Sensing the faint killing intent hidden in Halfdan's words, Ulf had no choice but to agree. Unwillingly, he was dragged into this raiding expedition.
Britain and West Francia were no longer suitable targets for plunder, so Halfdan chose Pomerania along the southern coast of the Baltic Sea.
Scattered Slavic tribes lived there at a very primitive level of productivity—something Halfdan did not mind in the slightest. Spoils ranked second in importance; more crucial was satisfying his berserkers' thirst for slaughter.
"I've spoken with the lord of Schleswig," Halfdan said, referring to southern Denmark. "We'll first meet on his lands. Once we gather five hundred warriors, we set out immediately."
Ulf replied with a blank expression. "…Understood."
Very soon his fears proved justified. After days of raiding across Pomerania (present-day northern Poland), they harvested barely a small chest of amber and some ragged animal pelts.
During the raids, Ulf also noticed Halfdan deliberately targeting him—assigning him to dangerous tasks, such as acting as bait or leading night assaults on city gates.
By relying on years of battlefield instinct—and luck—Ulf managed to survive until the operation finally ended.
Back in Schleswig, the local lord Horst Horstd a feast for these battle-weary warriors. During the meal, several berserkers grumbled about the meager spoils. A drunken Halfdan waved his hand grandly.
"This is only a brief rest! After two days, we go out again!"
His declaration sent the berserkers into a howling frenzy. Their shrieks pierced Ulf's ears, and though his heart turned cold, he forced himself to mimic their excitement and howl along.
After half an hour of drinking, Ulf pretended to be drunk and staggered out of the longhouse. He conveniently fell to the ground, prompting Halfdan and the others to burst into laughter.
"Look at the 'Eel Earl,' he's pathetic!"
"Eel" was Ulf's nickname. In 844, when he was penniless, he had been forced to pay a large tribute of dried eels to Ragnar. Lennard spread the insult far and wide, and the name stuck for life.
Years later, after Lennard had his nose cut off by Frankish knight Maurice at the Battle of Ratworth—ruining his looks—Ulf finally avenged himself by giving his old rival a nickname in return: "Pretty Boy."
Leaving the longhouse, Ulf slipped into a nearby dwelling where his seven surviving shield-guards were eating.
"Milord, do you need something?"
"Pack up. Bring those immigrants from Konser. We're heading to the harbor and sailing out of here."
Ulf's eyes had regained full clarity. If he stayed any longer, Halfdan would eventually find a way to frame and kill him. This was his only chance to escape back to Britain.
One shield-guard hesitated. "But… the spoils?"
Idiot! Still thinking about worthless trinkets at a time like this—does he want money or his life?!
Suppressing his anger, Ulf spoke gently.
"Once we return to Kent, I'll compensate all of you with triple the goods. Everyone will get their share."
He then pulled on a cloak and slipped into the night, heading toward the harbor.
"This longship looks sound. Quick—bring those barrels of ale. And the dried fish."
After loading supplies, Ulf ordered them to slash the sails of the other longships nearby and throw their oars into the water, preventing Halfdan or Horst from chasing them.
Once everything was ready, he counted heads: all seven surviving guards were present, and thirteen young men and women from Konser.
Two were missing.
Ulf glanced back at the brightly lit, rowdy longhouse and felt a spike of irritation.
"Leave them. Getting away from those lunatics is all that matters."
Two years ago, he'd heard Vig tell a story about a feast called the "Hongmen Banquet" and one line had always stuck with him:
"Those who achieve great things do not fuss over small details."
At his command, the shield-guards began rowing, guiding the longship away from the harbor.
Listening to the gentle lapping of water, Ulf felt deeply weary. He thought himself much like "Lord Liu" from Vig's story—an aging man forced to gamble with hot-headed youngsters, never allowed a moment of peace.
"Head for Londinium. I'll expose Halfdan's crimes. He's gone utterly mad."
Ulf was certain Ragnar would deal with it fairly—at the very least, send a messenger to reprimand Halfdan.
If the king chose instead to shield his son and ignore an attempted murder of a powerful vassal, noble resentment would only accumulate further—until one day it exploded.
Compared to Ulf's ordeal, Vig's recent life was peaceful and leisurely. Aside from paperwork, he spent most of his time caring for the near-term Herligev.
One day, Mitcham brought news of a large batch of new immigrants and asked whether they should continue settling them within Tyne County.
"Yes. The lands south of the Tyne River are vast and ready for clearing. Send clerks to assign plots. With windmills draining the marshes so efficiently, we can easily absorb six or seven thousand immigrants a year."
Vig spread open the map, scrutinizing the surrounding land to plan where the next groups should be placed. Soon a servant rushed in.
"Milord, a cog flying the Seagull Banner has reached the docks, followed by five longships."
Seagull banner—Bjorn?
Vig went to greet him and found Bjorn instructing his men to buy ropes and spare sails—preparing for a long voyage.
"Where are you headed?"
Bjorn replied, "The islands west of Iceland. Years ago I was caught in a storm and stayed there for a while. Now that I have the Explorer, she's far more seaworthy than a longship—perfect for sailing into the unknown."
Greenland?
Vig recalled what he knew of the island—bitter cold, almost no trees, virtually impossible to farm. The natives lived by hunting seals and fishing.
In this early medieval age, Europe was underpopulated with vast tracts of arable land still untouched. Most Viking settlers preferred Britain or Normandy; none would willingly endure storms and starvation in Iceland, let alone the harsher Greenland.
"Iceland isn't even fully developed yet. You're sure you want to explore an even harsher island?"
"Of course. It's the mission the gods gave me."
Seeing Bjorn's enthusiasm, Vig could find no suitable words to dissuade him.
Even if Bjorn were lucky enough to discover the American continent, large-scale development would still be impossible. North America lacked east-west mountain ranges, allowing winter cold fronts to sweep south unhindered; summers brought frequent hurricanes and tornadoes. One misstep and an entire settlement could vanish.
"Historically, only Europe's landless peasants—driven to desperation—endured such suffering to reach the New World. Today Europe still has endless wasteland to claim. Who would bother travelling elsewhere just to farm? Forget it… let him go."
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