Recalling the practices of later ages, Vig drafted a simple and easily understandable set of football rules.
That afternoon, he had a craftsman stitch together a crude leather football and selected twenty-two shieldguards for the first match.
At first, no one cared about chasing a ball. They played only for the two-penny reward the duke had promised. But by halftime, their desire to win had been ignited—they began discussing formations, cooperation, and positioning.
By the final ten minutes, the shieldguards had forgotten those trivial silver pennies altogether. They chased the ball like madmen, and soon the match devolved into a full-blown brawl.
"Enough! Stop fighting—both sides get their reward!"
Seeing men packed together shoving and shouting, Vig rubbed his temples. It seems this sport might be a little too attractive…
Over the following weeks, he promoted football across the entire territory, having the Raven-Speakers spread the word through the temple network, subtly tying the sport to the Æsir gods.
Within mere months, football swept the Northlands. Even the notoriously stubborn Pictish peasants were no exception.
During slack seasons, they ignored the warnings of traditional elders, gathered on open fields, and frantically chased leather balls stamped with the World Tree emblem. Sometimes, two villages held formal matches—Pictish peasants even invited Viking shamans to serve as referees.
In August, Helgi arrived at Tyne Town's docks with four knarr loaded with furs, animal oil, and walrus ivory. He saw crowds of young men kicking a ball on a square field, surrounded by cheering spectators.
He waited a moment, but no one paid him any attention. Forced to raise his voice, he waved at the workers:
"Hey! Come unload these goods! They're high-grade merchandise for the duke—you'll get your wages!"
But the workers' hearts were still on the game, and unloading progressed painfully slowly. Afterward, Helgi treated them to a round of ale and asked why they were so obsessed.
"Hic—didn't you see? That was the Dockyard Team against the Weavers' District! If they win, the lads make the semifinals!"
Dockyard Team? Semifinals?
Helgi froze. He'd only been gone half a year, but it felt as if the world had changed for ten.
"Another one of Vig's damned ideas…"
He tossed a handful of silver pennies to settle the bill and hurried toward Tyne Town Castle. Even the shieldguards he passed were loudly discussing football.
"Those last ten minutes—gods, what a thrill! Scored twice!"
"Blame the stupid goalkeeper. Should hang him upside-down and beat some sense into him…"
Entering the great hall, Helgi saw Vig hunched over his desk, writing furiously on fine sheepskin parchment.
"Drafting decrees again?"
Vig glanced at him, then returned to writing.
"Close enough. These are the updated football league rules—call it version 2.0. Next year I want a unified league across all five counties. Each county's champion will come to Tyne Town for the finals. I want the league to encourage mixing between communities—and spread the influence of the Tyne Town Order."
After finishing the last stroke, he asked a maid to bring in a crate filled with footballs, all stamped with the World Tree emblem.
"To promote the sport, I had craftsmen make two thousand footballs for free distribution. This batch is fresh from the workshop. Want to take a few for the Icelanders? I hear they're so bored on that island they fight over trivial nonsense."
Helgi picked up one of the balls, found nothing particularly strange about it, and then got to the real topic:
"The battle went smoothly. We crushed that tribe and seized the surrounding coast. Built stone houses, dug a shallow trench. But there's no timber—can't build wooden palisades.
"As for the haul—we brought back twelve thousand pelts of various kinds and five hundred barrels of animal oil.
"Total value: seven hundred pounds. The crew took half; the rest goes to the Fur Company treasury, first to pay off the three hundred twenty pounds we owe you."
Vig nearly jumped.
"That much profit? You recoup everything in a single year?"
Helgi straightened his back. "Aye. We're all family—why would I cheat you? This year pays the debt. If next year we bring in another three hundred fifty, we'll divide the surplus by shares. You'll net about a hundred pounds annually."
To Helgi, this was only the beginning. The company would expand, strike trade deals with surrounding tribes, and profits would multiply again.
In the end, Bjorn's dream—to be richer than a king—was not fantasy.
Seeing the promise of the enterprise, Vig began weighing other concerns.
"High profits will tempt outsiders. After conquering Northumbria, Bjorn got no fief; Ragnar feels guilty toward him and won't shamelessly seize the company. As for Norway—Erik is weak. If the old fool tries anything, I'll handle it myself.
"And if other nobles want to join… talk to Bjorn. You can refuse, or allow them—if they pay a hunting-permit tax to the company. As for scattered raiders… you'll have to deal with them yourselves. Greenland is huge—you'll never wipe out poachers completely."
Over the next twenty days, the four ocean-going knarr were hauled into the docks for maintenance. Workers packed pitch into gaps between planks and scraped barnacles off the hulls.
During the downtime, Helgi spent his hours with family—taking Britta and Leif to watch football matches. At first he was indifferent… then became an irritable, raging fan.
"Idiot! You're a defender—why in Odin's name are you in the front half? Get back!"
"Get back!"
"BACK!"
When the final whistle blew, Helgi erupted:
"A pack of fools! I could play better myself!"
After several post-match brawls, his reputation spread: nearly every townsman now knew that Tyne Town's duke had a one-eyed brother-in-law who adored football.
"This sport is brilliant—perfect for keeping young men busy!"
By then, Helgi was completely in love with the game.
In late August, the fleet prepared to depart. Alongside food, ale, arms, clothing, and lumber, they loaded over two hundred tons of honeycomb coal for heating and cooking.
Carefully folding a parchment copy of the football rules, Helgi sighed:
"No forests—that's Greenland's greatest flaw. The natives eat raw meat. Compared to beer and ironware, I think honeycomb coal will sell best."
With that, he embraced Vig, Britta, and Leif, and led the fleet once more onto their long voyage west.
Thanks to reader Rog Otalivus for the reward.
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