No one knew how much ti had passed. One by one, the guests collapsed drunkenly across the tables, the feast dwindling toward silence. In the great hall, only the crackle of the firepit remained.
"Drink! Keep drinking…"
Ragnar rubbed his aching, muzzy head. From the crack of the door seeped the first pale light of dawn. On the rafters, ravens squabbled over a scrap of greasy pork.
Morning already?
He stretched with satisfaction, then noticed a strange woman standing idly nearby. Mistaking her for a servant, he ordered casually, "Maid—bring a cup of ad."
Soon she returned with a brimming goblet of dark, yellowish liquid. Ragnar frowned. "What is this swill? Has King Erik's cellar run dry?"
He waved her away, lifted the cup to drink—only for Lagertha, just waking, to snatch it from his hand. She drained it in one pull.
"Hey! Couldn't leave a sip? You're impossible."
Grumbling, Ragnar prowled the table until he found a half-full jug of proper ad. He held it up, grinning at his wife.
"This is the real stuff, the feast's finest. Want a taste?"
But before she could answer, Lagertha convulsed, vomited a gush of dark blood, and collapsed limp to the floor.
News of the poisoning raced through Oslo like wildfire. King Erik ordered the settlent sealed tight, vowing to find the culprit.
In Norse custom, the host bore full responsibility for his guests' safety. To be struck by poison under a chieftain's roof was a disgrace that could ruin him. If Erik offered no swift justice, who would dare attend his feasts again?
Search parties scoured the town. Before long, soldiers returned with grim tidings: the suspected woman had fled. Witnesses claid she vanished not long before Jarl Borg himself slipped away with his n.
At that, Ivar's bellow shook the rafters.
"I'll kill him! I'll smash every bone in his body to dust!"
"I march with you," Erik growled. Without more words, he mustered every soldier and guest he could find. With gawking townsfolk swelling their ranks, the host reached eight hundred strong, surging east toward Borg's lands.
Borg's seat was Tushby, more than a hundred kiloters from Oslo. The army trudged four days through snow and mire, arriving to find villagers hastily throwing up a wooden palisade.
"Too late," Vig thought. No towers, no ditch. Barely enough to stop wolves, let alone n.
At the sight of the host, Tushby fell into chaos. Slaves dropped tools and bolted. Their masters abandoned the chase, scrambling behind the gates before they slamd shut.
Monts later, Borg had a cart rolled out. Four corpses lay atop it—two adults, two children—alongside five sheepskin scrolls.
"The widow of the Gothenburg jarl hired assassins!" Borg cried. "This has nothing to do with ! Here are the assassins and the widow's kin. By Odin's na, I swear it's the truth!"
But by now, truth mattered little.
First, Erik had to cool Ragnar's rage, or risk losing his guide to Britain. Second, he had marched eight hundred n for four days, burning through precious food. He could not return empty-handed. So plunder must be taken.
"Attack!"
The horn's deep blare rolled over the fields. A loose line of archers raised their bows and loosed a black cloud of arrows. A second volley followed. Then a third.
Shield-n charged with round shields raised high. Arrows from the fence slits struck only one man, in the calf.
At ten paces, warriors hurled hooked irons over the palisade, their ropes tied to thirteen packhorses. Whips cracked. The beasts scread and heaved, sweat streaming from their manes, breath rasping like bellows.
"Crack!"
With a splintering roar, the timbers tore wide. A gap ten ters across yawned open.
Erik's warriors surged like floodwaters. Ragnar and his sons led the rush. Borg's hastily ford shield-wall broke like rotten planks. The fight was over before it had begun.
Fools, Vig thought bitterly. Everyone piling in with no reserve. If Borg had an ambush in the trees, now's the mont. Trap us inside, fire the huts, and a thousand n die like penned cattle.
Disorder ant disaster. That much was certain.
He had no ti to dwell. A shadow lunged from the left. Instinct raised his shield. Steel screeched, then Vig drove his sword down into the man's foot. As the foe stumbled, he ripped the blade free and thrust into the throat.
"No!"
A woman crashed against him, shield-first. She was smaller, lighter; Vig ramd her back with his own shield, sending her sprawling. One swift stroke finished her.
It was a dirty tactic, stabbing feet. But Vig lacked skill or experience. He would use whatever tricks he must to live.
Archaeology says Norsen averaged one-seventy in height. I'm not even sixteen, and already as tall as most. With luck, I'll grow to one-eighty or more. That alone gives an edge.
The Britons? Farrs on thin gruel. Most only reach one-sixty-five. No wonder they lose skirmishes.
The answer was clear: eat more at, train harder. With Ragnar feeding him, why not? Strength was survival.
Minutes later, pressed forward with the mob, Vig found himself near the longhouse. Ivar, dripping blood, seized his arm.
"Have you seen Borg?"
"No. I only cut down two thralls—no ironclad warriors." Vig tried not to flinch at the mad gleam in Ivar's eyes. He offered a quick excuse: "Maybe he slipped away dressed as a peasant."
Ivar snarled and stord toward the stables. Only a shivering slave remained, who blurted that Borg had fled at the very start, cloaked and clothed as a commoner.
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