Rurik's Marital Pact
Ivar slung his arm over my shoulder and grinned. "Wanna spar with me next time?"
"Pass. I'll decline."
No matter that I'd cut down ten Pecheneg nomads in the woods, I wasn't stupid enough to think that put me in Ivar's league. If I took him up on a real bout, I'd only regret it after my bones were shattered—and that much was plain as day.
"Enemy raid! Everyone, prepare!"
It wasn't until the skirmish was over that we took stock of our numbers. Twelve survivors in total. One of Rurik's caravan hands had taken a Pecheneg arrow to the chest and died, and two of our own warriors had fallen in the fight. Their comrades crouched by the bodies, faces grim as death.
Nothing came to mind to say, so I just stood there quietly, head bowed.
Ivar placed his sword on the chests of the fallen and closed their eyes. "Empty your horns in Valhalla and wait. We won't be joining you anytime soon..." He murmured softly, then rose and brushed off his knees.
Meanwhile, the Pechenegs who'd charged us had left a mountain of corpses in the forest. The survivors, venting their spite, looted the furs and amber from our hold, torched the cargo ship, and vanished. Thick, black-red smoke billowed up over the treetops.
"...Those fucking bastards!"
Bjorn clenched his fists and bellowed, but there was nothing for it. We stared blankly as the ship burned.
No ship meant no river travel, and with our trade goods stolen, the whole journey might as well have sunk in an instant...
"Cowardly dogs!" Ivar snatched up a rock and hurled it, unleashing his rage. "Let's chase 'em down and steal some horses!"
Rurik shook his head. "No. Fighting Pecheneg cavalry out on the open steppe? No chance of winning."
"....."
The silence stretched on. Rurik plopped down on the dirt and brooded for a long while, fists pressed hard against his thighs, trembling faintly.
Ever since linking up at Ladoga Lake, Rurik had made cool-headed calls every step of the way. But now? His face said he feared the cost of whatever deal lay ahead might exceed what he could bear.
At last, his heavy lips parted. "We'll seek outside help. There's a Rus tribe two days' march southwest. I have ties to their chieftain."
Ivar pressed him. "You sure? You hesitated a hell of a long time, and your tone's still shaky. This 'tie'—reliable?"
Rurik let out a deep, weary sigh. "Two years back, I saved the chieftain's life. He offered his daughter in marriage as thanks. I turned it down."
"Hm... I see."
"Asking for help now? No dodging the marriage talk."
A bitter smile flickered across Rurik's lips and vanished. Marriage, huh. A man like him could've found a fine woman anywhere, but getting strong-armed into this? Probably never saw it coming. Not that we had options right now. Twelve men, no ship, no supplies—outmatched against steppe horsemen.
"Let's go." Rurik moved first.
...Two days of forced march. Short on food, we filled our bellies with roots and berries dug from the forest. The night Nils snared a rabbit, we picked it clean to the bone. Swallowed every scrap and barely slept—only for the pre-dawn chill to gnaw at us like wolves.
Ivar alone sat with one eye cracked open, hand on his sword hilt, as if sleep was optional. What the hell is up with that guy?
We pushed southwest, mile after mile.
"Ngh..." My boots were shredded inside, soles bleeding, but stopping wasn't an option.
By the afternoon of the second day, a village came into view over the hill—ringed by a sturdy log palisade. A big one. Dozens of wooden houses packed inside, smoke curling from chimneys everywhere. Crude watchtowers topped the walls, archer-guards eyeing us.
Rurik stepped forward, arms spread wide to show he was unarmed, and bellowed toward the village. "It's me!!!"
"Rurik! Rurik's here!!!"
The gates flew open, villagers pouring out in a wave. Women rushed first, seizing Rurik's hands in welcome; kids gawked at us Viking warriors with huge, sparkling eyes.
Hero's welcome much?
The chieftain himself came out—a burly middle-aged man with shoulders like an ox and a brown beard sweeping to his chest. He crushed Rurik in a bear hug, pounding his back. Thud thud thud! That wasn't a hug; it was a spine-stress test. Ouch.
Rurik gave as good as he got, thumping the chieftain's back and laughing heartily. "Long time, old friend!"
"Hah! The prodigal returns! Haha!"
Beaming with joy, the chieftain led our whole group to the longhouse in the village center.
I gaped the moment we stepped inside. Fresh-baked wheat loaves piled mountain-high on the long table, slathered generously with honey! Golden nectar dribbling over the golden crusts.
