Viking Invasion-Chapter 57 – The Bargain

"This is the breath of Surtur, the Fire Giant," someone whispered, voice trembling. "We have disturbed His slumber."

The terrified words rippled through the crowd like wind across the tundra. The ground still trembled faintly beneath them; the air was thick with the stench of smoke and sulfur. The sky glowed red as a wound, and flakes of ash drifted down like black snow. The Vikings huddled together in the half-built temple, eyes wide, beards dusted with soot, muttering prayers to the gods of Asgard. All night they waited, expecting at any moment to be consumed by the fire of a wrathful god.

When dawn at last broke, pale and thin through a veil of ash, the mountain’s roar had lessened. The tremors subsided, and the men crept out to the hilltop to see the land. To the north, the pillar of smoke still rose, but it no longer boiled upward with the fury of the night before. It seemed that the giant had returned to his rest.

Bjorn stood apart, silent. The men were shaken to the bone — even his seasoned warriors — their courage turned to ash like the world around them. One of them cried out, "We must repair the ships and leave this cursed land before the monster wakes again!"

A murmur of agreement followed; despair is an easy contagion.

Bjorn’s gaze swept over them — faces streaked with soot and fear. Some averted their eyes, unwilling to meet his. A few met his stare defiantly, though their hands trembled on their weapons.

Then Bjorn spoke, his voice ringing above the wind: "You fools. This is Midgard still — the realm of men! What we saw last night was no demon’s wrath, but the fire of the earth itself. A natural wonder, not the breath of a god."

He gestured toward the smoking peaks. "The fire giants dwell in Muspelheim — a world of molten rock and endless flame. No living thing can survive there. But look about you: there are trees here, and birds, and fish in the streams. Does that sound like Muspelheim to you?"

He held their gaze until shame crept into their faces. The murmuring died. One by one, a few nodded — uncertain but willing to believe. In the end, barely half chose to remain. The others, eighty and more, refused to stay upon what they called the "Cursed Isle." For three days they labored to patch their ships, loading them with supplies taken from the common stores. Then, without farewell, they pushed their vessels into the surf and rowed east toward the unseen horizon.

Days later, fragments of sailcloth and broken barrels began washing ashore. Bjorn’s men dragged the wreckage from the waves, grim-faced. The torn canvas came from two different ships.

Bjorn gathered his people and announced in solemn tones, "My friends — I bear ill news. Those who fled have perished. Their fear angered the gods, and they were struck down by Odin’s judgment. Their souls will not find the golden hall of Valhalla. Pity them, for theirs was the death of cowards."

A hush fell. Some crossed themselves; others muttered invocations to Thor. Bjorn saw the fear settle deeper in their eyes — not of the land now, but of divine punishment. It pleased him. Fear, properly directed, was a kind of loyalty. At least for a while, no one would speak again of leaving.

So the settlement endured. Fifty-three remained. They finished their homes, dried the whale meat into strips of hard black flesh, and stored it in pits lined with stone. Smoke curled into the cold air. The long winter ahead would be harsh, but Bjorn Ironside, son of Ragnar, had weathered worse. The island was his now — his and his alone.

At that same time, far away across the sea, the fortress of Tynburgh was alive with the clatter of hammers and chisels.

Half a year had passed since Rurik had sent out word for stonemasons. Four had come, drawn by the promise of coin. After testing their skills, Rurik dismissed the weakest and hired the remaining three at high wages.

He summoned them to his hall, where plans lay spread across the table — drawings of walls, towers, and gates, each line drawn with exacting care.

"The outer wall," he said, tapping the parchment, "will be of stone. Six meters high, three and a half thick at the base, tapering to two and a half at the top. The inner wall will match it. And here, at the center — a keep, fifteen meters tall."

The masons exchanged glances, whispering figures under their breath. After some calculation, they presented their estimates. The outer wall alone would cost between two hundred and fifty and three hundred and fifty pounds of silver; the inner wall, another sixty. The great keep — one hundred more.

Rurik’s wife, Helgifu, leaned close to him and murmured, "That’s more than our treasury holds."

