A full year had passed. With the steady influx of Norse settlers, York at last regained something of its old prosperity—yet the revival came steeped in filth. The streets reeked with stench, drains overflowed with sewage, and the air hung heavy with rot. Rurik wrinkled his nose at every step through the marketplace, where refuse moldered in gutters and beggars squatted beside the fishmongers. Civilization, he reflected, often came hand in hand with squalor.
Outside the royal hall he encountered a corpulent young man wrapped in a pale-blue cloak, his right arm proudly entwined with that of a strikingly beautiful woman. Rurik recognized them at once: Prince Erik the Younger and Princess Yf, children of King Erik of Norway himself. Their presence here in Northumbria puzzled him.
"What brings the royal brood so far from home?" he wondered.
The answer soon came. They had journeyed to York to purchase arms and supplies; their father was preparing for a great campaign—a sweeping war meant to crush the last embers of rebellion in Norway and bind the whole land under his crown.
Rurik exchanged polite greetings with them, but before their talk could deepen, Nils came puffing breathlessly up the steps. His hair was disheveled, his face crimson with exertion, and in his hands he bore a necklace of fine gold links. With an awkward flourish he offered it to the princess.
Rurik felt a stab of weary amusement. The spectacle of courtly love—so predictable, so absurd. He made his excuses and withdrew. Behind him, he heard Yf's voice, cold and measured as frost:
"My father is a king, my mother a queen; my brother will one day wear a crown; my aunt Sola is wedded to Ragnar. Each of us was born to royalty. Tell me, Nils, why should I stoop to marry a commoner? You are a good man, and I do not disdain a pleasant companionship—but marriage is a grave and sacred matter."
Her words fell with the quiet finality of judgment. Rurik did not turn. Such was the way of the world—each creature obeying the boundaries of its birth.
Inside the royal hall, the atmosphere thrummed with voices and the clatter of feasting. Ragnar, now thick-bearded and broad with age, presided from his seat on the dais. To Rurik's mild surprise, he glimpsed Bjorn's familiar frame among the gathered nobles. The man was gesturing animatedly, recounting his exploits before the court.
Two years had passed since Bjorn's petition for a title had been rejected by seven lords. He had left the kingdom in fury, taking two longships and swearing not to return until he had earned renown by his own hand. Judging by the radiance in his face now, he had kept that vow with profit.
"Father," Bjorn said, stepping forward with a flourish, "I have sailed the southern seas and returned bearing gifts worthy of a king."
At his whistle, a dark-skinned slave entered, bearing upon his arms a long sword with a crossguard of silver and a pommel glittering with sapphire.
Ragnar rose from the throne and drew the blade. It hissed from its sheath with a sound like tearing silk. He tested its weight with a few swift cuts through the air—light, supple, deadly. The workmanship was unlike anything forged in the North.
Admiration lit his face like a lamp. The jeweled hilt gleamed beneath the torches, and the polished steel caught the flickering gold of the hall. "Kingship," he murmured, entranced. "Yes, that shall be its name—Kingship."
He slid the blade home, savoring its balance, then cast a glance toward the weapon at Bjorn's own side. "And that one, too—another prize of your southern venture?"
Bjorn's lips curled with pride. "Aye, father. I brought back two: one for you, and one for myself." He drew his sword—a single-edged, slightly curved weapon patterned with delicate waves of silver, unmistakably of Arabic make.
"This one," he said softly, "I call Stormtide. Its former owner no longer lives to contest the claim."
When Rurik's turn came, he stepped forward and presented his written record of tribute. Thanks to the spoils of Dufelin, his payments this year amounted to thirty pounds of silver—a considerable sum.
Ragnar perused the list and smiled. "I have heard the tale of your campaign, Rurik. Well done. York and Dufelin both fell before you; no walls seem proof against your arms. Forget 'the God-chosen' or 'Serpent of the North'—I think the Battering Ram suits you better."
