The Beginning of the Long Journey (2)
Rurik's cargo ship sailed down the river and arrived at a village on the shores of Lake Ilmen. Novgorod. The trading hub connecting Rus' and the Vikings. This village was on a whole different scale from the small hamlets around Lake Ladoga. The streets teemed with people, and the cries of merchants hawking their wares never ceased. Foreign traders haggling fiercely. Street stalls piled high with furs. The smoky aroma of grilled meat wafting from somewhere. I stood on the dock, staring blankly at the scene.
A village in the heart of Eastern Europe on this scale. The power of trade is truly something else.
"Hmmm."
Rurik stepped off the ship and stretched grandly. His white breath puffed out and scattered in the cold air.
"We'll rest here for two days," he said, turning to the crew. "The journey ahead is on another level from what we've done so far. Eat your fill and sleep it off. You won't have time to look back with regrets."
Some advice, but pretty ominous.
Bjorn grumbled as he unloaded cargo from the deck. "This is the third time I've heard 'another level.' And every damn time, it really is."
"That's why I'm telling you to rest when you can," Nils replied, leaning against the ship's rail and adjusting his bowstring. His lips curled in a mocking smirk, but his eyes were dead serious.
Different ways, but we were all tense just the same.
Over the next two days, I wandered Novgorod, restocking supplies. I oiled the soles of my boots and stitched up my torn gloves. I even replaced the shoulder straps on my leather armor, which had been fraying since before we left Lake Ladoga. Ivar had said that once you got used to it, armor felt as light as feathers. Feathers might be a stretch, but at least it didn't feel like a boulder anymore. Guess I've grown a bit. Heh heh.
I stocked up as much salted meat and hardtack as I could. Bjorn scored new arrowheads in the meantime, and Nils replaced his broken gear.
"Check this out. They say it's made from yew wood core. Way springier than the one I got at Ladoga." Nils twanged the bowstring with his fingers, grinning in satisfaction. Ragnar's praise for him as an archer blessed by Ullr wasn't empty talk—I'd seen it proven time and again—so of course he'd be picky about his equipment.
Ivar was the only one unusually quiet... He sat at the end of the dock, staring downriver for a long time. Thinking of Borg? Or his mother collapsing from poison? That moment in Oslo's feast hall when Lagertha spat blood and fell. The look in Ivar's eyes when all reason evaporated from them—it still haunted me. I didn't approach him or say anything. Comforting him right now would probably feel like an insult.
...The two days passed uneventfully. The cargo ship set off south again. The river narrowed, and suddenly the current slowed dramatically. The water was getting shallower. I could feel gravel scraping the hull through the soles of my feet.
"Shallow enough to walk at this point."
Rurik at the stern quietly disassembled the rudder and ordered his men to lower the sails. Soon after, he called everyone off the ship.
"What's going on?"
"The river ends here. We have to drag the ship over land."
"Huh?..."
Drag the ship over land? What the hell kind of bullshit is that?
"Chop down trees and lay them on the ground. Logs under the hull will keep it from scraping."
Rurik's explanation boiled down to this: When there's a land stretch between rivers, you haul the boat out, lay logs side by side like a runway, and drag it across. I'd never seen or heard of such a thing, but apparently it was a method used for centuries in Eastern Europe.
...Is it really?
Bjorn dipped his foot in the riverbed and grimaced. "Dragging a ship over a mountain? This heavy-ass cargo hauler?"
"Not impossible. Just..." Rurik trailed off. I didn't need to ask what he meant by "just." No choices here.
We scattered to chop wood. Axes felled trees of the right thickness, branches were trimmed, and we shaped them into cylinders. Laid side by side under the hull, the logs acted like wheels, letting the ship slide. Sounded good in theory.
In practice? Pure hell.
Worse than battles or training. At least on the battlefield, you hack an enemy and it was over. This had no end in sight.
We rose before dawn every morning. Gulped down hardtack soaked in water, then straight to work. Up front, a team pulled ropes to haul the ship.
"Put your back into it!"
"You first!!!"
In back, another team yanked up the exposed logs after the ship passed, ran ahead, and relaid them. Nonstop. Ropes dug into shoulders, skin peeling away in agony.
"This is fucking brutal."
Being a woman, I handled moving logs forward instead of pulling—but it was no picnic. Hauling thigh-thick logs over wet mud. Made me almost miss sickle work in Yetebori's fields. At least then I didn't lug shit this heavy while running.
A short breather at noon, then back at it till evening. This little progress in a day? Turtle speed. Maybe slower.
"We do this every day?" Bjorn gasped, splashing water from a bucket on his face at dusk. "I pray I never hear 'drag the ship over land' again."
