at first mistook him for a laborer hauling stone.
After washing the grime from his face and changing into proper robes, Vig received him.
"What now? Another raid you want me to join?"
"No, my lord," the envoy said. "War drags on. Weapons are spent. My master needs bows, shields, blades."
"You should go to York. The royal arsenal has thirty smiths. The king never withholds arms—especially from his eldest son."
But the envoy grimaced.
"Not since my master offended his father. He captured a wooden fort, seized a golden necklace strung with rubies. At the feast, someone suggested it be gifted to the queen. Drunk, my master laughed—'I'd sooner hang it round some wench's neck than that witch's.'"
The words reached Ragnar. The king flew into a rage, sent envoys to scold his son, ordered him to apologize.
Ashamed, Ivar offered a trove of treasures—including the ruby necklace itself. Only then did he barely regain his father's pardon. But from that day forth, the rift within the royal house of Northumbria lay bare for all to see.
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