"Ivar is far too reckless. To utter such words so carelessly…"
Vig sighed for a long while, then led the envoy to the arsenal. Pointing to the newly finished stockpiles of arrows, round shields, and yew bows, he said, "All here."
"Thank you for your generosity—wait, why are these arrows without heads?"
Vig spread his hands in helplessness.
"Iron is scarce. I have but five smiths in all Tynemouth—ten men if you count their apprentices. That is all I can manage. Take them to Dyflin and have your lord finish them there."
Three hundred yew bows, a thousand round shields, a thousand ash-gray tunics, fifteen thousand arrow shafts—of which a third lacked arrowheads.
That was Tynemouth's entire reserve, originally intended for Lord Bergen. Since that fellow still owed him the last payment, Vig decided to let him sweat, and only resume dealings when the arrears were paid.
After inspecting the goods, the envoy was well pleased. He promised to return in the autumn, and asked whether Vig wanted slaves as payment.
"Slaves? Northmen lands already overflow with refugees. I've no use for bondsmen whose loyalty is doubtful. If Ivar cannot pay in silver or gold, let him send scrolls—any works but theology. All else I welcome. However…" Vig's tone shifted. "Bjorn is settling an empty isle. He may well want slaves. That legendary seafarer has coin to spare."
At this, the envoy nodded, satisfied.
"He holds over a hundred pounds of silver—enough to buy three hundred slaves. My thanks for your counsel, my lord. Until we meet again."
In July, a ragged, unshaven Bjorn landed at Tynemouth's docks with a cargo of volcanic ash. His appearance made clear he had endured many hardships.
"Here—your ash."
By their prior bargain, Vig paid him in grain and six sheep, and sold him a longship for ten pounds of silver.
With the ash in hand, Vig began mixing concrete according to the Roman formula he remembered. For caution's sake, he did not use it on the new keep, but only on a small stretch of inner wall—so that if failure came, it could be mended easily.
Bjorn crossed his arms and watched, clicking his tongue in wonder.
"You've built Roman watermills at great expense, bought Latin texts, now even use Roman concrete. At this rate, you'll soon be more Roman than Norse."
"That would not be such a bad thing," Vig answered, stretching after the work. "Times change. We must learn from other civilizations, discard old customs that no longer serve, or else rot and die."
"But how does one judge which traditions to keep, and which to abandon?" Bjorn asked. The question hung in the air like smoke, and neither spoke further.
From Derwent, Bjorn purchased one hundred slaves. With two longships he set sail for Iceland once more. Vig, watching the sails vanish upriver, turned away, suddenly reminded he had neglected education for too long. On impulse, he walked to the school.
Two years ago, a Raven-Speaker had come from the North seeking refuge. Together, Vig and he had devised a new runic script fit for writing. Vig then funded the building of a temple, and provided three simple textbooks—Basic Runes, Elementary Mathematics, and Natural Studies for Beginners—tasking the Raven-Speaker with teaching a group of orphans.
Thanks to their reputation, shamans often came seeking patronage. Vig would personally interview each one, weighing their character, and if deemed suitable, he sent them for brief training in the temple before placing them as teachers in the school.
By now, one hundred and fifty orphans were enrolled, divided into three grades and six classes, with sixteen teachers in all—barely enough to keep the institution running.
The plan was simple: primary schooling lasted five years. Perhaps a quarter—or less—would move on to higher studies. The rest must fend for themselves. Yet if Vig's power spread north, those "failures" could serve as tax clerks, scribes, or overseers in his workshops.
"School opened in 844. Now it is the summer of 846. In three years the first graduates will be ready. By the time I conquer the Picts, I'll have a proper civil service, unlike Ivar's chaos."
To Vig, Ivar had become a perfect cautionary tale. His brother was mired in Ireland's endless feuds—pacifying one noble house only to see another rise in rebellion, leaving him exhausted. Meanwhile, in Derwent, Ivar demanded only taxes, leaving governance to squires and village headmen. Free farmers dwindled, while landlords swelled their estates. Over time, Ivar's authority was eroded, until he was king in name only.
"Conquest is only the beginning. Without governance, it all turns to nothing."
At the school, Vig peered through a window. The teacher, a middle-aged shaman, merely recited passages from the book like holy scripture. The children mumbled along, distracted and restless.
Vig's instinct was to stride in, dismiss the teacher, and explain the lesson himself. But he forced restraint. A lord cannot micromanage all. His task was to govern and plan. Even if he taught this one class—what of the next?
Sighing, he entered the Raven-Speaker's study and demanded the teaching plan, reading it closely.
"Summon them all," Vig ordered. Soon, every shaman-teacher was assembled. He announced:
"There will be an examination. Afterward, the students will have two months' holiday. During that time, I shall train you. As teachers, you must at least master the lessons of grades one through three. I spend fifteen pounds of silver each year on this school. Show me results—or face my displeasure!"
He spent a day writing test papers for all three grades. The results were dismal. Only five students passed all three subjects.
"Hmm. This one, Sebert Stormwind, is promising. A little unbalanced, but in mathematics he scored 85—quite rare."
Because many shared the same names, Vig had required them all to adopt surnames. They chose simple words—Stormwind, Ice-rain, Wildfire, Fjord. To Vig's mild amusement, "Stormwind" alone made up more than half the roster.
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