Forged in Training, Summoned to Oslo
A few days had passed since our return from Oslo. Ivar's combat training was far more grueling than I'd expected.
"Your stance is slipping. If you flare your elbow too wide when raising your shield, your side's wide open."
Ivar's wooden sword sliced through the air, and I barely managed to angle my round shield to block it. Thwack! My forearm throbbed like it was being torn apart.
"Nngh...!"
"Tough it out. In real battle, this is nothing—a love tap."
Thanks to becoming one of Ragnar's shieldbearers, I could eat my fill every day of bread and salted fish. My once scrawny limbs were starting to bulk up with muscle. A woman's body had its limits on raw strength, but my stamina had improved noticeably. At least it was nothing like the back-breaking farm labor that left me whining about my spine snapping.
Sometimes Ragnar would show up at the training ground when he got bored, teaching me a few techniques himself.
"Don't rely too much on your shield. If it blocks your view over the top, you can't see the enemy's moves."
"Hoo...!"
He smacked my shield down with his sword and continued.
"There's a practical way: make the enemy attack first. Right after you block, they lose their balance for a split second. Strike then—counterattack."
"What if they don't attack first?"
"Guys like that will bait you into attacking. Don't bite. Watch their toes instead. Feet don't lie."
Ragnar stepped back, lowering his sword.
"If you're both holding swords, slide your blade tight against theirs, lift and shove sideways, then thrust for the vitals."
He demonstrated, breaking it down slowly—each motion flowing like water. That was the difference experience made.
"Give it a try."
"L-like this?"
My movements were still clumsy, but Ragnar nodded and corrected them personally. Compared to a one-handed axe, a sword was far more versatile. You could mix slashes and thrusts freely. The only downside? Price. One sword cost as much as four oxen. Chain mail was even pricier—a luxury for nobles and veteran warriors only. No way I'd get S-tier gear like that.
Just leather armor stripped from a dead shieldbearer, plus a crude iron helmet. It was heavy, and the weight crushed my shoulders no matter what. Decent protection, but wearing it made every step a chore.
"Fight in this? I can barely move...!"
"Get used to it, and it'll feel like a feather. Run in it, roll in it, sleep in it. Don't take it off even to eat."
Ivar's training philosophy was straightforward: make it second nature. So I really did eat in my armor, slept in my armor. At first, I'd collapse by the hearth bruised and aching, sighing involuntarily. But day by day, the weight melted into my body. Walking without it felt empty now.
I could even hold my own somewhat in wooden sword drills with Ivar.
"Not bad—you're actually hitting back."
Ivar raised an eyebrow. My adaptation was too quick. No idea why. Maybe Svela's body had killer reflexes to begin with, or I'd gained some special power. Either way, as time passed, I could trade blows with elites like Ivar. Sure, I still ended up rolling on the ground every time.
"Good. You've grown for sure. Average foes won't touch you now."
Ivar spotted my opening, hooked his sword behind my knee, and floored me.
"Argh, damn it...!"
I lay there panting, catching my breath, when a sudden commotion erupted from the eastern main road. I turned to see a column of young female warriors armed with round shields and one-handed axes marching in formation. At their center strode a tall woman. Her long, nearly silver-blonde hair whipped in the sea breeze. Striking. Her face was cold and hard-edged, yet carried an innate nobility. Not a single slouch from her shield arm to her straight back.
At the column's rear trailed a boy in white clothes.
"They're here at last!"
Ivar jammed his sword into the dirt like a discard and bounded forward with a grin. Lucky bastard... having family close.
I staggered to my feet, already guessing who she was.
"Lagertha, huh."
I'd heard rumors she commanded a unit of shieldmaidens, but seeing them in person was a first. And that white-clad boy at the end must be her son, Halfdan.
Once Lagertha's group joined, the atmosphere shifted dramatically. Discipline tightened. Her shieldmaidens took rotating guard shifts, stabilizing Yetebori's security—no more sleepless nights. Ivar could finally breathe easy after endless patrols.
"Viking women are definitely something else..."
