It took three days for the longship to skirt the northernmost cape of Britain. Turning south-west along the coast, they entered a region where the shoreline twisted and broke into fjords, islands scattered everywhere like stepping stones. The land was much like Norway—save that here the North Atlantic current tempered the air, making the climate mild and damp. No wonder so many Vikings had chosen to settle.
On the fourth day at noon, a Norse-style temple appeared atop a cliff. Rurik ordered the ship to put in. The men donned their armor; five stayed behind to guard the vessel, while the remaining sixteen followed their lord up a weed-choked slope toward the shrine.
They had not gone far before five shepherd boys barred their way, each armed with a sling.
"Stand where you are!"
At once the shield-men closed in around their master. Jorunn raised the banner and stepped forward.
"Peace, lads. We mean no harm. Tell me—where lies the Isle of Skye?"
"State your names!" the eldest demanded, his sling still whirling. Then he pursed his lips and blew a shrill whistle, summoning grown men from nearby pastures.
Jorunn's voice grew stern.
"Mind your manners, boy. Do you know to whom you speak?"
He pointed at the black banner with its golden dragon.
"My lord is Rurik Stone, thane of Tynemouth by the grant of Ragnar himself—God-chosen, Serpent of the North, veteran of Manchen, York, and Dumbarton, bearer of the Dragon-Breath Sword. Now do you understand?"
At that, the boy's bravado faltered. He lowered his sling and muttered, "This is Skye. What business have you here?"
"To seek someone," Rurik replied. He pushed aside his guards and strode forward just as a middle-aged woman came running.
"It has been long, sister. You have aged."
"Rurik?" Brita lifted her face in disbelief. She reached up as though to test the truth with her fingers against his cheek. "I thought this 'God-chosen Rurik' was only a namesake, some other man. But it is you indeed. Come with me."
Beyond the ridge lay a small settlement of fifty homesteads, girdled by a rough palisade of timber. At the gate the villagers had gathered, eager to glimpse the renowned God-chosen. At their head stood a stern man with but one eye. Rurik strode to him and embraced him at once.
"Brother-in-law, it seems you have found the life you sought."
Helgi returned the embrace stiffly. For two years he had heard tales of the God-chosen, yet could never reconcile that name with the taciturn youth he once knew. Astonishment, unease, wonder—all at last condensed into four simple words:
"It has been long, Rurik."
In honor of his guest, Helgi slaughtered cattle and held a feast. Rurik's shield-men presented gifts: a golden necklace, and a suit of chainmail.
"Such treasures!" Helgi exclaimed, slipping into the mail shirt. Though it pressed uncomfortably upon his chest, he was flushed with pride. "By Odin, I never dreamed I would be worthy of such arms."
Delighted, he had his thralls bring out all the ale and mead to welcome the company. Over the cups, Rurik turned the talk toward the Isles Alliance. Half-drunk, Helgi lifted his horn.
"Word flies quickly to you! In mid-May, two settlements raided the Gaels upon the western coast, but met with ruin. Their watch grows keener every season. So now eleven settlements have bound together into alliance, to strike henceforth as one."
Alliance?
Rurik leaned closer to press for who held true power in this league—when a five-year-old boy clambered onto his lap. The child tugged at his arm, begging to play with the Dragon-Breath Sword at his hip.
"You may look, but not touch the edge," Rurik sighed. He drew the blade, flashed it through the air in a flourish, then sheathed it again.
"Uncle, give me a sword too!"
Rurik tousled the boy's hair.
"Of course, Leif. Come visit me in Tynemouth one day. I'll give you a fine iron sword and a little horse to ride—many other marvels as well."
At last the child scampered off. Rurik turned again to probe the alliance's secrets—only to find Helgi sprawled across the board, snoring, a jug of mead spilled at his side like any tavern drunk.
The next morning, Rurik awoke with a pounding head to a clamor outside. Stepping forth, he saw strangers filing into Helgi's longhouse.
"What is this?" he demanded.
Two of his shield-men, posted at the door, answered in unison:
"New arrivals, lord—men from North Uist."
North Uist?
Rurik remembered Helgi's rambling account of the surrounding isles. Their names were many, tangled, and easily confused. One stuck in his mind—the far western isle of St. Kilda, where no tree grew, but seabirds swarmed by the thousands: gannets, puffins, and wild-horned sheep. To Rurik's mind, such an island must yield guano, that precious fertilizer, and he marked it with special interest.
He washed in a basin of well-water, tied back his long hair, dressed neatly, and made for the hall. His guards, long accustomed to their lord's fastidiousness, trailed in silence.
Inside, Helgi introduced him to the visitors: Stein of North Uist, the most powerful chieftain in the Isles Alliance.
Rurik felt the man's hostility before a word was spoken. The bald giant's eyes glinted with challenge beneath his tangled beard. Rurik narrowed his own.
"I am Rurik Stone, thane of Tynemouth, Northumbria."
Both were called lords, yet in truth the Isles Alliance ruled barren rocks, thinly peopled. Even combined, their folk numbered scarcely a third of Tynemouth's. And as for the rabble at Stein's back—Rurik reckoned he could cut down half of them alone if need arose.
Brita brought a steaming bowl of mutton broth, and Rurik sipped it idly while listening to Stein and Helgi's talk. The alliance, it seemed, planned a raid upon Glasgow, the Gaels' chief city.
"I agree!" Helgi cried. His new chainmail weighed upon his shoulders, and he longed to put it to the test. "And with Rurik here—aye, he stormed York, and Dumbarton too—who better than this famed God-chosen to lead us? Victory is certain!"
But Stein tugged at his wild beard and scowled.
"Not fitting. This strike is for vengeance, to wipe away our past defeat. It is an affair of the Isles alone. We cannot trouble an honored guest to fight our battles."
"An internal matter?"
Rurik smiled inwardly. He saw through the ruse at once: Stein feared his presence would eclipse him, stealing command from his grasp.
A small temple, and already crowded with demons; a shallow pond, and too many frogs. Such pettiness among so few men—yet the bald giant thought himself cunning.
How amusing.