When the sacrifices were done, Ragnar led the greatest host the North had ever seen to sea.
There were two main routes from Scandinavia to Britain.
The northern course hugged the Norwegian coast, stopping at the Shetland and Orkney Islands to replenish water, then struck west for the northern shores of Britain.The southern course was riskier, demanding a direct crossing of the North Sea from southern Norway, riding the North Atlantic current toward eastern Britain.
Because Ragnar commanded a vast fleet—including twenty slow, heavily laden supply ships—he chose the safer northern route. The longships crept along the Norwegian coast, pausing at Bergen to rest.
Three and a half thousand raiders sward the town for two days, driving its lord half-mad. Outmatched in strength, he feigned warm hospitality until at last the fleet set out again.
"Odin above," he prayed in secret, "send a storm and feed these wretches to the fish!"
From Bergen the true voyage began. Vig's longship carried forty n, with Ivar at the helm.
The son of Ragnar had been sailing since the age of fourteen. He knew the common arts—sun dials, the North Star—but also a rarer trick: finding the sun's position with a "sunstone."
"If the sky is dark and heavy with clouds," he explained, holding the crystal to the light, "the stone splits it into two beams. Turn it until the beams match, and there lies the sun."
Vig tried it, learning quickly, though he found it crude compared with the tools of later ages. "This is nothing but gambling with our lives," he muttered.
That night a cold fog closed in. When Vig rose for his watch, the stars were hidden. No Polaris—only gray murk above.
"What now?" he asked. Ivar blew his horn to signal the fleet. The low notes spread through the mist… but no answer ca.
They were lost.
For three days the sky pressed down with unbroken cloud. Ivar worked his sunstone again and again, adjusting their course, but there was no sign of Shetland.
"Loose the ravens."
Each longship carried two to four of the birds. When released, a raven would fly toward land if any lay near. If it circled and returned, the sea stretched empty in every direction.
The black bird shot skyward, circled, and dropped back onto the deck. Disappointnt fell heavy.
One young sailor cracked. "This is Jörmungandr's fog! The World Serpent will devour us!"
Ivar dropped him with a single punch. "Bind him! A crew undone by fear will doom us all."
Two more days passed. The wind rose, the ship rocked hard. So n muttered of sacrifice—casting a victim into the waves to appease the gods. Ivar beat them bloody.
"Mark well. On this ship only the captain rules. If any man disputes it, he may face in holmgang!"
But even he felt unease. Violence could only keep order so long. If they found no land, sooner or later the crew would turn. Who would stand with him then? He counted only a handful—Björn, Vig, Nils, two others.
By the eighth day, the sea had cald sowhat. Ivar took it as a gift from the gods. He shouted encouragent, steered at the stern, urging the n to row.
At noon a pale yellow glow broke faintly through the clouds. With every eye upon him, Ivar loosed their final raven.
The bird circled thrice, then shot away southwest, wings steady.
"Follow it!" Ivar roared. Every man bent to his oar.
Five hours later, the sharp-eyed Nils cried out: "Land! Cliffs!"
Jagged white crags tore through the fog like the teeth of giants. They had reached land at last, though none could yet na it.
The longship scraped onto a stony beach, gulls screaming into the air. Ten n stayed with the vessel; Ivar led the rest inland.
On a hillside they found thatched cottages, smoke rising from chimneys. Ivar kicked in a door. Inside, folk huddled about a stew-pot, eyes wide with fear.
"You are Northn?" Ivar asked.
"Yes," said the householder stiffly.
"Lay down your arms." After a tense mont, Ivar chose to spare them. He nad himself openly.
At once a boy of thirteen gasped, "You're Ivar the Boneless? Take with you!"
The father clapped a hand over his son's mouth, face pale. "Take whatever you want—only spare us."
"I'm no mindless berserker," Ivar replied with a smile he thought friendly. He tossed them two silver coins and asked if they had seen a great fleet.
"Three days past, yes. A great host sailed south." The man offered him a bowl of soup, explaining this was Pictish land. The soil was rocky and poor—better than Norway, but only just.
Picts—the people who would one day beco Scots. In Vig's mory, there was no "Scotland" yet. Only after the Picts of the east and the Gaels of the west slowly rged over centuries would the Scots be born.
Likewise, there was no "England." That na would not co until Alfred the Great of Wessex (849–899) broke the Vikings' power, and his heirs united the fractured "Seven Kingdoms" into one realm.
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