Being called a God-Chosen by the locals did not trouble Vig. After all, he had inexplicably crossed into this world—"chosen by the gods" was as good an explanation as any.
Once Lennart had witnessed the "God-Chosen's" power, he agreed to join Ragnar's expedition—on one condition. His neighbor Ulf must also take part. "I don't trust him," Lennart admitted. "If I sail off alone to raid, he'll seize the chance to strike my lands."
So Vig was forced to ride on to Konserl to persuade Ulf.
Compared to Lennart's hall, Konserl was a miserable place. The entire settlement held barely sixty households. The people stooped with hunger, their faces sallow, little better than beggars in a slum.
"No wonder they steal other men's game," Vig muttered.
He tied his horse and pushed open the lord's door. The hall was dim. A tall, gaunt man in a ragged fur cloak dozed by the fire. Vig shook him awake.
"I am shieldman to Ragnar Lothbrok. I come to invite Lord Ulf to Gothenburg. Where is he?"
The man rubbed his eyes and yawned. "I am Ulf. I thank Ragnar for the honor, but I cannot leave. Lennart prepares to attack me—over a single reindeer! The man is no true Viking."
From his grumbling Vig pieced together a different story: Ulf's men had wounded the beast, which fled into Lennart's woods, sparking the quarrel. Two sides, two truths. Vig had no interest in judging either. "I spoke with Lennart," he said coolly. "He has agreed to let the matter rest and join the raid—if you come as well."
"You persuaded that miser?"
Ulf's voice leapt in surprise. He ordered mead for his guest. "How did you manage it?"
"I built a kite," Vig said simply, "and drew lightning from the sky into a clay jar."
That was enough. With his lands safe, Ulf agreed to the venture. Without plunder soon, he could hardly afford wages for his eight shieldmen.
Two days later, Lennart and Ulf stood together in an open field, sacrificing to the gods and swearing not to fight one another for three years.
Back in Gothenburg, Vig reported the mission's success. Ragnar repeated the title "God-Chosen" with growing amusement. "So, you have a talent for more than the sword. Well done. With Lennart and Ulf, twelve lords now swear to raid with us."
With noble hosts behind him, Ragnar reckoned at least three thousand warriors would rally. He, however, must provide ships and supplies—a staggering expense.
Seeing his lord troubled, Vig declared he would invest all his silver in the expedition. His reasons were simple:
First, the wealth was unsafe left in Gothenburg, where thieves lurked.
Second, by funding the fleet, he could secure both voice and renown in the coming raid.
"Truly?" Ragnar was moved. He rose, poured Vig a horn of mead himself. "Your generosity will be repaid. When we divide the spoils, your share shall match your stake. If Odin favors us, your twenty pounds of silver will more than double."
By March of 843, spring thaw had come. From across the north, Vikings streamed into Gothenburg. A hundred longships crowded the western shore. More than three thousand strangers filled the once-quiet village, and brawls broke out daily.
"Stop, or I'll put you down myself!"
So Vig growled as he floored two drunken fighters, tossing them into a pigpen. He had barely caught his breath when a woman's scream split the air.
"When will we sail? Life here is unbearable!"
Björn soon strode up with two men in tow. "We're waiting on King Erik," he explained with a shrug. "The pompous goat always comes last. Likely he hasn't even left home yet."
As the days dragged, Gothenburg's order unraveled. Ragnar's wife Sola lost several strings of beads. Ivar's silk vanished. Even Björn's treasured maps were stolen. All searches proved fruitless.
Vig exhaled in relief. It had been wise to sink his wealth into the raid. At night he slept with his mail beneath his head and the Dragon's Breath sword clutched in his arms, dreading the theft of his finest gear.
By mid-March King Erik arrived with twenty longships. With Ragnar's band and their allies, thirteen lords stood united, commanding over thirty-five hundred warriors—one quarter of them shieldmaidens.
Only three hundred wore iron armor. The rest bore nothing more than a round shield and an axe.
On the eve of departure, Ragnar summoned shamans from Uppsala to sacrifice to the gods. Vig, unnerved by the blood-soaked rite, slipped away to a quiet corner, staring at the leaden sea.
(Uppsala, near modern Stockholm, was the holy site of Norse paganism.)
"Well, well. The famed God-Chosen avoids the sacrifice. Is there a reason?"
A figure in a black cloak stepped from the shadows. Vig ignored him, but the man pulled back his hood: a gaunt bald head, skin pale as chalk, blue runes tattooed across his face. His presence was chilling.
"I am the Raven-Speaker," he said.
Vig eyed him warily.
The man's gaze was piercing, as if he could read Vig's very soul. "You dislike the rites. So do I. But tradition binds us. The elders hold power; the young cannot challenge them. To do so is ruin. In this, Uppsala is no different than any hall."
"I've no thought of change," Vig lied flatly.
Suddenly the Raven-Speaker's cold hands clamped Vig's wrist like iron.
"Vig Hakonarson. Chosen of the Æsir. You are fated for greatness. And I—for all your doubts—am destined to be your ally. You may spurn me now, but one day you will accept my aid. The road ahead is long. May the gods grant you what you seek."
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