In the ninth century, somewhere along a fjord of the North.
At dawn, when frost still clung to the blades of grass, Rurik Stone was startled awake by the harsh cries of ravens outside. He pulled a tattered sheepskin cloak over his shoulders and rose from his bed.
As he pushed open the oak-planked door, a blast of cold, salt-laden wind struck his face. He gazed westward toward the fjord. The sea lay still, reflecting the leaden clouds above, while flocks of ravens wheeled overhead—a sure omen that bitter winds were driving down from the north.
"It's only late August. Why has the air turned so sharp, so soon?"
Rurik was fifteen. Orphaned young, he had been raised by his elder sister, who the year before had left with her second husband for Britain. The farmhouse and its small fields had been left to the boy.
But fortune had been cruel. An early autumn storm had destroyed much of last year's crop. He had been forced to sell his livestock in exchange for grain. If this year's harvest failed as well, he would not live through the winter.
"Less than a month since I crossed into this world, and already I face a struggle to survive. Why not send me to Tang China, or Byzantium? Why here—in some desolate corner of the Norse lands, without even a clear sense of what year it is?"
He muttered to the gray sky. Then a scream rang out from the south. Turning sharply, Rurik saw strangers gathered near his neighbor Jorunn's house—eight men, hard-faced and unfamiliar.
Raiders.
The northern soil yielded little. Many turned to the sea, raiding or trading across distant shores. Others, unwilling to voyage, simply preyed upon their nearest neighbors.
By the old custom, when raiders struck a homestead, the surrounding households were bound to aid the victim. Rurik hurried back inside, fetched a round shield, a wooden spear, and finally tucked a one-handed axe into his belt.
By the time he emerged, the other neighbors were already converging. Twelve grown men with shields and axes, women and youths with hunting bows. All told, they numbered eighteen.
"Shield wall!"
At the command of a grizzled farmer, they locked shields into a rough line and advanced. The women and boys flanked them, loosing arrows in nervous, uneven arcs.
A hundred meters.
Seventy.
Fifty.
At thirty meters, one woman struck a raider. She cried out in triumph—only for an answering shaft to pierce her throat. She fell writhing, then lay still.
Thump, thump. Thump, thump.
Rurik's heart pounded. He fought down his fear, fixing his eyes upon the foe directly before him.
At fifteen meters both sides halted, shouting to rattle one another's courage. Rurik's side held twice the numbers, and the raiders' defiance wavered. After a brief, silent glance among themselves, the seven survivors shouldered their plunder and fled into the forest. Two were struck in the back by arrows and fell. The others vanished into the trees.
Peace returned as suddenly as it had fled.
The neighbors buried the dead woman with a brief, weary rite and returned home. Life in the North was hard and uncertain. Death was never far, and many regarded it as no great misfortune.
By September the northern wind cut ever sharper. Rurik set about harvesting his barley. The sickle whispered through the golden stalks, and the heavy heads toppled against his leather boots, like hair combed into orderly strands.
Yet his lack of experience showed. By modern measure, his yield amounted to only four hundred kilograms. From this, he must reserve ten kilograms per mu (two-thirds of an acre) for seed, and surrender about forty kilograms in tax. What remained was scarcely two hundred kilos—barely enough to keep himself alive, with no margin against disaster.
"The life of a freeholding farmer is no easy one."
The next morning, he chose the best of his grain, packed it into a hemp sack, and trudged southward twenty kilometers to Gothenburg to pay his dues.
The town held perhaps seven hundred souls. Its ruler, Olaf, was a stout, wine-loving man who had built a vast brewery for mead. Each year he demanded fresh grain from his farmers. Those who failed to comply forfeited their land.
Beyond the low palisade, Rurik followed a mud track reeking of sewage into the marketplace. Brass bells jingled over merchant tents. Fur-clad Slavs shouted prices for honey-wine; smiths hammered at glowing iron ingots; a Sámi witch painted runes with reindeer blood upon birch bark. The mingled clamor filled the air, strangely warming to one accustomed to lonely toil.
Soon Rurik reached the granary. "Rurik Stone, from the north. Here is my grain for the year."
An old one-armed clerk pinched a handful of barley, studied it, then poured the sack into a wooden bin.
"You have paid your due. May Odin grant you a better harvest next year."
He unfurled a sheepskin chart, marked Rurik's plot with a dab of blue dye, and called, "Next!"
Having discharged his duty, Rurik resolved to linger in Gothenburg for a few days, working for hire to earn a little coin against lean times.
It was then a band of Vikings strode down the street, loud and swaggering. In one hand they clutched roasted meat, in the other, wine-skins. They bellowed songs in praise of Odin as they went.
Broad-shouldered, iron-clad, they exuded menace. Rurik shrank aside, unwilling to cross them. Yet his gaze betrayed him, fixed upon the gleaming mutton in their hands.
This past year he had lived in near-starvation. Now and then his nets caught a cod or two, but fish was poor fare, lean and unsatisfying. He knew from memory that a bowl of pork filled the belly like two of cod.
He sighed and turned away. Suddenly a heavy hand clapped his shoulder.
Startled, he wheeled about. The bearded leader grinned, thrusting a massive rib of lamb into his hands.
What? Mistaken identity?
Before he could answer, the man pressed a wine-skin upon him. "Mead from Britain—drink!"
Amid the laughter and protests of his companions, Rurik heard a name spoken—at once strange and hauntingly familiar.
Ragnar.
Ragnar Lodbrok—the saga hero who, history records, once stormed Paris and forced Charles the Bald to ransom his city. One of the greatest names of the Viking Age.
A storm of memory fragments battered Rurik's mind. When at last he returned to himself, the warriors were gone, their voices fading down the street, still singing:
In the mist, the western lands beckon,
And we, the great seafarers, fear not the sea's grave.
When Odin's ravens bring us victory,
The mead of Valhalla will brim our horns.