Rurik bowed deeply. "Your praise honors me, sire." Then, as custom required, he withdrew to the rear of the hall and stood in silence among the ranks of lesser jarls.
When Ulf's turn arrived, his offering was smaller. He had spent the year hunting sheep thieves through the wilds of Wales—no small task in that tangled country of forests and crags—but the spoils were meager. To make up the deficit, he had raided Cornwall by sea, barely earning enough to meet his obligations.
So it went, one noble after another reporting the year's fortunes. Only Ivar remained absent. It was past noon when a towering Norse warrior entered and knelt before the throne, presenting tribute on Ivar's behalf.
"My lord," the man announced, "Ivar is locked in war with two Irish lords. He could not come himself."
Rurik felt no surprise. Ivar had always been too proud to parley with those he deemed beneath him. Diplomacy, patience, compromise—these were words foreign to his nature. Had he ruled Tynemouth in Rurik's stead, not a single village elder or squire would have survived his wrath.
"A tyrant's hand conquers swiftly but rules ill," Rurik thought. "He may win his battles, but he'll drown in the wars they breed."
The feast began thereafter.
Bjorn, fresh from the southern seas, was the undisputed star of the day. He had returned not only with the two Damascus blades but also with five barrels of cinnamon and pepper—luxuries from the East worth more than a hundred pounds of silver—as well as ivory, gemstones, and twelve Berber captives. The court buzzed with envy.
"I too shall sail to those rich lands!" cried one lord. "There is more gold there than in all of Mercia!"
Bjorn laughed and raised a hand. "Easy, my friends. The journey is long, the seas treacherous. Without the Arabs' navigation craft, you would be lost within a week. I was lucky enough to learn their secrets—indeed, I brought back a treasure from Cathay itself, a marvel that guides a man through the pathless sea."
The nobles pressed him with questions, but he only smiled, enjoying their frustration. For all his boasting, there was a new gleam in his eyes—a man remade by adventure, tested by wind and wave. Two years ago, he had left in anger; now he spoke with the ease of one who had glimpsed the wide world and found himself in it.
"Strange lands," he said dreamily. "Women of every hue beneath the sun, cities older than our gods, storms that strike like Thor's hammer—and after each battle, the joy of plunder."
He lifted his cup toward the rafters. "By Odin above, I thank the Allfather for letting me live such days."
Later, drunk with triumph, he slung an arm around Rurik's shoulders. "Well, 'God-chosen,' you've been quiet all night. What occupies that clever mind of yours?"
Rurik set down his half-gnawed pork shank and spoke low. "That Chinese treasure you mentioned—does it, by any chance, always point south, no matter how it is turned?"
Bjorn stared, astonished. "How could you know that?" His booming voice echoed through the hall. "By the gods, are you truly one of the Aesir's chosen?"
Rurik only smiled faintly and drank from his cup.
The talk drifted to other matters. Bjorn, lowering his tone, leaned close. "There's another tale you may find of interest. Fishermen off Norway's western coast—some say they've been blown far west by storms and lived to tell of it. They speak of a place they call Jotunheim: cold and barren, where the beaches are strewn with the corpses of whales, and mountains belch fire into the sky. Do you think such a place exists?"
Rurik's mind stirred. Cold, desolate, volcanic—yes, that sounded like Iceland. Worthless for most men, perhaps, but not for him. He remembered the Roman formula for concrete—volcanic ash, essential to its strength. As his dominion grew, he would one day need stone walls, stone towers. If Bjorn truly had found the route west, then even that bleak island might hold profit.
He scratched the back of his head, feigning thought. "I may have information you'll find useful. But in exchange, you must tell me your whole story—your voyage in the South, every detail. Spare me the tavern fables."
Bjorn chuckled and sighed. "Ah, Rurik. You drive a hard bargain. Very well. I'll tell it as it happened."
And as the torches guttered and the night deepened, the hall filled once more with the hum of voices and the scent of mead, while Bjorn, son of Ragnar, began the long tale of his wanderings beyond the edge of the known world.