Upon hearing that Borg had cast aside all dignity and fled in disgrace, Ragnar and his two sons were eager to pursue him. Yet King Erik raised a hand to stay them.
"Ragnar," said Erik, his voice calm but heavy with authority, "we stand upon the eve of the greatest raid our people have ever undertaken, and I need you to guide the way. Here is my offer: I, together with six other noble houses, shall post a bounty of twenty pounds of silver for Borg's head. Will that satisfy you?"
Though couched as a proposal, his words bore the weight of command. The six nobles gathered at his side said nothing, but their silence and their stance added to the pressure upon Ragnar.
In that tense moment, it was Ivar who first mastered himself. His sharp eyes flickered, then he said coldly,
"Father, you should march with them to Britain. As for me and Björn, we will take a handful of men and hunt Borg down. Even if he flees into Jötunheim itself, I will drag him out and kill him!"
He wheeled toward the shield-bearers. "Who among you will ride with us to hunt that wretch?"
The summons came so suddenly that the men hesitated. To their surprise, it was Rurik, usually so unremarkable, who stepped forward first.
"Count me in," he said.
Encouraged by his resolve, others voiced their assent, until at last ten men had volunteered to ride eastward with Ivar.
Their pursuit led them across many lands. At last, in Stockholm, Ivar learned tidings of Borg: three days earlier he had boarded a ship bound for the land of the Rus. Ivar gave a mirthless laugh.
"So, the quarry flees into another's domain. A cunning beast indeed."
Selling their horses, the hunters took ship eastward, sailing until they reached the mouth of the River Neva—where, in ages hence, Saint Petersburg would stand. From there they rowed upstream until they came to a settlement upon the shores of Lake Ladoga.
A stout oak palisade ringed the village, tall enough for two men standing one atop the other. Within stood half-sunken wooden huts, their thatched roofs still speckled with winter's lingering snow. Muddy tracks wound between them, scored with the grooves of sledges and the prints of hooves.
Rurik made inquiries and learned that the villagers sowed rye and barley. The yield, hampered by the harsh climate, was little better than in their own northern homelands. To ease their poverty, some turned to trade: buying furs, amber, and slaves, then venturing southward through the labyrinth of rivers toward Constantinople, where rich profits might be found.
As Rurik listened, a foreboding stirred in his chest. Could it be that Borg had not lingered here at all, but had already pressed further south?
That evening, the hunters gathered in the square before the chieftain's hall. Ivar's face was dark as he spoke.
"Brothers, lay out all the silver you carry. Our road is yet long, and we shall need every coin."
So Rurik's fears were confirmed. Their true journey had only just begun. It seemed he must tramp all the way to Constantinople before this hunt would end.
In that age, the Vikings' path to Byzantium followed a well-worn course: down the Neva into Lake Ladoga, then through the Volkhov and the mighty Dnieper, which would carry them to the Black Sea, and thence along its western shore to the fabled city of Constantinople.
To endure so arduous a journey, Ivar enlisted the aid of a merchant to travel with them. His name was Otto, a towering Norseman with a mane of tangled red-blond hair, long accustomed to the trade routes of the East. His bearing marked him as no mere trader but a man formidable in battle as well.
Before setting out, Otto gave them counsel.
"The steppes of the East are not like the northern seas. For the sake of your lives, heed what I tell you."
Ivar, after a brief measure of the man, gave a curt nod. "Very well. On the road, you command. But once we reach Constantinople, we part ways—you to your silver, we to our blood-debt."
With furs of white fox and bars of amber stowed aboard, Otto announced the voyage begun. Including his four retainers, they now numbered fifteen strong, each a warrior fit for hard labor. Seven men bent to the oars on either side, while Otto himself held the steering oar at the stern.
Guided by his hand, the merchant-ship made its way to Lake Ilmen, where stood the bustling town of Novgorod, crossroads of Norse and Rus. The streets swarmed with traders; the air rang with cries of barter and the clamor of coin.
Stretching his limbs, Otto breathed out a cloud of frost. "Rest here two days. The road beyond grows harsher."
Two days later they pressed southward again. But soon the ship drew up upon a shallow bank. Rurik looked toward the stern in puzzlement, only to see Otto dismantling the steering oar and bidding his men strike the mast.
"What are you about?" Rurik demanded.
In short order, Otto had them haul the vessel ashore. With blunt certainty he announced the task ahead: they must drag the ship overland, felling trees to lay rollers beneath the keel.
It was labor beyond imagining. To protect the hull from tearing, they set down round logs like rails beneath the ship. Teams of men hauled on ropes from the front, while others snatched the rollers from behind and carried them forward again, in endless repetition.
To Rurik there was only one word for it: torment.
Each dawn at six they rose, choked down a scant breakfast, and set to work. At midday came the briefest rest, then toil again until sunset. A day's progress amounted to scarcely four kilometers—a tortoise crawl. At steep inclines, they resorted to pulleys and ropes, hoisting the heavy hull like oxen straining against fate.
Only the skill of Ivar, Nils, and the other hunters saved them. With their arrows and snares they brought in game enough to keep the company fed. But for such meat, Rurik's body would long since have broken under the strain.
Time blurred. His senses dulled, his mind numbed by exhaustion. Then, one day, the world opened wide before him.
Under the gentle sun of spring, a boundless steppe rolled away in green splendor. At its edge, a broad and shining river ran tranquil and deep. Birds wheeled above the water, their cries exultant—as if to salute the travelers' endurance.
"The Dnieper?" Rurik gasped, stumbling forward to the bank. "By the heavens, at last it is done!"
He knelt by the water, gazing at his haggard reflection, then lifted his calloused hands. For a moment he felt the strange, fierce joy of one who has outlived his own ordeal.
They reassembled the steering oar and heaved the vessel once more into the current. Then, drained to the marrow, they collapsed upon the deck. As the river bore them gently onward, all thought of hardship melted away. The world seemed, for a fleeting instant, perfectly good.
Otto let them savor the peace a while. Then he cleared his throat.
"Brothers—ah—truth is, we must haul the ship overland seven more times yet."
"Seven times!"
"Seven portages!"
Rurik exploded. "Are you mocking me? The Dnieper flows to the Black Sea! Why in Odin's name must we drag this cursed boat ashore again?"
Even Ivar and the others could not contain their fury. After days of labor, worse than beasts of burden, they swore and raged.
Otto raised both hands in protest. "Peace! It is not by my will. The Dnieper bears seven rapids where no man dares sail. Only by hauling overland can we pass. When you behold their fury with your own eyes, you will understand."