The Beginning of a Long Journey (1)
Borg's cowardly escape spread like wildfire. Ragnar's face was grim as death—understandable, since the bastard who'd tried to poison Lagertha had slipped right through his fingers.
Ivar and Bjorn were ready to muster a pursuit party on the spot. Ivar's hands were rough as he saddled his horse, bloodstains still fresh on his armor. "We're going after him now. The thrall said he bolted for the woods—there'll be tracks."
Right then, King Erik stepped in front of Ragnar. "Ragnar, hold."
His voice was low, but it carried weight. "We're on the brink of the greatest expedition in history. You know better than anyone that the fleet won't move without your command."
Erik leaned in a fraction. "How about this? I'll put a massive bounty on Borg's head with the six lords here. No matter where he hides in the Nordics, bounty hunters will sniff him out."
It sounded like a discussion on the surface, but with the six lords standing silently behind him like a wall, it felt more like an ultimatum. Seven powerhouses boxing Ragnar in.
Ragnar's eyes twitched faintly. He couldn't turn on Erik right before the expedition. The bounty was Erik's way of showing commitment to nailing Borg. But letting the man who'd targeted Lagertha walk? Unthinkable.
Silence stretched. Ivar, calmer now, spoke first. "Father, go with King Erik to Britain."
"Hmph..."
"Bjorn and I will take men and hunt him down. Even if he hides in Jotunheim, we'll drag back his head."
Ragnar stared into his son's eyes for a long moment. In the firelight, Ivar's gaze held no flicker of doubt. "...Fine. Go."
With that curt approval, Ivar spun on his heel and bellowed at the Tusby soldiers still lingering. "We're hunting that treacherous dog Borg! Any man who'll join me, step forward!"
The moment was so sudden, no one budged at first. Eyes still haunted by the battle darted around, gauging each other. Heading into another grueling chase right after a fight? Hesitation made sense.
Then something weird happened. My mouth moved before my brain caught up.
"I'll go too."
...What the hell? Am I nuts? What did I just say?
Everyone else was clamming up, and I volunteer first? Suddenly, all eyes locked on me.
A redheaded woman with zero presence steps up, and the other warriors start getting swept up in the momentum...
"Tch, can't let a woman beat me to it."
"Me too."
"Guess I have no choice. Make room."
One by one, they stepped forward until we had about ten in the pursuit party. Me included.
Ivar glanced my way, arching a brow. Hard to tell if it was approval or bafflement—subtle as ever.
...Honestly, I don't even know why I volunteered. Loyalty to Ivar? Nah.
If there was a calculation, it was this: Joining the Britain raid means diving into massive battles. Hundreds, maybe thousands tangled in chaos. I nearly died against two grunts at Tusby—how the hell would I survive something worse?
A manhunt? Better odds for survival. Sure, the target's Borg, but regrets won't change shit now. Word's out—no taking it back.
"Alright, move out!"
The ready pursuit party left Tusby immediately.
"It's getting warm...?"
The wind was turning milder. Spring on the way, maybe.
Borg had fled east. Ivar had scrounged four horses from the village. Not enough for all, so he, Bjorn, Nils, and one other rode ahead as the vanguard. The rest of us six—including me—followed on foot.
We'd follow their trail markers at crossroads, linking up and splitting as needed. Along the way, we grabbed locals, asking if they'd seen anyone suspicious.
"Haven't seen a man like that."
Farmers shook their heads every time we described Borg's looks. Strikeout after strikeout!
The mountain paths leveled into coastal roads, pine forests carrying the salty tang of sea air. We grilled everyone we met. Most didn't give a damn about strangers, but scraps of info trickled in now and then.
"Saw a big guy ditch his armor a while back. Took a ship east."
"Yeah, with five or six others."
We pieced the fragments together, adjusted course, and kept running. Endless questioning and marching. Up at dawn on horseback, camp at dusk.
