The emperor's barely eighteen months old—he can't even talk. What the hell does he want with us?
Vig grumbled inwardly as the crimson-cloaked guards herded them into a carriage. Through the small window he watched the city blur past—and realized with a jolt that the coach was heading west, not toward the seaside palace.
Strange. The palace lies southeast by the shore. Why are we leaving the city?
The carriage rolled on, through bustling districts and beneath the towering walls of Constantinople itself. Beyond them loomed the famed Theodosian Walls: two massive tiers of fortification.
The inner wall rose twelve meters high, built of cut limestone, with a twenty-meter tower every fifty meters. The outer wall was shorter, eight meters, fronted by a moat twenty meters across.
Vig swallowed hard. What a fortress…
Without cannons, no catapult or ballista could breach it. The only hope would be tens of thousands of men storming on foot—or an assault by sea. Yet that too was folly. The Byzantines had their secret weapon: Greek Fire. Even at the height of its power, the Arab fleet had twice surrounded the city, only to be burned and shattered by the terrible substance.
Two hours later the convoy halted. Vig climbed down to see purple tents pitched across the hillside. Below, ranks of imperial guards stood bristling with spears and banners. It was a hunting party—the annual imperial autumn hunt.
"At last, you've arrived."
The steward appeared from nowhere, guiding the Norsemen up the slope as he spoke.
"Earlier this year my lord sought to send envoys to the Rus, hoping to enlist them against the Pechenegs who harass our settlements on the northern Black Sea coast. Those raids threaten our grain imports. But the envoys were slain en route. Given your…prowess, my lord wishes you to escort the next mission home."
Rurik translated. Vig's tense shoulders eased.
So it's just escort duty. You could've said so earlier, spared me the dread.
After being searched, they were led to the hilltop, where they bowed before the infant emperor, resplendent in a purple robe upon his small throne.
To Vig's surprise, the boy wasn't afraid of the hulking northerners. He clapped his pudgy hands and laughed, prompting the courtiers around him to chuckle as well. The tension ebbed.
Keeping his head bowed, Vig stole glances from the corner of his eye.
The woman in purple beside the emperor must be the Empress Theodora. The man to his right, exchanging looks with the steward—that should be Bardas. And the haughty figure further right, flanked by well-dressed nobles, must be Theoktistos.
The empress raised her cup and bade Rurik recount everything. When she heard how Vig had stood alone against the Pechenegs—slaying ten and scattering the rest—she leaned toward Bardas, whispering something.
His smile thinned. "If the empress doubts their tale, let the Northman prove himself in combat. I recently acquired a fine Damascus steel sword. Let the winner claim it."
"So be it," Theodora agreed, scanning the assembly. "Who will stand for us?"
A noblewoman from Patras nominated her household guard. The empress allowed it. Blunted swords were brought forth.
Vig's opponent, Basil, was in his thirties, of middling Greek height—seven or eight centimeters shorter than Vig. His steps and gaze betrayed little. Not a master, surely? Or is he hiding his edge?
"Begin," Theodora said lightly, raising her cup as a eunuch stepped forward to pour.
Vig's eyes narrowed. He lunged a full stride, bringing his blade down in a slashing arc. Basil lifted his weapon to block—only to stagger from the sheer force.
In that instant Vig twisted, sliding his blade against Basil's, then flicked upward. The blunt tip snapped into Basil's wrist. The sword clattered to the ground. The duel was over before the empress's cup had even been filled.
Gasps rippled through the onlookers. Even Vig was stunned. That fast? Am I really that good?
He turned, glimpsing himself in a bronze mirror: taller now than months before, his boyishness gone, his frame that of a full-grown warrior.
"Well, well! I knew northerners weren't liars. Bring the Damascus steel!" Bardas laughed heartily, heedless of Theodora's faint frown. The infant emperor joined in, clapping.
The hunt's business turned to politics. Bardas's proposal to back the Rus won broad support. For him, it was a perfect day: his plan advanced, his rival's pride checked.
Back at the warehouse, Vig examined his prize. The Damascus blade weighed little more than an ordinary sword, its eighty-centimeter length grooved with a blood channel. Swirling patterns danced along its steel, and a garnet gleamed in its pommel.
Rurik whistled. "Fortune smiles on you. Flexible, razor-sharp—these blades are the finest in the world. Have you thought of a name? How about Oathkeeper, Butcher, or Widow's Howl?"
Vig gazed into the rippling steel. To him it seemed a dragon's breath had licked the blade. After a long pause he spoke. "Dragon's Breath."
Rurik snorted. "Odd choice—but it's yours."
With a yawn, he called the men to tally the rest of Bardas's gifts—payment, in truth, for escorting the envoys.
When all was counted, he tilted his head back toward the stars.
"One voyage, profit enough for eight. With this, I could end my trading days early—and chase the dream I've always wanted. Gods, I never thought the day would come so soon."
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