The wars in the North grew fiercer with each passing month. Smoke from a dozen petty kings blackened the sky, and those who survived the flames fled across the sea. By spring, more and more Viking settlers poured into Tynneburg—six hundred in April alone, men and women carrying what little they owned, hoping for steadier soil and gentler weather.
Rurik received them as he always did: dividing the land among them, granting two years free of tax, and insisting they follow the three-field system of crop rotation. It was slow, practical work, but he believed that even raiders could learn to sow.
Not all shared his vision. Some of the newcomers were restless young warriors, brimming with fight and boredom, who chafed at the plow.
"My lord," they said, "we did not cross the sea to herd sheep. Lead us to battle! Let us raid!"
Rurik sighed. "If raiding is what you crave, then I'll send you where it's welcome. Go west to Ireland—to Ivar. He's short of men and will be glad of your blades."
