Hearing Bjorn's words, Helgi did not object.
According to the traditions of seafaring, the captain's authority was absolute; in extreme cases he could even order rebellious sailors to be hanged.
At dawn on the seventh day, the lookout atop the square sterncastle suddenly shouted:
"Look over there!"
The sea was cluttered with floating ice. Low clouds pressed heavily over the horizon. In the far distance, an indistinct smear of black drifted across the sky—a migrating flock of birds.
Realizing they were nearing land, Bjorn ordered the crew to row. Two hours later, they spotted a vast expanse of pack ice ahead—white cliffs rising straight into the mist, broken floes drifting across the sea.
"Slow down! Don't hit those chunks of ice!"
Bjorn ran to the bow and shouted warnings back to the helmsman, who carefully steered the ship around the drifting ice.
By mid-afternoon, the Explorer slipped into the nearest fjord. The keel cracked through thin sheets of ice with crisp snapping sounds. They found a patch of tundra sheltered from the wind, where the tracks of arctic foxes dotted the snow.
As soon as they landed, the sailors set up makeshift tents using oars, then cast nets in the shallows, hoping to replenish their supply of fresh meat.
While the crew laughed and splashed about, Helgi knelt down, rubbed a pinch of soil between his fingers, and quietly told Bjorn:
"The soil is terrible—no fertility at all. Worse than Scandinavia. You'll need a better place if you want a settlement."
After resting for a day, the Explorer continued south along the coastline. They rounded a sharp southern point and finally saw a hint of green deep within a fjord on the southwestern shore.
"Grass?"
Bjorn laughed aloud. Even if crops couldn't be grown, at least it would be possible to raise cattle and sheep.
He brought the Explorer to shore and chose a sheltered spot to set up camp. Timber was scarce, so they stacked stones for walls and covered them with turf to make roofs.
Climbing to a high vantage point, Bjorn gazed over the endless white wasteland, dotted here and there with patches of green. He decided to give his new land a name.
"Let's call it Greenland (Grønland)."
Seeing the puzzled looks, Bjorn explained—a good name would attract settlers.
Helgi shook his head.
"I doubt it. Britain and Normandy have vast fertile lands waiting to be cleared—those will always be the first choice for migrants. You've struggled for years and Iceland still has only a thousand people, a third of them slaves. Greenland lies even farther west. You'll attract fewer, not more."
Suddenly, one of the scouts came running back, holding up a half-meter-long, ivory-colored tooth.
"Chief! The beach nearby—there are walruses everywhere. Way more than in Iceland."
In the Middle Ages, ivory was an absolute luxury—used for canes, jewelry boxes, gaming pieces, and all manner of high-end ornaments. Europe lacked elephants; walrus ivory was the substitute.
Bjorn gathered twenty men and raced toward the beach with crossbows and throwing spears in hand. Cresting a ridge, they saw thousands of gray-brown walruses sprawled across the sands like a range of moving boulders. The salty wind rippled the folds of their thick hides, carrying waves of deep, rumbling grunts.
"We're rich. We're filthy rich!"
Bjorn gestured for the men to creep closer. A coordinated volley killed eight walruses along the edge of the herd. They skinned them, collected the tusks and fat, and hurried back to camp with their spoils.
The next morning, Bjorn urged the men to get up—only to find a crowd of fur-clad natives gathered outside the camp. Their skin was rough and yellowish, their faces calm but wary, and they gestured animatedly at the Norsemen.
After a few minutes, Helgi frowned.
"This is their hunting ground. They're telling us to leave."
A quick count showed over two hundred of them, armed with bone-tipped harpoons, bone javelins, and crescent-shaped stone knives.
Bjorn wished to avoid conflict. He offered some of their ale and iron knives as gifts.
The natives quickly drank three barrels of ale. Their leader hiccupped loudly and gestured for a long time—apparently proposing a trade: hunting rights in exchange for ale and iron tools.
"Haha, of course. Next time I'll bring even more ale and ironwork. We'll trade for hides, ivory, and fat."
Bjorn let them test the iron knives while silently calculating profits.
Import ale from Tyne Town → trade it here for valuable goods → sell the goods back in Tyne Town.
At least a ten- to twenty-fold profit!
The numbers dazzled him. One doubling leads to tenfold gains, tenfold leads to a hundredfold… keep going long enough, and he would surpass even a king's treasury.
Helgi tugged at one of his braided beard strands.
"Not that simple. Vig told me once—when the supply of something increases too quickly, prices fall. He called it 'economics.'"
"Then we'll sell it farther south—York, London, Flanders, the Mediterranean!"
Bjorn waved boldly, already imagining his empire.
"Make money, buy more ships, make even more money. One day, when I'm richer than my father's treasury, let's see what he says then."
Helgi sighed.
"You're Ragnar's son. You already have more than most men on earth. Is this really necessary?"
Bjorn replied firmly:
"First and foremost, I am Bjorn. Only after that am I Ragnar's son. Everything I'm doing is so that one day, people will think of Iron-Bone Bjorn, not 'Ragnar's second son.'"
Being the child of a legend was both an honor and a suffocating burden. Bjorn swore to escape his father's shadow and create a legend of his own.
His words struck a chord in Helgi as well.
For years, whenever he met new Vikings, they always asked, "You're the Snake of the North's brother-in-law? How did he annihilate the West Frankish army?"
He, too, longed to prove he was a warrior worthy in his own right—not just the relative of a legend.
As the two men sighed together, a disturbance erupted nearby. The natives abruptly abandoned the ale and knives and scattered like retreating waves.
"What happened?"
Bjorn asked his men, who gave a ridiculous answer—
The natives had seen the Explorer's sheep roaming near camp and panicked. Never having seen sheep before, they thought the woolly animals were cursed creatures and fled in terror.
"Hah! These savages have no sense. Scared by a sheep!"
One sailor mocked loudly—
And then stopped.
A bone javelin protruded from his chest, its bloody tip still quivering.
"Ambush!"
Caught completely off guard, the forty Norsemen were attacked by enemies numbering several times their own. More than half were slain or wounded in moments. Bjorn fled back to the Explorer and ordered the crew to raise anchor and escape to sea.
As he stared back at the howling natives, Bjorn was furious.
"If you've got guts, stay right there! I'll be back next year with an army!"
It was already late August, autumn approaching, and storms rising in the North Sea. Bjorn planned to return the following year to settle the score.
"These fools… fine, I'll borrow money from Vig if I must. I'll buy four more cogs in one go and recruit two or three hundred raiders. Let's see if they dare stand in my way then."
Meanwhile, in the northern realm, Vig sneezed.
"Who's cursing me now?"
After muttering to himself, he regained focus and led his guards into Glasgow—just in time to encounter an unexpected incident.
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