Rurik frowned. "Can it not be reduced?" he asked aloud.

The chief mason spread his hands. "My lord, my lady — that is already the lowest sum. The quarrying of stone takes one-fifth the cost, the transport nearly half. You are fortunate to have the ruins of the Roman wall nearby. We can cut stone from there and ferry it by barge, else your total expense would exceed a thousand pounds of silver."

That night, the couple lay awake in silence, the weight of their ambition pressing down like the dark beams above them. The treasury could cover the inner wall and the keep — but not the grand outer wall that would encircle the town. That dream would have to wait.

Rurik’s purpose was clear: fortifications meant survival. Raiders still prowled the coasts, and he had learned too well how swiftly peace could turn to peril. If he were absent and his lands undefended, Tynburgh might fall. He told Helgifu grimly, "If ever a host comes against us, you must hold the keep for a month, no less. By then I’ll return — or the gods will have judged us both."

He revised his plan: the keep first, then the inner wall, and the outermost rampart last.

"The old wall, four meters high, will hold for now," he reasoned. "It’ll stop small bands. If a greater horde comes — five hundred or more — we’ll draw everyone inside the fortress and endure."

Thus resolved, Rurik summoned the tenants of his lands to labor in shifts. Two years, he calculated — two years to raise the stronghold that would outlast his lifetime.

But Bjorn’s silence troubled him. No word had come from the west. So, unwilling to delay, he instructed the masons to begin with traditional mortar until he could obtain volcanic ash. Their mixture was the ancient one: limestone fired to lime, mixed with sand and water, strengthened with curious additions — egg whites and plant fibers.

"Egg whites?" Rurik exclaimed when told. "Do you mean to drain every hen in the shire?"

The master mason only shrugged. "It lends the mixture great strength, my lord."

Helgifu, ever the scholar, spent a day among her scrolls to verify the claim. She returned that evening, eyes bright with discovery.

"My dear," she said, "I found a record by a Roman magistrate who served in Gaul. Where no volcanic ash could be found, they built their aqueducts and city walls with mortar like this — lime, sand, egg white, flax, reeds. It endures even now."

Rurik groaned. "Then so be it — though I doubt the peasants will praise us for stealing their breakfasts."

By midsummer, Tynburgh was a chaos of stone and timber. The clang of chisels echoed from dawn till dusk. Rurik and Helgifu were everywhere — marking foundations, inspecting scaffolds, their clothes stained with lime dust. When Ivar’s messenger arrived, Rurik, stripped to his shirt, was hauling stones beside the laborers.

At first glance, the servant took him for a foreman. Only when Rurik had washed his face and donned a proper robe did the man bow and present his message.

"My lord Ivar sends greetings," said the emissary. "He requests supplies — bows, shields, weapons. The wars have drained his stores."

"Then he should appeal to York," Rurik replied coolly. "The royal armory has thirty smiths and no shortage of iron. The king has never denied his son aid in war."

The messenger hesitated, then smiled ruefully. "It is... complicated. At a recent feast, Lord Ivar captured a fortress and took among its spoils a necklace — gold and rubies. During the celebration, someone jested that he should gift it to the queen. He was drunk and said..." The man’s voice lowered. "He said he would rather hang it around some whore’s neck than that witch’s." 𝑓𝓇𝘦ℯ𝘸𝘦𝑏𝓃𝑜𝘷ℯ𝑙.𝑐𝑜𝓂

Rurik blinked. "He said that? In the king’s hall?"

The messenger nodded miserably. "Aye. King Ragnar was furious. He sent envoys to scold his son and demanded that he apologize to the queen. Lord Ivar sent gifts — even the necklace itself — and won back some measure of forgiveness, but... the bond between them is broken."

Rurik leaned back, lips tightening. The royal house of Northumbria, once united under Ragnar’s banner, was beginning to fracture. Ambition, pride, and insult — the seeds of ruin.

Outside, the hammers of the stonemasons struck in steady rhythm, like a heartbeat echoing through stone. Rurik looked toward the unfinished keep, and for the first time wondered not only how high he could build — but how long before the walls of the realm itself began to crumble.