He gnawed the last of the lamb chop clean and started thinking where he would sleep that night. Nearby a household was re-roofing their house and hired him for odd jobs; the pay was a small sack of salt plus two days' board and lodging.
After supper he sat by the hearth helping to saw and plane boards. The householder's family was still busy: the husband was sharpening an iron axe, the wife and daughter sat by the fire churning butter. A thin skin had formed on the surface of the goat's milk in a clay pot; the woman skimmed it off with a long-handled wooden spoon, then stirred the milk back and forth with a stick.
As time passed, the chieftain's longhouse down the way grew louder—as if a feast were underway. Vig tilted his head to listen and heard Olaf bellowing songs in praise of Ragnar's raids in Britain, calling him a legendary hero.
But the laughter had, at some point, been shrinking, and had finally turned to argument.
"You're only a lucky mercenary. You borrow my ship, take my people out raiding, and have the nerve to bargain with me? Twenty percent of the haul is already charity—what else do you want?"
Ragnar's reply came, edged with barely restrained rage: "We agreed on a 70/30 split before the spring voyage—why renege now?"
The quarrel went on for minutes. Curiosity finally got the better of Vig; he pressed his eye to a crack in the door and peered out. He saw a ring of men with shields and axes—around forty of them—six wearing iron mail.
A trap? Judging by the looks, the chieftain probably didn't plan to pay even that twenty percent.
Not long after, Vig watched Ragnar stride out of the longhouse with fifteen companions, each carrying a small pouch of belongings. Their faces were hard with anger as they cursed and vanished around the corner.
"Is that it?"
He could hardly believe it. The husband shook his head and idly filled in some details about Ragnar:
Ragnar was thirty-six, born a commoner, with three sons. Year after year he'd taken mercenary work for various lords—setting out in spring to raid, returning in autumn to split the spoils—so his fame had grown; the whole of the north knew his name.
Yet he remained a low-born man. Facing a local boss like Olaf, he could only take the humiliation in silence.
"I see," Vig murmured, stroking his chin. Ragnar's crew were more like an outsourced labor force—renowned, yes, but essentially contractors who had to play by the patron's rules.
"So even this legendary fellow has a hard time," he thought.
No sooner had the words left his mind than a piercing scream rang out. Shouts and the clash of weapons followed. The husband hurriedly ordered his wife and daughter into the cellar and took up a shield and axe to stand guard.
Vig slipped his iron axe free of his belt and watched the scene through the crack.
After a brief scramble, Olaf strode out of his longhouse carrying a two-handed iron axe. He wore chain mail beneath a heavy black wool cloak and a plain Germanic helmet.
"Assemble—form the shield wall!"
At his cry, roughly forty men locked shields and advanced. To bolster morale they struck the backs of their axes rhythmically against their shields as they walked—a slow, pounding, oppressive beat.
Ahead of that shield wall, Ragnar and his men returned, making for the fight. Moonlight painted Ragnar's face iron-gray; his eyes were sharp as an eagle's. "Why ambush my archers?" he demanded.
"For Odin's will—he would have you serve in Valhalla," Olaf blurted out, a thin, unconvincing excuse, and ordered the shield wall to press forward.
At that point the mercenaries abandoned any hope of compromise. They fell into a wedge formation with Ragnar at the tip to pierce the line.
"Inn—Odin!"
Sixteen mercenaries roared in unison and charged the force twice their size. Like axes cleaving through timber, they smashed into the shield wall and tore it asunder.
The enemy ranks collapsed. Ragnar had no time to slaughter every man in his path—he drove straight for Olaf and met four guards on the way.
He cleaved the first man's shoulder with his sword; the crack of bone was sickening. The man shrieked and crumpled, motionless.
A second swung an axe. Ragnar ducked, slashed back, and cut the man's femoral artery; blood sprayed across his face—warm and metallic.
The third hesitated, holding his round shield before him. Ragnar kicked him flat and pivoted toward the fourth. That one tried to block with his shield, but Ragnar's strength split the shield in two and severed the man's left arm.
In an instant four guards lay dead. Ragnar stood panting, his iron sword still dripping. The only sounds were the cold wind and the metallic tang of blood on the air.
Under those piercing eyes Olaf felt a chill all the way up from his toes. "Whoever kills Ragnar, I'll reward them thirty pounds of silver!"
Gold loosens tongues and steels courage. The surviving guards, bolstered by the promise of riches, redoubled their efforts. Dozens of townsfolk even poured from nearby houses, eager for a share.
The battle swung against Ragnar. After felling several more men he resumed the pursuit of the fleeing Olaf; the two figures streaked into the dark together.
"What nimble footwork," Vig breathed, swallowing hard. Ragnar's fighting was brutal and efficient—a mixture of ursine strength and foxlike craftiness.
"A big unit nearly two meters tall who can dodge blows like a dancer—stillness one moment, lightning the next. Is this the finest fighting force of the Viking Age?"
His heart racing, Vig watched the sudden brawl and then felt parched. He turned and rummaged in the house for a drink.
Glug, glug.
Just as he set the cup down, a thunderous crash came from behind. Two figures burst through the door and tumbled into the room grappling—Ragnar and Olaf.
Exhausted by combat, Ragnar found himself locked in a struggle with Olaf. They clutched each other's throats and neither could gain the upper hand.
"Quick—two lowly farmers! Kill this mercenary for me and you'll be richly rewarded!"
Olaf was forced to focus on subduing Ragnar. Using his weight advantage, he pinned the spent mercenary to the floor, groped for a jeweled dagger at his belt and prepared to stab.
"Cursed mercenary—may Ymir devour your soul," he spat.
At that moment Vig acted on pure instinct. He grabbed a burning stick from the hearth and hurled it at Olaf's face. The blow struck true—then Vig swung his short axe and severed the man's wrist, tore off his helmet, and drove the axe deep into his skull.