For five days the current bore them downstream. Their bodies had scarcely begun to recover when the ship came to the first rapids of the Dnieper.
The river, once broad and stately, now narrowed to a perilous throat. Sheer banks rose more than ten meters high on either side, and jagged rocks thrust up through the water's surface, crooked and uneven, like the fangs of some lurking beast.
"You see?" said Otto grimly. "I did not deceive you. No ship can live through such waters."
He ran the vessel aground upon the western bank. Without protest, Rurik and the others set about their weary routine: felling trees, laying rollers, and readying themselves once more to drag the heavy hull across the land.
So it went: drag the ship ashore, haul her forward, launch again into the river, only to come ashore once more when the next torrent barred their way. The cycle repeated until Rurik's endurance frayed to the breaking point. His days became nothing but toil, bread, and sleep—yet far harsher than the grueling labors of any craftsman.
"Odin preserve us," he muttered bitterly. "No man should suffer such a life. Is there no other way to live?"
Even as the prayer formed in his mind, a sharp hiss cut the air. A feathered arrow struck the ground a hand's breadth from his foot, quivering still.
An ambush!
He snapped his shield aloft. Across the grassland he glimpsed a dozen horsemen: lean riders with curved bows in hand, conical felt caps upon their heads, and greasy braids trailing down their backs.
Ivar seized his bow from the ship, but Otto caught his arm. "No killing! Drive them off, nothing more. They are Pechenegs—nomads of this land, fierce and vengeful. Spill their blood, and they will stalk us to the next rapids and beyond."
"To take blows and not strike back?" Ivar snarled. "That is galling beyond measure!"
Yet he yielded, loosing his shafts into the turf beside the riders rather than into their flesh. For several tense minutes the standoff held. Then, just as the horsemen began to wheel away, an arrow hissed from the woods behind. It flew true across a hundred paces, burying itself deep in a rider's face. The man toppled lifeless from his saddle. His iron corselet marked him as a chief among them.
"Who loosed that shot?" cried Otto in horror. His eyes swept the clearing and found Nils, newly returned from the hunt, bow still in hand, boasting, "Did you see? The finest shot I've made in years! No armor can withstand it!"
At the wail of the Pechenegs mourning their fallen, Otto's face twisted into a smile more pained than tears. "It is done. We are ruined."
Nils rubbed his neck sheepishly. "Perhaps they'll fear my bow and keep their distance. Or if we hasten, we may slip through before their revenge can be mustered."
"Enough," said Ivar curtly. "The man is dead. Brooding serves no purpose." He ordered a fire lit and meat set to boil. "Eat well, sleep early. Tomorrow we press hard and leave this cursed stretch behind."
Fear drove them onward. They labored with frantic haste, skirting the fourth rapid, then drifting to the fifth.
Again Otto grounded the vessel upon the western bank. His great hands clutched at the amulet on his chest as he whispered a litany to the gods:
"Odin, Frigg, Thor—grant us safe passage here, and I shall heap your altars with sacrifice."
Prayers spoken, he summoned them to the ropes. All donned their mail, hearts heavy, senses sharpened.
Under a pitiless sun the ship crawled across the grassland, ponderous as an ox yoked to burden. Suddenly, a great flock of birds burst skyward. Otto dropped to the ground, pressing his ear to the soil. The earth itself trembled with the thunder of hooves.
"Flee! Abandon the cargo!" he bellowed.
And then they came: a hundred riders surging from the southern slope, shrieking their uncanny cries. The Norsemen knew they were outmatched. They flung themselves toward the birchwood to the west.
Burdened by his heavy scale armor, Rurik was the last to stumble into the trees—and there he halted in shock.
Where were his companions?
He searched for Ivar, for Björn, for any sign of them. None. They had fled like hares, leaving him the quarry.
Footsteps crackled at the forest's edge. The Pechenegs, relentless, had dismounted and pressed after him on foot.
"Too much!" Rurik spat. "These devils will not relent."
He staggered through brush and branch until his lungs burned. At last he leaned against a tree, chest heaving. A shadow burst from the thicket—a man in ragged sheepskin, curved blade raised high, the visage of a low-born nomad.
More footfalls closed in. From all sides they emerged, snarling, blades flashing, their cries grotesque.
"So this is my end?" Rurik thought.
Overhead, black ravens wheeled and croaked. A fierce heat flared in his chest. If he must die, then let others die with him.
The nomad's scimitar swung. Rurik caught it on his shield and drove his sword deep into the man's belly. Even before the blood spattered his face, two more lunged at him with bronze daggers. He caught one blow upon his shield, sheared off the other man's hand at the wrist. The severed palm thudded to the earth.
A scimitar struck his back—but the iron scales held firm. Whirling, he slashed across a throat. Blood fountained, blinding him red.
Born anew in death's shadow.
The world slowed. His foes' movements grew clumsy, every strike heavy with weakness. Rurik's body flowed from one motion to the next, guided by instinct alone, his blade reaping lives with merciless precision.
The tenth fell clutching his chest. The four survivors faltered, staring wide-eyed. The Norseman before them seemed no man but a beast, immortal, insatiable.
Panic seized them. With a shared glance, they hurled their weapons. A bronze dagger struck Rurik's helm with a dull clang—only to snap in two.
"Their iron is too strong! Flee!" they shrieked, and vanished into the wood.
When it was over, the sun hung low, its light piercing the leaves and gleaming upon pools of blood. Rurik sagged against a trunk, gasping. From a fallen corpse he plucked a leather flask, drank deep of its sour mare's milk.
Above him the ravens circled and croaked, exultant, as though praising the feast he had laid before them.
At last his comrades crept back, drawn by the din of slaughter. Seeing the carnage, Ivar gave a low whistle of admiration.
"This battle has woken the strength within you, Rurik. My congratulations."
But Rurik's face bore no pride, only bewilderment. "I do not know. It feels less as though I grew stronger—more as though the enemy themselves grew slow and clumsy."