For five days they drifted with the river's current, scarcely enough time for the crew to regain their strength, before the cargo ship reached the first cataract of the Dnieper.
From afar, the once-broad river suddenly narrowed. Sheer banks rose more than ten meters above the water, and jagged reefs jutted out across the channel like the teeth of some slumbering beast. The sight alone was enough to unnerve the hardiest sailor.
"You see?" Rurik gestured grimly. "I wasn't lying. No ship can pass through here."
He grounded the vessel on the western bank. Without a word, Rurik and the others set about their now-familiar task: felling trees, laying rollers, preparing once again to drag the ship across land.
Drag the ship ashore. Haul it forward. Launch into the river. Drift. Ground again at the next cataract. Haul once more.
The endless repetition gnawed at Rurik's spirit. Day after day it was nothing but drag, eat, and sleep. Compared to this toil, the endless grind of a merchant's labor in some distant town would have seemed a mercy.
"By Odin," he muttered, shoulders aching. "This isn't life. This is punishment."
As if in answer, there came a sharp thwip. An arrow buried itself in the turf at his feet, its fletching still quivering.
"Ambush!"
He instinctively raised his round shield. Across the grassland a dozen horsemen appeared, bows drawn, pointed felt caps crowning their heads, greasy braids hanging behind. Their curved bows glinted in the sun.
Ivar snatched a bow from the ship, ready to return fire—but Rurik caught his arm. "Don't kill them. Just drive them off. They're Pechenegs, nomads from the steppe. Make an enemy of them, and they'll shadow us for days, waiting to strike at the next cataract."
"What—so we take their arrows and can't strike back? This is humiliation!"
Ivar swore under his breath but grudgingly obeyed, loosing shafts that deliberately struck empty ground near the riders.
For several tense minutes the standoff held. Neither side gained the advantage, and the Pechenegs began to edge away—until a lone shaft whistled from the treeline behind. It flew a hundred paces with uncanny precision and buried itself in the face of a rider clad in iron.
The man toppled from the saddle, lifeless.
"Who loosed that?" Rurik's face went pale. His gaze found Niels, swaggering back from a hunt, grinning as he boasted, "Did you see that shot? Straight through iron! My finest in years."
The Pechenegs wailed their grief. Rurik looked stricken, his smile more bitter than tears. "It's over. We're finished now."
Niels faltered, suddenly uneasy. "Perhaps they'll fear me, and won't dare attack. Or if we hurry, we might pass through before they can gather their vengeance…"
"Enough," Ivar cut him off. "The man is dead. No use in fretting. Eat, rest, and tomorrow we move faster."
So they pressed on. Weary, armor-clad, they dragged the ship past the fourth cataract and then downriver to the fifth.
On the western bank, Rurik disembarked and gazed at the boundless steppe. Clutching his amulet, he whispered prayers to Odin, to Frigg, to Thor—every god he could name.
"Protect us, and I'll heap offerings at your altars," he vowed.
They donned their armor and hauled the vessel forward under the merciless sun. The ship crawled across the steppe like a lumbering ox, rollers creaking beneath its hull. Suddenly, a flock of birds burst skyward in alarm.
Rurik dropped to the earth, ear pressed to the soil. A thunder of hooves, vast and fast, rolled toward them.
"Abandon the cargo! Run!"
Over the southern ridge swept more than a hundred horsemen, screaming their shrill, terrifying war-cries. The Norse knew they could not stand. They bolted for the birch woods.
Clad in heavy lamellar, Rurik was the last to stumble into the trees—and then he froze.
Where were the others?
He searched frantically, but Ivar, Bjorn, Niels—all had vanished, fled like hares, leaving him behind.
Before he could curse their cowardice, the undergrowth crackled with footsteps. The nomads had dismounted and were pursuing on foot, still baying for blood.
"Damn them," Rurik snarled, "this is beyond cruel."
He ran, crashing through brush until breath failed him. Gasping, he leaned against a trunk—when a Pecheneg lunged from the thicket, crooked blade raised. The man wore a ragged sheepskin coat, no better than a pauper.
More footfalls encircled him. Dozens of shapes emerged, snarling, jeering, knives and swords flashing.
"So this is where it ends?" Rurik lifted his head. Above him circled black ravens, croaking harshly. A savage fury welled up inside him. If he must die, he would drag them with him.
The first blow fell from his left. He caught it on his shield and drove his sword into the attacker's gut. Even as hot blood sprayed, two more rushed from the right, bronze knives stabbing. He blocked one, hacked the hand from another, the severed wrist thudding into the leaves.
A curved saber struck his back. The lamellar armor held. Rurik whirled, cleaving the assailant's throat, a crimson fountain blinding his vision.
To live by embracing death.
The world slowed. Every movement of his foes seemed clumsy, every opening obvious. Instinct guided him, each strike clean and final. Among trunks and shadows, he became a beast of slaughter, flowing from one kill to the next.
The tenth Pecheneg crumpled, clutching his chest. Four survivors wavered, eyes wide. They had not expected this northern barbarian to fight like an immortal demon, blood-drunk and inexorable.
Fear took them. Together they hurled their weapons in desperation. A bronze dagger struck Rurik's helm with a dull clang—and snapped in two.
"Their armor's too strong! Fall back!"
Cursing, they fled into the steppe.
The battle was done. The sun slanted low, its rays lancing through the trees, glinting off pools of blood. Rurik staggered, chest heaving. From a corpse he tore a wineskin and gulped sour mare's milk, its stench sharp on his tongue. Above him, the ravens wheeled and croaked, feasting on the dead.
At last his companions emerged, drawn by the sounds of carnage. They stopped short, staring in awe at the ghastly scene.
Ivar stepped forward, his voice tinged with admiration.
"You've awakened the strength within you. Congratulations."
Rurik showed no joy. His face was clouded, uncertain. "I don't know. It didn't feel as if I'd grown stronger. It felt… as if my enemies had somehow grown weaker."