For five days they drifted downriver, scarcely regaining their strength before the first of the Dnieper rapids lood ahead.
Where once the river spread broad and placid, it now narrowed between sheer banks ten ters high. Jagged rocks jutted up midstream, a maze of teeth that made even the hardiest Viking swallow.
"You see?" Rurik said. "I told you. No ship sails here."
He ran the vessel aground on the western bank. Without complaint, the n began chopping trees, laying rollers, and readying for yet another backbreaking haul.
Drag the ship. Back to the river. Drift for a while. Haul it out again.
The cycle ground on, day after day. Vig's patience wore to the bone. Drag, eat, sleep… it's worse than modern 996 wage-slavery.
"Odin above," he muttered. "This life isn't fit for a man. Isn't there another way?"
As if in answer, a sharp hiss split the air—thunk! An arrow buried itself in the turf a hand's breadth from his boot. Its fletching quivered still.
"Ambush!"
Shield up, Vig spotted them: a dozen riders scattered on the grassland, short composite bows in hand, tall felt hats on their heads, filthy braids dangling down their backs.
Ivar seized his bow, but Rurik seized his arm. "No killing! Drive them off only. They're Pechenegs, nomads from these plains. Make blood-feud with them, and they'll ambush us again and again at every rapid."
"What, we're to be their targets and not fight back? Cowards' work!" Ivar spat, but grudgingly loosed arrows into the ground near their horses' hooves.
The two sides traded shafts without intent to kill, a stalemate of snarls and defiance. Just as the nomads began to withdraw, an arrow lanced from the forest. It struck true, straight into the face of a rider clad in iron.
"Who fired that?" Rurik paled, scanning frantically—until his eyes landed on Nils, just back from hunting, grinning like a boy.
"Ha! My truest shot in years. Armor or no, down he goes!"
The nomads wailed their grief. Rurik's face crumpled. "It's over. Gods, we are finished."
Nils scratched his neck, suddenly less proud. "Maybe they'll fear enough not to co back. Or maybe if we move quickly, we'll outrun their revenge."
"Too late for 'maybe,'" Ivar growled. He called the n to eat, then rest, then march faster still. "If they co, let them. We'll cut through and keep moving."
Fear lit a fire under their backs. Exhaustion forgotten, they hauled and rowed until they reached the fifth rapid.
Rurik beached the ship and stared out at the boundless grassland. His hands clutched the amulet at his chest as he whispered to Odin, to Frigga, to Thor—any god that might hear.
Only after every na was spoken did he order the n to drag the vessel onward. This ti, they donned armor even for the labor.
Sun blazed rcilessly on the plain. The ship inched forward like so colossal ox.
Then—a thunder of wings overhead. A flock of birds burst into the sky. Rurik threw himself to the ground, ear pressed to earth. He heard it: the pounding drum of hooves.
"Abandon it! Leave the cargo!"
From the southern slope, a hundred riders erupted, screaming their eerie, piercing war-cries. The Vikings fled westward into a birch wood, knowing to stand was death.
Vig, weighed down by lallar armor, was the last through the trees. He stumbled inside—only to find emptiness.
Where are they?
Ivar, Bjorn, the others—gone, scattered like startled rabbits. None had waited for him.
Before he could curse their faithlessness, he heard it: the crunch of steps in the underbrush. The nomads had dismounted, coming on foot.
"You've got to be kidding . Still chasing?!"
Vig ran, branches whipping his face, lungs on fire. Soon he had to halt, slumping against a trunk to breathe.
The bushes split. A man burst through, leather coat ragged, curved blade in hand—a lowly Pecheneg, but lethal enough.
Then more. From all sides. Their faces twisted, shrieking their strange calls.
"So… this is where it ends?"
Above, ravens wheeled and croaked, black shapes against the light. Sothing stirred in Vig. Not despair—but fury.
The first blow ca from the left. Shield up—sword in. His blade sank deep into a belly. Blood sprayed warm across his cheek.
Two more closed from the right with bronze knives. He caught one on his shield, hacked down the other's wrist—the hand dropped with the blade still clutched.
A curved sword slamd into his back—tal screeched on his lallar. He spun, sliced wide, and opened a throat in a crimson fountain.
To be born in death.
Suddenly the world slowed. Their strikes grew sluggish, clumsy. His own body moved with clarity, each cut precise, inevitable. The trees themselves seed to guide him, giving shadow and cover.
When the tenth nomad fell choking on his blood, the last four faltered. This was no man, but a beast in human hide, unkillable, rciless.
They threw their weapons in panic and fled. One bronze knife clanged off Vig's helt, shattering itself in two.
"Damn Norse iron…" one cursed, before vanishing into the grass.
At last, silence. Sunlight pierced the canopy, blazing off pools of red. Vig sagged, panting, and tore a leather flask from a corpse's belt. He gulped the sour, rank mare's milk, careless of the taste.
Overhead, the ravens wheeled and croaked their thanks for the feast he'd given.
His companions arrived late, following the noise. When they beheld the carnage, Ivar laughed in awe.
"You've awakened your true self at last. Congratulations."
But Vig only frowned, wiping blood from his eyes. "I'm not sure. It didn't feel like I grew stronger… more like they grew slower."
User Comments
0 comments from readers