My mouth watered. Honey and white wheat bread—a luxury beyond luxuries for poor northern farmers. And here it was, heaped for all of us, take as much as we wanted.
One bite, and warm, soft bliss enveloped my tongue. Crunch. Crispy crust shattering to reveal moist crumb laced with sweet honey, filling my mouth.
"...Mmm! Ohhh!"
How long had it been since dry bread soaked in water and salted meat? But part of me felt uneasy. I nudged Rurik's ribs with my elbow. "Hey. We're just passing through. This kinda treatment okay?"
Rurik drained his horn in one go. Gulp gulp. "Kah... No worries. East here's fertile soil—wheat thrives, bees too. Nothing like up north. Why else you think so many head here from home every year?"
His words lit a spark. Right—the Rus tribes of eastern Europe had mingled deeply with Vikings for ages. By mid-9th century, they'd form the core of Kievan Rus. And its first ruler? A Viking. Name was... Rurik. Rurik?!
I nearly choked on my bread. My mind spun. Forgetting to chew, I stared holes into the tall redhead beside me.
Deep ties to the Rus... No way. This guy—the historical Rurik? Founder of the Rurik dynasty? Dawn of Russia?!
Sensing my stare, Rurik turned, frowning. "What're you gawking at?"
"Oh, nothing. Nada..."
I looked away, mumbling, but my pounding heart wouldn't settle. Ragnar Lothbrok was legendary enough—now Rurik too? Too many legends around here. Did a nobody like me even belong?
"...So, why the visit?" The chieftain asked Rurik point-blank.
When Rurik explained the ship-burning, the chieftain's reaction—
BAM! His fist slammed the table, sending loaves bouncing off plates.
"Those Pechenegs have been getting bolder for two years straight! Raiding's bad enough—they steal our grain every season too! Been a thorn forever!!"
His voice boomed through the longhouse. Whoa... Eyes bulging, veins popping—terrifying. His men all bowed heads under the fury.
"Huff... huff..."
The chieftain caught his breath, locked eyes with Rurik, and spoke. "I'll send warriors to recover your goods."
Then the condition. "In return, marry my youngest daughter. You know."
Predictable. Rurik's jaw twitched. His gaze dropped to an empty horn, then rose. "...Fine. I accept."
Calm words, heavy weight. Fate's a weird thing. Was this how Rurik put roots down in Rus lands? History unfolding right here?
Chills.
Worried Rurik might back out? That afternoon, the chieftain declared the wedding now.That urgent, huh.
Before the sun passed noon, the village erupted. Women wove garlands of flowers and grain; men built a massive bonfire. Festival fever swept the place.
With a thousand tribesfolk watching, the chieftain slaughtered oxen and sheep himself. His blade slit throats, hot blood soaking the earth; arms wide, he prayed skyward. "Great sun god Dazhbog and thunder god Perun! Bless this union!"
The tribe roared as one. "Woooah!!!"
The rite began. Freshly bathed, Rurik donned tribal garb and stood by the fire. The bride appeared—the chieftain's youngest. Brown hair, big eyes, looked young. Shy excitement on her face; Rurik's blank.
The shaman chanted weird spells; chieftain bound their hands; they drank wine mixed with beast blood.
Political marriage. Like something from a drama—live.
Once done, the real party exploded. Cheers, horns blaring.
Tat tat tat! Thung thung thung! Drums, wooden pipes, bone flutes wove eerie rhythms. Kids spun around the fire; adults, drunk, jostled and danced.
Rurik's mood aside, I wasn't missing this. "Time to indulge."
Honest? My body was wrecked from marches and fights. Needed to refuel for the road ahead.
Two fresh ribs in hand, gnawing away. Crunch crunch. Juicy, fat dripping.
"Fucking delicious~."
Meat symphony in my mouth—eyes closed in bliss. Hadn't eaten like this since King Erik's Oslo feast.
Downed a bowl of fermented sheep's milk brew. My fourth. "Kahaaah~ That's the stuff!"
Bjorn and Nils, true Vikings, devoured mountains of meat and booze—no stopping 'em.
"Another bowl of meat!" Bjorn yelled, mouth full.
"Slow down, you'll choke." Nils said—while licking his third rib clean.
"....."
Ivar sat apart from the blaze, nursing a horn slow.
Feast over, I patted my gut and headed to my quarters. Straw-stuffed pallet awaited. I sank in—bliss.
"Soft bed feels weird."
After ages on decks, hard ground, leaning on branches? Body forgot comfort. Natural.