Finally, at the trade outpost called Stockholm, we hit paydirt. A drunken boatman in the harbor tavern took two silver coins and spilled.
"That guy's headed east. Heard he boarded a merchant ship for Rus' lands."
Rus. The vast eastern plains. A smile crept across Ivar's lips.
"Ha! Hiding in foreign lands? Sly prey."
"Means he's desperate," Bjorn added, arms crossed.
Ivar nodded slowly, scanning the group. "Sell the horses. We need a ship."
We sold the horses in Stockholm and chartered a small cargo vessel. It cut east across the sea, entering the Neva River estuary.
The water was murky gray, mirroring the overcast sky, ice-cold. Rowing upstream felt like it would rip our shoulders apart, but who were we to complain? I signed up for this.
Up the Neva, a village appeared on Ladoga Lake's shore. Wooden fences twice man-height ringed it, half-buried log huts clustered inside. Thatch roofs dusted with lingering snow, muddy paths crisscrossed by sleigh ruts and hoofprints.
Barren frontier, just like our Yetebori back home.
We disembarked, and Ivar took Nils and two others to find the headman. I stuck with Bjorn, scouting the village.
"These folks ain't much different from us," Bjorn muttered, eyeing a semi-subterranean hut's low roof.
"How do they survive on land that only grows oats and barley?"
Bjorn snorted a puff of white breath. "Trade, they say. Buy furs and amber, sell south to the big cities."
He'd asked an old man tanning hides by the road.
"Big cities south? Like where?"
"Constantinople."
Constantinople. The Byzantine capital. Hearing a name from history books on a stranger's lips felt surreal.
After circling the village, a bad premonition crept in. What if Borg didn't stop here—what if he followed the trade route south? Chartering a ship to Constantinople wasn't out of the question.
God, I hoped it was just paranoia.
That evening, the pursuit party gathered in the empty lot before the headman's longhouse. Ivar's face was darker than midday.
Sunset bled red behind him as he spoke in a hard voice. "Comrades, pool all your silver."
Damn. Gut feeling was right.
"Borg didn't stop here. He went south. Might have to chase him to Constantinople."
Faces hardened around us. We had no grasp of the distance yet, but one look at the warriors told me it wouldn't be a stroll.
Bjorn uncrossed his arms with a heavy sigh. "Of all places, Constantinople."
"His choice," Ivar replied coldly. "The road's long. Wandering blind, we could starve or get lost."
As he finished, Nils stepped forward. "Heard there's a merchant who plies the trade routes regularly. Ex-Viking named Rurik—knows the way to Constantinople."
Ivar's eyes flashed. "Bring him."
..........
Next morning, Nils fetched Rurik straightaway. A Viking-turned-merchant who'd roamed eastern trade routes for years. First impression: intense.
Tall as a tree, rippling muscles, shaggy light-red hair tumbling wild. More warrior than trader—you'd buy it.
Vikings gonna Viking.
"You lot headed to Constantinople?" Rurik eyed us one by one.
"Hmm... a Viking shieldmaiden, eh?"
His gaze lingered on me. Surprised by a woman in the mix, probably. But I'd built immunity to awkward stares—no flinch.
A quick exchange followed between Ivar and Rurik. His speech was gruff but clear: Eastern steppes nothing like the North Sea coasts. Clashes with natives. River rapids and dry seasons. Nomad raiders.
"Hope you don't brush off my warnings."
Ivar nodded. "Good. You lead en route. Once we hit Constantinople, we part ways. We won't cramp your style if you don't cramp our hunt."
Rurik leaned back, satisfied. "Deal."
Before departure, he stocked up on fox furs and amber chunks—Constantinople trade goods, no doubt. His crew joined, making fifteen total. All sturdy men. As the only woman, I was outmatched in bulk, but I'd survived Ivar's training. I could keep up rowing.
Seven oarsmen per side, Rurik at the helm aft.
"Weigh anchor! It's a long voyage ahead."