Not long after, Gunnar arrived too, leading a band of Viking warriors to swear loyalty. Ragnar's forces swelled, though so did the mouths to feed. Watching the granary dwindle daily wasn't pleasant.
Sensing the crisis, Ragnar ordered a full resource audit. Nils and I counted every grain sack, checked salted fish barrels, and logged remaining livestock. The results were grim. Even selling off all of Olgrafsson's gold and jewels for food wouldn't last till autumn.
"Come spring, we raid—or we'll starve before summer's end."
Ragnar declared it from the lord's seat in the feasting hall, voice firm. The hearth fire lit only half his face, his expression deadly serious on the border of shadow and light.
Raid. Survival itself for these people.
On Ragnar's orders, shipwrights began construction. Spare shieldbearers like me were pulled in for grunt work.
Viking ships fell into two types: merchant vessels and warships. Merchants were broad and deep, with fixed cargo holds and decks for maximum haul. Warships prioritized speed and maneuverability, built to pack in fighters sans cargo space.
Over the next month or so, I watched the builders craft them from start to finish.
First, they selected a straight, sturdy oak log for the keel—vital for keeping the hull from splitting in storms. Hull planks used corrosion-resistant oak, overlapped, nailed tight with iron. Gaps packed with heated tar-like pitch and moss.
"This really waterproofs it?"
Sounded dubious, but it was a technique honed over centuries.
..........
Months later, three warships stood complete. With the two we had, that made five—enough for two hundred men.
Destination: Britain. West Francia was richer, but Britain was the pick for simple reasons. Post-Rome, the island fractured into endless chaos. Civilization crumbled; only three powers remained—northern Northumbria, central Mercia, southern Wessex. Everywhere else couldn't fend off even small pirate hits.
"Hm, Essex again. I want as many iron plowshares as possible."
Ragnar traced Britain's east coast on the map, prepping departure. That's when it happened.
Clop clop clop.
A horse galloped in from the southern coastal road. The rider, in a fur cloak, dismounted—a stranger from Oslo.
"King Erik invites Yetebori's jarl."
Ragnar narrowed his eyes.
"Raid planning?"
The envoy nodded.
"Yes. The king awaits your arrival eagerly."
"Fine. We sail tomorrow."
Ragnar's reply was curt. He'd met Erik once; impressions were good. No treachery expected.
"Could it be a trap?"
I asked cautiously from the side—Olgrafsson's betrayal still fresh.
Ragnar chuckled.
"Erik's not like Olgrafsson. Don't worry."
No underling could stop a jarl from going.
..........
Next morning, Ragnar's group boarded one warship and sailed north along the coast. The vessel glided over chill waters.
"No leaks after all..."
"Heave! Heave!"
Oarsmen dipped and rose in rhythm, backs flexing. Fierce sea wind bit, but thick wool cloak over armor and furs kept it bearable.
Five days in, the coastline changed. Scattered farms grew dense, until a vast fjord revealed a city crammed into its depths.
Oslo. Norway's biggest.
"Whoa..."
First time seeing so many ships at once. Morning fog lifted from fjord cliffs, unveiling hundreds packing the harbor. Masts like a forest afloat.
Stepping onto the creaking docks hit us with noise. Yetebori couldn't compare to this bustle. Even barren lands birthed wonders when people gathered.
"Close your mouth. You look like a hick."
Ivar quipped passing by.
"...I am a hick."
Heading to the lord's longhouse, I scanned around. Iron-armored soldiers everywhere—too many for Erik's forces alone. Other nobles invited, then.
"This like... a pirate alliance summit?"
I muttered. Ivar shot back without turning.
"Quick on the uptake."
My guess confirmed soon enough. Before Oslo's lordly longhouse, a wide clearing held nine chairs in a circle—symbolizing equal jarls.
Nine. Assuming two hundred warriors each, that was two thousand men. Enough to crush a small kingdom.
"Insane..."
Heart pounding, I took position quietly behind Ragnar's chair. The jarls' alliance council was about to begin.