Vikings: Lords of the Ice Sea

Chapter 1 Vikings

A fjord in Northern Europe in the 9th century AD.

While the morning frost still clung to the blades of grass, Vig Hackenson was awakened by the cawing of ravens outside and got out of bed, wrapped in a tattered sheepskin coat.

The moment he pushed open the oak door, a cold, salty sea breeze rushed in. He looked towards the fjord to the west, where the sea was calm and reflected the leaden-gray clouds in the sky. Flocks of ravens circled back and forth, indicating that the biting cold wind was about to move south.

"It's only late August, why is the temperature dropping so quickly?"

Vig is fifteen years old this year. He was raised by his older sister's family since he was a child. Last summer, his sister moved to Britain with her second husband and left her farmhouse and land to her brother.

However, Vig was really unlucky. A sudden storm in early autumn last year destroyed most of his crops, and he was forced to sell his livestock for food. If the harvest is still not good this year, he may not survive the winter.

"I've only been in this world for less than a month, and I'm already facing a survival crisis. Why didn't they let me travel to the Tang Dynasty or the Eastern Roman Empire? Instead, I've been sent to a remote and impoverished place in Northern Europe, where I don't even know which year it is."

The young man complained to the sky for a few minutes, when he suddenly heard a scream from the south. He turned around and saw eight unfamiliar men surrounding his neighbor Yoren's house.

Marauders?
The land in Northern Europe is barren and unsuitable for agriculture, so bandits are everywhere. Some choose to go to sea to plunder or trade, while others are too lazy to go to sea and simply choose a nearby target to rob.

According to customary practice, if a neighbor is attacked, Vig is obligated to help. He returned to the farmhouse and found a round shield, a wooden spear, and finally a one-handed iron axe at his waist.

Once he had gathered all his equipment, he found that the other neighboring households were also gathering at Yolen's house. The adult men were equipped with round shields and one-handed axes, while the women and children carried hunting bows, making a total of eighteen people.

"Shield wall!"

Urged on by a middle-aged man, the twelve men, including Vig, formed a shield wall and slowly advanced toward the raiders, while women and boys were positioned on the flanks, scattering arrows haphazardly with hunting bows.

One hundred meters.

Seventy meters.

Fifty meters.

When they were thirty meters apart, a woman finally hit her target. She excitedly showed it off to her companions, but the next moment she was shot through the neck by an enemy arrow, fell to the ground convulsing, and soon fell silent.

Thump, thump.

Unbeknownst to him, Vig's heart pounded wildly. He suppressed his fear, his eyes fixed on the raider directly opposite him. When the distance closed to fifteen meters, both sides stopped simultaneously, letting out roars in an attempt to intimidate the enemy.

With twice the number of men, Vig's side easily overwhelmed the enemy. The seven surviving raiders exchanged glances, then carried their food sacks and fled. Two died from arrows in their backs, and the remaining five disappeared into the depths of the forest.

Everything returned to calm.

After driving away the looters, the group held a brief funeral and then returned to their homes. Life in Northern Europe was full of hardship and unpredictability, which they had long been accustomed to; some even felt that death was simply a relief.

In September, the north wind grew increasingly fierce, and Vig began to harvest the wheat fields. The blade rustled as it sliced ​​through the ripe barley stalks, and the golden ears of wheat lay prostrate beside his leather boots, like hair that had been combed.

Due to a lack of experience, this year's harvest was very poor, yielding only 400 kilograms of barley according to later standards. Ten kilograms had to be reserved per mu (unit of land area) for seeds, and about 40 kilograms had to be paid as taxes, leaving only 200 kilograms – barely enough to keep oneself from starving, with virtually no chance of survival. "Life as a self-sufficient farmer is truly difficult."

The next morning, he took out the best quality grain, packed it into a sack, and went to Gothenburg, 20 kilometers to the south, to pay his taxes.

Gothenburg had a permanent population of about seven hundred. Its ruler was named Olaf, a large, middle-aged man who loved fine wine. He built a huge brewery for this purpose and ordered the farmers under his rule to pay him fresh grain every year. Those who disobeyed would be stripped of their land.

Crossing a low fence, Vig walked along a dirt road overflowing with sewage towards the market. Brass bells jingled among the merchants' tents, Slavs wrapped in sable furs called out prices for mead, blacksmiths silently hammered red-hot iron ingots, and Sami witches drew patterns on birch bark with reindeer blood. The cacophony of sounds blended together, making Vig, who usually lived a solitary life, feel strangely at home.

Not long after, he arrived at the barn. “Vig Hackenson, from the North, this is my barley for this year.”

An elderly, one-armed man sat in front of the warehouse. He took out a small handful of wheat, placed it in his palm, examined it for a moment, and then poured the entire bag of grain into a wooden basket.

"You have completed this year's tax payment. May Odin bless you with a good harvest next year."

The old man pulled out a specific scroll from the five parchment scrolls and spread it out on the table. This scroll roughly outlined the distribution of farmland in northern Gothenburg. He dipped his index finger in some dark blue dye and lightly touched a certain plot of land. "Next."

After paying his taxes, Vig plans to take odd jobs in Gothenburg over the next few days to earn some extra money for emergencies.

Just then, a group of noisy Vikings approached from the front, each holding a roasted meat in one hand and a wine jug in the other, chanting songs about Odin in unison.

These men had a fierce demeanor and were all equipped with iron armor. Vig didn't want to get into a conflict with them, so he silently moved to the side of the road, but his eyes were drawn to the roasted mutton in their hands.

Over the past year, Vig had lived in poverty. Occasionally, he would be lucky enough to catch one or two cod in his fishing nets set in shallow waters, but the fish was too low in fat to keep him full. Based on his own recollection, a bowl of pork was often equivalent to two bowls of cod.

With a sigh, Vig walked forward with his head down. Suddenly, he felt a heavy pat on the shoulder. He turned around and found that the bearded man in the lead had shoved a huge lamb chop into his hand.

What's going on? Did they mistake you for someone else?
He looked puzzled, but the bearded man in front of him smiled nonchalantly, snatched his companion's wine jug, and handed it to him, saying, "It's mead from Britain, have a taste."

Amidst his companions' complaints, Vig heard a name that was both strange and familiar—Ragnar.

Ragnar Rothbroek, historically known for leading an expedition to conquer Paris and forcing Charles the Bald to pay reparations and sue for peace, is one of the most famous and legendary figures of the Viking Age.

In an instant, countless fragments of memories flooded his mind. Vig stood there, stunned. When he came to his senses, the Vikings who had been singing so joyfully were long gone, and only their songs remained in his ears:

The uncharted lands of the West beckon from the mist.

Great navigators would never fear being buried by the waves.

Victory will be brought by Odin's raven.

The mead from Valhalla will fill our horn cups.

(End of this chapter)