Word of the profit split spread through Gothenburg like wildfire. Everyone knew Ivar's band had returned with riches beyond measure. Envy simmered, and soon calls rose for a spring raid on Britain.
Ragnar himself promised to speak with King Erik and muster a far greater host.
When the crowd dispersed, Ragnar drew Vig aside. "By my reckoning, your share is worth one hundred and sixty head of cattle. That is a fortune. How will you spend it?"
"I'd buy a suit of mail from you," Vig answered at once. His battle with the Pechenegs had seared the lesson deep: without iron rings between him and death, he would never have survived against ten horsemen.
Ragnar chuckled. "Last year, when we plundered Lundenwic, I took three hauberks. One I'll give you, in honor of Borg's death at your hands."
So generous?
He followed Ragnar to his chamber, where the lord presented him with a heavy coat of mail. Vig slipped it over his tunic, and a strange comfort settled into his chest.
It weighed perhaps twenty-four pounds, every ring no wider than a fingernail, each linked to four neighbors in a tight, glimmering mesh. It could turn aside sword-strokes and arrows alike, though a spear's thrust or hammer's blow might still wound the wearer.
"My thanks, lord. I ask nothing more."
Yet even as he bowed, Vig's mind strayed to future centuries, recalling how crusader knights had dominated the battlefield. Now he saw why—mail was the secret steel skin of Europe's greatest warriors.
The gift claimed, Ragnar pressed him further. "What counsel do you give for the next raid?"
"The more men, the better," Vig said without hesitation. "If we can gather three thousand, we should strike not at petty kings but at the great realms—Northumbria, Mercia, Wessex. The plunder will dwarf all else."
"Wise words," Ragnar agreed. "The small kingdoms yield us little now. The time has come for another great raid."
Five days later, Ragnar summoned his shieldmen and dispatched them to summon lords from across the north. Vig's task was to ride to Örebro in the northeast.
He had learned the basics of riding during his winter among the Rus, but little more. True cavalry arts—couched lance, mounted archery—were out of reach, for Norse horses were small and frail. Vikings fought on foot, and of Ragnar's men only Gunnar had true skill in the saddle, with no chance to use it.
The journey was brutal. Frost clung to Vig's lashes, his horse's breath steaming in the frigid wind. By the sixth day the beast flagged, yet at last he sighted the smoke of hearths rising on the horizon. He parted from Nils, who rode southeast toward Norrköping with his own message.
"Fare well, brother."
"And you."
By dusk Vig reached Örebro's hall. He pushed the doors wide, and a wave of heat and meat-scent struck him. Long tables ran the length of the room, crowded with carousers.
"I am shieldman to Ragnar Lothbrok," Vig announced. "I come to invite Lord Lennart to Gothenburg, to feast and to plan a raid on Britain come spring."
At once two-thirds of those present cheered their assent. But others turned wary eyes toward their lord.
"Ragnar bids me raid?" Lennart repeated, motioning Vig to sit. His face was troubled. "Alas, last month my neighbors stole game from my hunters. I must gather men to strike them down. If I bleed too many warriors, I cannot raid for years."
The theft was of a single reindeer. Vig could scarcely believe such pettiness. "My lord, Ragnar calls for the greatest raid yet. Wealth and renown beyond imagining await. Why waste your strength on trifles?"
"I dare not refuse the gods," Lennart said solemnly. "Three days past, I cast lots to Odin. A lightning bolt split the sky. That is his command—I must attack Konserl."
Even as he spoke, thunder rumbled outside. Lennart's eyes lit with conviction. "Behold! Odin himself urges me on."
That night Vig lay awake in the guest chamber, mind racing. If Lennart took thunder for a divine omen… perhaps science could turn god's voice to his own ends.
The next day he scoured the settlement for supplies. With silk thread, rags, and wooden spars he built a crude kite. From a clay jar and metal foil he fashioned a Leyden jar—an eighteenth-century trick pulled eight centuries early, a vessel to capture lightning.
By noon the clouds had thickened, heavy with storm. Vig fixed the kite's line to a stake and loosed it skyward.
"What madness is this?" Lennart demanded. Lightning forked across the sky, and he flinched back beneath the eaves, terror plain on his face.
Minutes passed. Then Vig pressed the jar's iron rod to a scrap of metal tied on the string. A sharp crackle leapt between them—a thin blue arc of caged lightning. The onlookers gasped as one.
He touched the rod with his finger, felt the tingle, and laughed aloud. "The thunder of heaven rests in my hand! Who dares to taste it?"
Men shrank away as if from plague. At last one bold youth stepped forward and cried in delight, "I have touched the lightning!" Others followed, nervously, one after another.
When Lennart at last reached out, the charge was nearly spent, and only a faint sting met his hand. But the look he gave Vig afterward was heavy with awe—and fear.
"You are chosen of Odin," he whispered. "A warrior marked by the All-Father himself."
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