The news of Borg's disgraceful flight spread swiftly. Ragnar and his sons were aflame with anger, eager to give chase and carve his head from his shoulders. Yet King Erik stood before them, palm raised, his voice heavy with command.
"Ragnar," he said, "a greater matter lies before us. Soon we embark upon the grandest raid our people have ever known. I need your help to lead the way. Let us strike a bargain instead. I and six noble houses will pool our silver—twenty pounds in all—for the head of Borg. What say you?"
Though Erik's words carried the tone of consultation, there was iron beneath the velvet. His eyes gleamed with unspoken threat, and the six jarls at his back shifted as one, silent but resolute. Together they formed a wall of pressure, bearing down upon Ragnar to yield.
Ivar, unbent by the weight of that moment, was the first to break the silence. His fury sharpened into clarity.
"Father, go with them. Lead the raid to Britain. Björn and I will take a small band and continue the hunt. Even if Borg hides in Jötunheim itself, I will drag him out and kill him!"
His words cracked like a whip. Turning, he faced the cluster of shield-men.
"Who among you will hunt this traitor with me?"
The hall stirred uneasily. The summons came sudden; none wished to be first. Then Rurik, usually quiet and overlooked, spoke before thought could check him.
"Count me in."
The hall turned. That the unassuming youth should offer himself was unexpected. Shamed by his resolve, others added their assent. Soon ten warriors had stepped forward, enough to form a lean, hard-edged company.
Thus the pursuit began. Across forests and settlements they sought signs of Borg. At last, in Stockholm, news reached them: three days prior he had boarded a vessel bound east, toward the land of the Rus.
Ivar's lips curled in a cold smile. "So, the fox runs into another's den. A clever quarry indeed."
They sold their horses, took ship, and rowed eastward. The sea opened into the broad gray waters where the Neva River met the gulf—land that in centuries to come would be called Saint Petersburg. From there they pressed upstream, their vessel laboring against the current until they reached the shore of Lake Ladoga.
There stood a village, ringed with oak palisades twice a man's height. Inside, half-buried timber huts crouched against the lingering winter, their thatch crusted with patches of snow. Muddy tracks crisscrossed the settlement, scarred with sled-runners and horses' hooves.
Rurik wandered through, speaking with traders and farmers. The people sowed rye and barley, their harvests no richer than those of Norway. To ease their poverty, many turned to commerce—collecting furs, amber, and slaves, ferrying them south along tangled rivers to Constantinople where such wares fetched fortunes.
Yet with each question asked, a disquiet grew in Rurik's chest. Had Borg tarried here? Or had he already slipped further south, beyond their grasp?
By dusk the hunters gathered before the longhouse of the village lord. Ivar stood grim, his voice low but hard.
"Brothers, empty your purses. We face a road longer than any we have yet trod."
His tone was bitter. Rurik's suspicion proved true—the chase had only begun. Their quarry was bound for Constantinople, and so too must they go.
The path of the Varangians was known: from the Neva into Lake Ladoga, then by the Volkhov River to Lake Ilmen, thence into the Dnieper, and through its perilous waters into the Black Sea, before following the coast to the shining city of Byzantium. A journey of months, perhaps years.
To endure it, Ivar secured the company of a seasoned trader. His name was Rurik, a towering man with a mane of tangled red hair, a Norseman long at home upon the rivers of the east. His frame was as solid as oak, and his eyes glimmered with the wary cunning of one who had survived countless bargains and brawls.
Before they set out, Rurik gathered them on the shore.
"The lands you are bound to cross are no kin to the North Sea," he warned. "Here lie endless steppes, swift rivers, forests that swallow men whole. If you value your lives, heed my counsel."
Ivar studied him and nodded once. "Very well. On the road, you lead. But once in Constantinople, we part. Your profit is your concern. Our vengeance is ours."
Rurik accepted with a shrug. He bartered for white fox pelts and amber, packed his cargo, and on a crisp morning declared the voyage begun. Counting his four sworn men, the company now numbered fifteen. Seven took the oars on each side, while Rurik himself held the tiller at the stern.
The first stretch carried them to the town of Novgorod, upon the banks of Lake Ilmen. Here Rus and Norse mingled, trading with clamorous voices. The streets were choked with hides, slaves, and bronze, while the air stank of smoke and sweat.
Rurik stretched, his breath a plume in the cold air. "Two days of rest. The road ahead is harsh."
When the respite ended, they set out once more. The river narrowed, winding southward. At a shallow ford Rurik brought them ashore.
"What now?" Rurik asked, watching as the trader dismantled the rudder and ordered the sail stowed.
"Now," Rurik replied, "we haul."
So began the labor of portage. Axes rang in the woods as they felled trees, trimming trunks into rollers. Round timbers were laid in tracks beneath the keel, forming a pathway of shifting rails. Ropes were lashed, men bent their backs, and slowly the vessel inched across the land.
It was agony. Each dawn at six they rose, choked down a hasty meal, and labored until dusk. At best they gained four kilometers in a day, their bodies screaming with toil. On steep rises they rigged pulleys, dragging the hull upward with raw hands until their palms bled.
To Rurik it was torment. His shoulders burned, his arms quivered, his palms grew thick with callus. Only the steady hunts of Ivar and the others, who filled their bellies with venison and boar, kept him from collapse.
Time blurred into weariness. Days and weeks of hauling, of sweat and curses and aching flesh. Then, one morning, the land broke open.
Before them stretched a vast, sunlit plain, spring grass shimmering beneath the wind. At its end a broad, gleaming river rolled serene and mighty. Birds wheeled in clouds above its silver surface.
"The Dnieper," someone whispered.
Rurik stumbled forward, gazing at his reflection in the rippling water: a gaunt face, hair matted, hands thick with scars. He raised those battered hands and felt a surge of exultation. He had survived.
Together they reassembled the ship, shoved it into the current, and collapsed inside as the river bore them gently southward. For the first time in many weeks, they let the rocking of the water lull them, a fragile moment of peace.
But Rurik cleared his throat. His voice broke the spell.
"Brothers… there is something I did not tell you. Beyond lies worse yet. This river holds seven places where the waters rage so fierce no ship may pass. Seven times more we must haul across the land."
"Seven?" Rurik shouted, his voice cracking with despair. "Seven portages more? You mock us! The Dnieper flows to the Black Sea. Why in Odin's name must we drag like oxen again?"
He was not alone. Even Ivar and Björn swore furiously, their tempers raw from exhaustion.
Rurik raised his hands in haste. "Peace! It is not my will. The rapids are death itself. Rocks and foam devour every ship that dares them. Only the earth gives passage."
Grumbling filled the boat. The men cursed, but deep within they knew it true. Survival left no choice.
The long road had only begun.