On steep slopes, we rigged pulleys with ropes to haul the ship up. Pure death. Fifteen men hanging on, and it inched up fingernail by fingernail. Drop the rope, and the ship slid back, wasting the day's work.
Rurik bellowed, "Hold it! Don't let go!"
We gritted our teeth and clung. Palms shredded without us noticing.
"Nngh...!"
Nils groaned beside me. Nothing like his usual self, dangling there. Ivar, silent as ever. No emotions shown, but his pull was steadier than anyone's. Maybe channeling rage into muscle. Proving with his body that he wouldn't stop until he choked Borg.
The one blessing: no food shortages. Hunting teams—Ivar, Nils, Bjorn—slipped into the woods whenever they could. Rabbits, pheasants, even deer sometimes. Nils shone here. Not a single miss since swapping bows in Novgorod. We butchered throat-shot kills, salted and grilled them.
"Tastes good."
For that moment of hot fat melting on my tongue, the exhaustion faded. Reminded me of Oslo, scarfing pork cracklings at King Erik's feast to stock up on calories. Give me a whole roast pig now, and I'd demolish half alone.
"Urp~ More meat?" Bjorn slurped a bone.
"None left. Ration it."
"Tch... No booze is the real shame."
Nils grumbled curtly. Bjorn set his bone down with longing eyes.
Ivar sharpened his sword every night by the fire. Scritch scritch as the whetstone glided over the blade in firelight. A ritual by now, since Lake Ladoga.
I'd asked him once. "Worth chasing this hard?"
He didn't turn. "Mother fell. I won't stop until I bring her Borg's head."
"..."
The whetstone paused a beat late. Then he glanced up, past the flames. Not at the fire—in his eyes, Mother's bloodied face from Oslo's hall.
No more words needed.
...Days blurred. Time sense faded. Logging, dragging, log-moving. Monotonous grind dulled the mind. Muscles screamed, palms layered calluses over blisters that burst and reformed.
Everyone exhausted, no complaints. Probably no energy left for it.
Only Rurik glanced back occasionally. "Stop, and you won't start again. Keep moving."
..........
One endless day, the forest parted. Dense trees receded, revealing vast flat grasslands. Spring sun poured over the grass, a wide serene river flowing at the edge. Birds wheeled over it.
As if celebrating our ordeal's end.
"Is that... the Dnieper River?"
I dropped my log and ran to the bank. Couldn't stop—kneeled at the water's edge. Reflected back: a wretched mess. Red hair matted like yarn. Face caked in dirt and grease. I lifted my hands. Blisters burst, hard calluses beneath. Thought scything barley in Yetebori was rock bottom.
Bottom under bottom.
"It's over... Gods, finally over!"
Relief burst from deep in my chest. Comrades trickled to the bank. Nils plunged hands in first, splashing his face.
"Pwah! Cold... but refreshing!"
Bjorn sat silently, soaking swollen feet. Ivar sipped river water, staring south.
"Haven't beheaded Borg yet..."
We refitted rudder and sails, shoved the ship into the river together. As it floated, we collapsed aboard. Water rocked it gently. Eyes closed, worldly noise vanished. Grass scent on the breeze. Waves lapping the hull. Days of sleepless logging and pulling felt like a distant nightmare.
Just lie here a bit longer...
"Ahem..."
Rurik's cough shattered the quiet. I opened my eyes. Ex-mercenary Viking at the stern, sheepish.
Bad omen.
"Comrades, uh... truth is..." Hard words coming.
"The Dnieper has seven rapids. Can't sail through—gotta drag over land again."
Seven... SEVEN TIMES?!?!
"...What?!"
"Why land again mid-river?! Just sail to the coast!"
I exploded despite myself. Relief evaporated. Comrades cursed—Ivar too.
"Fucking insane! Seven times?!" Bjorn shot up, yelling.
"Better to ditch the ship and walk!"
Nils hurled his bow.
"Can't walk—gotta carry trade goods."
Rurik raised hands to calm us. "Not doing this on purpose. Seven canyon stretches with insane currents. Launch there, and rocks smash the hull. Everyone who's tried drowned."
"...For real?"
"Won't believe me till you see. But trust me."
Felt it since Lake Ladoga: guy doesn't bullshit. I hauled myself up, wiped forehead with my wrist.
"Seven times... haha... ha..."
My mutter hung in the air. Ivar fingered his scabbard quietly. "Seven or twenty, doesn't matter. If Borg's at the end."
"Twenty's overkill..."
...This guy's relentless.
A beautiful bird soared over the Dnieper. Knowing log-and-rope hell awaited soon, I still gazed at the sky a moment.
Peaceful scene.