No one could tell how long the feast had dragged on. At first the benches shook with drunken laughter and the hall rang with bawdy songs, but as the night wore thin, the revelry guttered like a dying flame. One by one, the guests slumped across the trestle tables, their faces buried in spilled mead and crusts of bread. The air grew heavy with smoke, sour drink, and the sweat of sleeping men.
Only the fire still lived. It popped and hissed, sparks darting up the blackened beams, while from beyond the barred doors the first colorless light of dawn pressed in.
"Drink—drink on," Ragnar muttered thickly, rubbing at his temples. His head throbbed like a war-drum, each beat threatening to split his skull.
Through the narrow crack of the great doors, a pallid ray intruded. Above the rafters, a handful of ravens perched bold as lords, tearing at some forgotten scrap of meat. Their croaking seemed to mock the hungover warriors below.
"Daylight already?" Ragnar mused aloud. He stretched his broad frame with satisfaction, as though even the ache in his bones were proof of victory over the long night.
Only then did he notice her—an unfamiliar woman standing stiffly at the edge of the hall. Her eyes were cast down, her presence so quiet that he had not marked her until now.
"You, maid," Ragnar ordered carelessly, "fetch me a cup of mead."
The woman returned with a brimming cup, its contents a murky yellow. Ragnar took it in hand and frowned.
"What is this swill? Has King Erik's cellar run dry, that I must drink the dregs?" His voice carried contempt as he waved her away.
He raised the cup, yet before he could drink, his wife stirred beside him. Lagertha's eyes, fierce even clouded with sleep, fixed on the vessel. Without hesitation she snatched it from his grasp and drained it in one long pull.
"Hey! Could you not leave me a drop?" Ragnar laughed, shaking his head. "Truly, woman, you are impossible."
He wandered the length of the feast-table, stepping over sprawled bodies, until at last he found a jug still half-full of golden mead. Triumphantly he lifted it high, his grin boyish despite the scars of a seasoned raider.
"Now here is drink worthy of a feast. Will you have a taste?"
Yet before the words had settled, Lagertha doubled forward with a guttural choke. A torrent of dark blood spilled from her lips. Her proud, lithe form crumpled to the rushes.
The moment struck like lightning. For a heartbeat none moved, none breathed—then the hall erupted. Men staggered to their feet, shouting, cursing, bellowing questions none could answer.
Word of the poisoning swept through Oslo like fire on dry heather. King Erik thundered with rage, ordering every gate shut and patrols to scour the streets. "Find the culprit!" he swore. "No man or woman leaves until the murderer hangs!"
Among the Norse, the duty of the host was sacred: no harm must come to a guest beneath his roof. Now blood had been spilled in Erik's very hall. If he failed to mete justice, his name would stink of dishonor, and no jarl would trust his welcome again.
Scouts soon returned with tidings grim. The serving-woman had vanished, and with her—Lord Borg of Tushby. Witnesses swore they had seen his men slink away under cloak of night.
The rafters rang with Ivar's furious roar:
"I will kill him! I will crush every bone in his body!"
His pale eyes burned like coals. Even Erik, stout and gluttonous though he was, felt the weight of that wrath. He would not let it turn against him.
"I march with you," the king declared. He wasted no more words. Horns were blown, warriors summoned, and soon near eight hundred men were arrayed in grim procession. Even townsfolk, eager for spectacle or plunder, fell in behind as they set their course northeast toward Tushby.
The march was hard, four days through mire and frost, but fury drove them on. At last they came upon Borg's settlement. The villagers were in a frenzy, throwing up a palisade of raw timber, their axes hacking as if haste might conjure safety.
Rurik, trudging at the rear, eyed the work with disdain. "Too late for such defenses," he thought. "No towers, no ditch. Bare fences—fit for wolves, not men."
Panic spread as the host approached. Slaves dropped their spades and scattered into the trees. Free men scrambled through the gate before it clattered shut.
Then Borg himself appeared—or rather, his servants, pushing a cart before the wall. Upon it lay four bodies, two grown and two small, their pale limbs stark against bloodied hides. Beside them rested five sheepskin scrolls.
"The widow of Gothenburg hired assassins!" Borg cried from behind the palisade. His voice carried desperation. "This is none of my doing! Here are their corpses, and those of her house! By Odin's name I swear the truth!"
But truth no longer mattered.
Erik needed blood to wash away shame. Ragnar demanded vengeance for the fallen. And the men, who had tramped four days on empty stomachs, hungered for plunder.
"Attack!" Erik bellowed.
The mournful drone of the war-horn rolled across the fields. Archers strode forward, loosing a dark hail of arrows. Behind them came the shield-men, axes raised, their boots pounding the frozen earth.
At ten paces from the wall, iron hooks whistled through the air, biting into timber. Ropes ran back to thirteen shaggy packhorses. Whips cracked, and the beasts shrieked, straining against their harnesses.
They sweated and heaved, their breath clouds in the morning chill. With a groaning splinter, the palisade yielded. A span ten meters wide gaped open.
The warriors needed no urging. With howls of triumph they poured through. Ragnar and his sons led the charge, hacking down the feeble shield-wall within. In moments the defense buckled, and the slaughter began.
Rurik stumbled with the press, his heart hammering. "Fools," he thought bitterly. "All of them rush inside, leaving no rear guard. If Borg had men in the woods, and torches for the thatch—this whole host could burn alive."
But no ambush came. Chaos was the Norse way, and chaos bore them victory.
A blur darted from his left. Instinct lifted his shield. The blow rang against it. He thrust low, driving his blade through a man's foot. The foe screamed, stumbling, and Rurik's sword leapt for his throat. Blood sprayed, hot and shocking.
"No!"
A woman rushed him, shield raised. Her frame was smaller, weaker. With a shove he toppled her, his sword descending in a swift, merciless arc.
Shame pricked him—it was a coward's trick, maiming a foot. Yet he had no room for honor. Survival demanded cunning. He was no hero of sagas, only a youth with more to lose than to prove.
Later ages would measure men's height and say the Norse averaged one hundred seventy centimeters. I am not yet sixteen, yet stand nearly so. With years and meat I might reach one eighty, perhaps more. In Britain, where peasants live on gruel, most scarcely reach one sixty-five. Strength itself is half a victory.
So he resolved: eat, train, grow. Each cut of meat was a stone in the fortress of his body, each swing of the sword another brick laid.
The battle swept him on. In time Ivar found him, his sword jagged with notches, his face streaked with gore.
"Have you seen Borg?" he demanded.
"No," Rurik stammered. "Only peasants. No man in armor. Perhaps… perhaps he cloaked himself and fled as a commoner?"
Ivar's eyes narrowed, his breath rasping through his teeth. Without reply he stormed toward the stables, dragging his nicked blade.
There they found only a shivering slave. The man confessed through chattering teeth: Borg had fled at the first clash, cloaked and hidden among his own thralls.
So the lord of Tushby slipped away, leaving his people to die in his stead.