After making sure Olaf was truly dead, Vig helped Ragnar to his feet. "No need to thank me. Just consider it repayment for that meat and drink."
Truthfully, Vig himself didn't even know why he had acted. It felt as though some unseen force had driven him—as though saving this man was his fate.
Suppressing his revulsion, he hacked off the chieftain's head and hurled it into the open square outside. He bellowed at the shield-bearers: "Olaf is dead! There's no point in fighting any longer!"
At the news of their lord's death, the remaining twenty shield-men dropped their weapons. Seizing the moment, one of Ragnar's companions suddenly called out:
"Olaf broke sacred tradition and tried to murder his guests. His family is unfit to rule Gothenburg. Ragnar is the rightful successor—he should be our Jarl!"
(Jarl: the Norse title for a lord or chieftain, second only to a king.)
Led by the burly blond warrior, the nine other companions shouted Ragnar's name in unison. The howling wind and flickering fire stretched their shadows long across the square.
Half an hour later, the horn sounded. Seven hundred townsfolk gathered before the longhouse, their faces a mix of awe, fear, doubt, and resentment.
Facing his would-be subjects, Ragnar cleared his throat. "Olaf was greedy to the core. We had no choice but to strike back. As your new lord, I swear to treat the people of Gothenburg fairly. For the next two years, your taxes will be cut in half!"
The words rippled through the crowd, easing the tension. Ragnar smiled faintly, then turned his gaze on the surviving shield-bearers. "If anyone objects, I am willing to duel him under the eyes of the gods. Let the divine will decide."
The square fell into silence. That silence was as good as consent. Ragnar, the legendary raider, had won Gothenburg.
The most dangerous moment had passed. Now Ragnar's eyes shifted to his companions. He spoke first to the blond giant:
"Gunnar, my closest friend—thank you for standing by me these past ten years. Without you, my bones would have rotted long ago in the mud of East Francia."
Then to his eldest son: "Ivar, my firstborn. The enemy calls you 'the Boneless,' and they fear your name. I am proud of it. You are Odin's greatest gift to me."
"Bjorn, my second son. You have just come of age, yet you have already shown the world—and the gods—your courage. No one else is worthy of the name 'Ironside.'"
"Nils, my nephew. Your archery is unmatched, blessed from birth by Ullr. May you never stray from your target."
Finally, his gaze fell on a youth he had only just met. He forced himself to say something kind. "Vig Hakonarson. We have not known each other long, but I already value our friendship."
In truth, Ragnar had only handed the boy that lamb chop out of pity, nothing more. He had never expected any return.
"This one looks fine enough," Ragnar thought. "There's a certain air about him… but no battle experience. No matter. I'll take him in as a shield-bearer. Hopefully he'll learn his craft before winter comes."
After praising his trusted men, Ragnar pointed toward the longhouse. "Go, my brothers. Take whatever you desire!"
With wild shouts, Vig followed them into the chieftain's hall.
The longhouse was a single-story structure of sturdy oak, about forty meters long and twelve wide, its tall roof shaped like an inverted longship.
Inside lay the lord's hall. A stone hearth stretched along the center, with the lord's seat at its far end. Long tables lined either side of the fire for feasting.
Thick furs hung at the back, dividing off the private chambers of the lord and lady. The side rooms served as barracks for the shield-men. The outermost, coldest chamber was a storeroom; beneath it Olaf had dug a vast cellar to house his beloved mead.
In the lord's chamber—
"This sword is mine!" Ivar tore a longsword from the wall, admiring the red garnet set into its hilt.
"This mail shirt isn't bad. A strange cut, but it fits me well enough," said Bjorn, buckling it on.
Gunnar rummaged in a chest until he found a golden-rimmed drinking horn. "Ha! I'd heard Olaf loved to drink from a golden horn. This one's mine!"
Nils claimed a fine bow. The rest snatched up handfuls of silver coins before scattering in search of further loot. Only Vig took nothing, searching tirelessly.
Puzzled, Ivar called over. "Hey, what are you after? Gold? Women? Jewels?"
"Five sheepskin scrolls. They show the layout of Gothenburg's farmland. Every autumn they use them to collect taxes. Damn it—where are they?"
These scrolls were like the fish-scale registers of Ming China. They were the true key to ruling Gothenburg—far more valuable than all the treasure in the house.
Scandinavia's fjord country was rugged and unforgiving. Farms were scattered widely, with few villages. Take Vig's own case: his nearest neighbor, Jorund, lived two hundred meters away. Days might pass without a word between them.
To ensure scattered farmers still paid dues, the first lords of Gothenburg had drawn up those scrolls. If a farmer withheld tax, shield-men would march straight to his door. Revenues rose sharply, and the practice became tradition, passed down until Olaf's day.
"Tax collection is the lifeblood of any ruling clan. If we can't find those scrolls, trouble's coming."
After searching in vain, Vig slumped to the floor. Ivar, realizing the seriousness of it, quickly summoned the others to help search for the missing scrolls.
The hunt lasted into the next morning. At last Ragnar was forced to gather the townsfolk and make a public declaration:
"Each scroll will be rewarded with two pounds of silver. Even information about them will earn you a prize!"
Immediately, a man raised his hand. "Late last night I saw Olaf's wife and their two children slip away. They were carrying a bundle under their arms. Looked to me like what you're after."
A wave of whispers swept the crowd. Ragnar's already-shaky claim to leadership trembled still further.
When the townsfolk dispersed, Ragnar called his inner circle into the hall.
"Gunnar, Nils—you two go and contact our old friends. Tell them Ragnar needs their help."
"Bjorn—go fetch Lagertha and Halfdan. Don't dawdle."
"Ivar—you stay here with the rest. Guard the territory. And while you're at it, start teaching Vig how to fight."