The feast blazed long into the night, yet Rurik sat quietly at the far end of the long table, his cup untouched, his eyes studying the play of light and shadow across men's faces. He had come to know Ragnar well these past months. The jarl was no idle hedonist, no mere seeker of comfort, but a man whose genial smile and hearty laughter veiled an abyssal ambition—dark, fathomless, and endless as the northern sea.
The hall swam with warmth and noise. Candles guttered in their sconces, casting pools of yellow light across smoke-stained rafters. Musicians in green robes plucked harp strings and blew upon reed pipes, their melody weaving through the din of feasting men. Their song told of Beowulf's triumph over Grendel, and of the feast King Hrothgar held in the monster's aftermath:
Golden torcs bestowed upon each warrior and lord—
Gifts to bind their loyalty, treasures to immortalize their glory.
Such is the honor of battle's champions, remembered by sons yet unborn.
The words were meant as flattery, a reminder that feasting and fame were the reward of warriors. Yet to Rurik they carried another resonance: the fleeting nature of glory, the way men squandered their strength in revels while ambition smoldered unspoken.
Cups clashed, wine sloshed, laughter rose and fell. At length, when the hour grew late, men toppled one by one onto benches, or slid beneath tables in drunken stupor. Only then did Rurik see Ragnar lift his head and cast him a glance—a subtle tilt of the eye, almost lost in the shadows.
So. There is another game at play.
Rising, Rurik followed him from the hall. He half-expected to find armed men lurking in the darkness, but the camp lay strangely still, fires burned low, and only the distant snore of sleeping warriors disturbed the night. Ragnar strode without hesitation toward a narrow, dimly lit tent.
"What are you searching for?" Ragnar asked at last, half-amused, half-suspicious.
"Nothing," Rurik replied lightly. "Too much wine, my head swims." He knew Ragnar would not stain his honor by slaughtering a guest within the feast's shadow. That old law of hospitality bound even the most ruthless Norseman.
Inside the cramped tent a circle of conspirators soon gathered. Ivar came first, his eyes glittering with a reckless fire; then Bjorn, Gunnar, and others of Ragnar's blood and sworn bond. These were men of action, not of patience.
The reckoning was plain: where once they had commanded a host of five thousand, now scarcely twenty-six hundred remained beneath their banners. More than half were already preparing to sail home with Erik, sated with plunder and fearful of Northumbria's gathering might. Those who lingered spoke not of conquest but of easier prey: East Anglia, Kent, or any weaker shore.
Ivar spat his contempt. "All the fault of Erik—that timid worm! After all our toil building engines of war, when the hour of storming drew nigh, he prattled of wives and concubines, of the soft life in Norway. He thinks only of his belly and his bed."
The young man's words drew murmurs of assent. Yet beneath the anger lay despair: momentum was gone, the great host was unraveling.
It was Rurik who spoke next, his tone deceptively casual. "Since the battle of Mancunium, Ælla's royal guard lies broken. The men he summons now are but peasants, ill-trained and ill-armed. Yet while Erik dreams of retreat, Northumbria gathers breath. Unless his retreat is cut off, he will never fight. He will always choose flight."
Ivar's head jerked up, his eyes suddenly alight. "Aye. You speak truth. Then let us cut away all retreat! We hold many captives—let them slip free, whisper to them where our ships and treasure lie. Ælla will hear of it, and he will not suffer such wealth to pass unchallenged. He must strike us here."
A murmur of unease rippled through the circle. To invite the enemy upon their fleet was to wager everything on one desperate throw of the dice. Ragnar paced the narrow space, his heavy tread thudding upon the earthen floor. In the flicker of candlelight his face shifted—now fierce, now hesitant, caught between boldness and dread.
Seeing his lord's hesitation, Rurik pressed harder. His voice cut through the silence.
"Why does Erik defy you, Ragnar? Because he fears your renown. He dreams of a crown in Norway, of ruling all the fjords beneath his hand. And should that day come, will you bend the knee? Or will you strike him down? Do not mistake it—this is more than a quarrel over plunder. It is the shape of kingdoms. If we conquer Northumbria now, if you take the crown, then whether you march south or return north, all will follow. This is the moment. Miss it, and the tide will never rise again."
The tent fell still. Ragnar's eyes met his, and for an instant Rurik felt the weight of that ambition—the hunger of a man who had clawed his way from farmer's soil to the edge of kingship. Rurik himself cared little for endless raids; age and weariness would one day blunt his sword arm. What he desired was land, the permanence of walls and fields. York, wealthy York, could be the shield against the southern realms. From there he might carve some quiet corner in the north, a place to rule and build.
"King of Northumbria," Ragnar murmured, tasting the words like mead on his tongue. The fire lit one half of his face, the other shrouded in shadow, as though even the gods could not yet read his destiny.
At last he groaned, long and low. "The risk is too great. If Ælla burns our ships, if he seizes the hoard, we are trapped like beasts in a pit."
Rurik's patience snapped. Always the retreat, always the way back! How can a man seize a kingdom if his mind is chained to flight? Who has ever won a crown without daring all?
Others took up the cry. Bjorn's voice rang first: "Father, you began as a mountain farmer, nothing more. Did you not gamble your life upon the sea? Will you now falter at the brink?"
Gunnar added, "The seer's words are clear—you are fated to wear a crown. To deny it is to deny the gods themselves."
Pressed on all sides, Ragnar at last bowed to their urging. His broad shoulders sagged, then stiffened again as resolve returned. He would hazard the greatest gamble of his life.
When all was agreed, the circle broke. Rurik and Nils left together, wine-jugs in hand, weaving drunkenly toward the pens where captives languished. They spoke loudly, feigning inebriation.
"Ahh, we've struck it rich this time," Nils slurred. "Once the treasure is home, we need never raid this perfumed isle again."
Rurik played along, his voice carrying. "I never was good at numbers. Tell me—just how much did we seize?"
"Silver, three thousand pounds," Nils recited, "and gold, a hundred and more. Iron, wool, grain piled like mountains. Too much for one voyage."
Rurik's gaze flicked to the captives. A few eyes widened—they understood the tongue. He dropped his final lure: "Where did we hide the ships again? My memory fails me."
"At the Humber's mouth," Nils replied obligingly. "North bank, near a ruined monastery, beside the old mill." He repeated the landmarks twice, as though to hammer them into the ears of their unwilling audience.
As they staggered away, Nils let a key slip from his belt, clattering against the packed earth. Neither man stooped to retrieve it.
That night, with the guards conveniently absent at Ivar's drinking, the captives found the lock yielded to their hand. Beyond the palisade a dog-hole gaped, large enough for a man to crawl through. Under the cloak of darkness, thirty prisoners vanished into the fields.
At dawn the loss was discovered. Ragnar thundered with rage, lashing the negligent sentries with twenty strokes each. Yet he ordered no pursuit. Instead, he called for another feast, summoning Erik and the other nobles once more to wine and revelry—as though nothing had changed, as though destiny itself had not shifted in the night.
The dice had been cast. The path back was gone.