In the days that followed, Rurik trained under Ivar, learning the craft of war. As one of the shield-guards, he enjoyed bread and fish without restraint; the boy's once-slender frame grew visibly stronger.
At times, when boredom overtook him, Ragnar himself would step forward to offer instruction.
"Do not rely too heavily on the shield," he warned. "Never let it blind your sight.
"When facing rabble, the best tactic is to let them strike first. Block with the shield, and in that brief instant when their stance falters, kill with one decisive blow. But when you face a seasoned warrior, beware—he may feint to lure you into overcommitting. Watch his feet above all.
"If you and your foe both wield swords, use the bind. Slide your blade against his, twist and wrench it aside, then thrust for the vital place."
From his years steeped in bloodshed, Ragnar had distilled swordsmanship into five practical strokes—simple, direct, efficient: the bind, the overhead cleave, the reverse strike, the thrust, and the disarm.
Compared with the one-handed axe, the iron sword was far more versatile, able to slash and stab alike. Its only fault was its cost. A plain single-handed sword fetched half a pound of silver—dear enough to trade for four cattle. Mail was rarer still, costing three to five pounds, and thus reserved for nobles and veterans.
Rurik, still green, could claim no such treasures. His armor was a suit of looted scale mail, stripped from a fallen guard, weighing about thirteen kilograms. On his head he wore a plain Germanic iron helm—nothing fine, but serviceable.
By winter's deep chill, Rurik had fully grown into his new life as a shieldman. Strangely, the sword seemed to suit him; day by day, his skill sharpened until he could even spar a few exchanges with killers of Ivar's caliber.
"Well done," Ivar admitted, toppling him with a sudden feint. "With that armor on your back, you are beyond the reach of ordinary warriors."
Rurik lay winded on the ground, while Ivar, satisfied, thought his duty done.
Suddenly, a commotion rose from the eastern street. Ivar turned and beheld twenty young women, each armed with round shield and axe, marching in tight order. At their head strode a tall woman with pale-golden hair, and at the rear trailed a boy in white, no more than ten years old.
"At last you've come!"
Overjoyed, Ivar ran to greet his mother and younger brother. With shield-maidens to maintain order, he might finally rest easy at night.
From behind, Rurik staggered to his feet, eyes fixed upon the striking woman. Her bearing, her beauty, her pale hair left him in no doubt. This was Lagertha, famed across the North as the greatest of shield-maidens. And the white-clad boy—surely the same Halfdan the White whose name would echo in sagas to come.
With their arrival, the longhouse swelled with life. Soon after, Gunnar returned as well, bringing seasoned raiders in his wake. Ragnar's following now numbered sixty, and with it, their appetites grew monstrous.
Stores dwindled by the day. A full reckoning of supplies brought grim truth: even if they traded gold and silver for grain, the food would not last until next autumn.
"In the spring, we must raid—or starve."
By Ragnar's order, carpenters set to work upon new ships, while idle warriors were sent to labor in the workshops.
By this age, the Viking longship had reached its perfection, in two distinct forms.
The merchantman was broad and deep, with hold and deck, fifteen to twenty meters in length, bearing up to ten tons of cargo.
The warship was longer, swifter, shallow of draft, made to strike and withdraw. Between twenty and thirty meters long, it carried fifty fighting men.
For more than a month Rurik watched the work take shape. First a sound oak trunk was chosen as the keel, to bear the ship's heart and keep it from breaking in the storm. The hull was planked with oak, each board overlapped and nailed fast with iron, seams caulked with tar-soaked moss. Rurik doubted such stuff could keep water out, but had no choice but to trust.
Ribs and beams were bent from supple hazel or ash. The sail was of wool, painted with stripes and sealed with beeswax for water's spite.
By late February, three new warships stood ready. With two already in their possession, Ragnar could now put two hundred men to sea. The chosen target was once again Britain.
The reason was plain. Since Rome's departure, the isle had been split among petty kings. Civilization had crumbled, leaving only three realms of true weight: Northumbria, Mercia, and Wessex. The rest were weak, unable to fend off even middling raids.
"This time, we strike at Essex," Ragnar declared. "Let us seize what iron we can."
Yet just as preparations neared their end, a messenger came from Oslo, bearing an invitation from King Erik himself.
"He wishes to speak with you on matters of raiding," the man said.
Ragnar gave a curt nod. "Very well. I set out tomorrow."
Three years past, he and Erik had met once, and not unfavorably. He doubted the king meant him harm.
At dawn they sailed north along the coast. After five days they reached Oslo—greatest of the Norse settlements, home to two thousand souls.
"What a place," Rurik whispered.
Since his strange arrival in this age, never had he seen so many ships. Across the fjord, a forest of masts stabbed the sky, a hundred longships crowding the waters, their hulls shrouded in drifting morning mist.
Stepping ashore on a creaking pier, he was struck by the tumult. The air reeked of ale, smoked herring, and burning whale-fat, mingled with the ringing of smiths' hammers. It was the smell of prosperity.
On their way to the longhouse, Rurik counted more than a hundred warriors clad in iron. Clearly, Erik had summoned other lords as well—for one clan alone could never field such arms.
"A gathering of sea-kings," Rurik thought.
Indeed, before the longhouse stood nine great chairs, set in a circle, equal in rank.
"Nine lords," he mused. "If each commands two hundred men, then two thousand in all—enough to sweep a kingdom from the map. This will be a sight worth watching."
With silent awe, Rurik stood behind Ragnar's seat, awaiting the council of sea-wolves.