Thorson grabbed a piece of hot ember before smearing a little water from his waterskin over it.
Then, rushing inside the house, he grabbed his shield before hurrying back outside with it.
He paused for a while, staring at the sky.
The raven had soared toward where the sun rises, but not quite.
It had not flown in a straight line.
It had curved slightly to the north.
So, in terms of the world from his dreams, the world of his memories, the direction where the sun rose should be east.
That meant the bird had flown northeast.
The problem was that in this world there was no concrete sense of direction.
The Vikings’ way of navigation was too primitive.
Even if he scribbled directions onto his shield, they would change with every movement he made, rendering them useless.
Still, it would be better than letting the memory fade.
He would have to rely on the rising and setting of the sun.
That would never change, no matter where they were.
The only problem was that with the prolonged winter, there was very little sunlight.
The faint glow would have to do whenever it managed to break through.
Northeast.
That was the direction they had to stay away from.
It would be futile to raid there.
The problem was that, judging by what Bjorn had told him at the market the previous day, that was Ragnar’s preferred route, and with good reason.
That was where most of his loot had been coming from of late.
Ragnar had never limited himself to one direction.
He had raided west and east, wherever his longships could land.
But recently he had been concentrating on the north.
His curiosity had only continued to grow.
But now Thorson knew the land had changed.
This was no longer Scandinavia.
This was Westeros.
North was the Wall…
North was winter.
The real winter.
He had seen the men standing atop that wall.
They had been dressed from head to toe in what looked like black wool.
They wore gloves and still looked miserable.
The structure itself seemed buried beneath the very snow that had consumed the land.
That deadly white covered everything.
True, beyond those walls there could be food, perhaps silver and treasure to loot
Ragnar and his men had raided monasteries before and returned with gold and silver in abundance.
But even though he was only sixteen and had never gone on an actual raid before, Thorson knew disaster when he saw it.
That wall was a disaster.
From its appearance alone, he doubted such a structure had been built by men.
And if it had, it certainly had not been built to keep other men out.
It looked more suited to keeping giants at bay.
Now imagine attempting laying a siege on it with the eighty men Ragnar hoped to raise.
No.
He had to find a way to convince Ragnar to go south.
South they would find open sea.
South they would find life again.
But how could he do that without sounding mad?
He had tried at the Thing, and the men had laughed him off.
He broke out of this thoughts
Darkness was beginning to creep in and he had to set out and meet Ragnar before they made any further decisions.
Skipping back into the house, he grabbed the woolen cloak he had purchased by trading some of his former master’s belongings and wrapped it around himself.
Then, slinging his shield over his shoulder, which was also new since his old one had been destroyed in the duel, he poured the dried meat into a skin pouch before taking his waterskin.
Everything felt surprisingly light.
While that meant easier travel, it also spelled disaster if the journey became prolonged.
He was already short on both food and water.
Grabbing his axe, he stood for a few seconds, staring at the longhouse, the place he had called home for the past sixteen winters.
Now he was probably looking at it for the last time.
Turning away, he began walking.
There was nothing to regret here.
It was not that he had no fond memories of the place.
But the place he loved had vanished.
If the gods were kind, he would find better prospects elsewhere.
If they were not, then what was the loss?
He would be drinking mead in Valhalla, training for Ragnarok.
It would be victory either way.
On his way, he passed through Torstein’s farm.
Thorson was careful to make sure they were not being followed and that no one was watching his movements.
But since darkness had already settled and the cold had intensified, he saw little to worry him.
Torstein’s wife told him that her husband had already left for Ragnar’s place.
By the time Thorson arrived there himself, darkness had fully settled.
The first thing he noticed was the crowd gathered outside.
There had to be more than thirty men.
Clearly Ragnar had managed to recruit more.
Still, Thorson could tell they had not yet raised the eighty needed to properly man the longship in shifts.
If they reached open water, that shortage would cost them both speed and endurance.
Still, these men were Vikings.
It would not be the first time they had faced impossible odds and lived to tell the tale.
A few greetings were thrown his way.
“So the boy lives then,” one man roared, patting him on the back.
“He’s a fine lad all right,” another answered.
“Your axe struck true.
A true warrior indeed.”
Thorson smiled at them, but his eyes searched the crowd for Ragnar.
He did not find him.
Instead, he found Bjorn.
The two boys had grown somewhat close of late, though not entirely.
Thorson understood why.
Bjorn probably felt the weight of what had happened at the Thing.
Both of them were sixteen, yet Thorson had challenged a fully grown warrior to a holmgang.
Although he had nearly died, he had shown extraordinary courage, and now that courage had spread among the men.
There was little doubt that he would now be accepted as a shieldman.
Thorson, however, had no illusions.
If he and Bjorn were ever forced to fight each other, which he did not expect, Bjorn would probably be the victor.
“Bjorn, I wish to see your father,” he said after shaking the boy’s hand.
“You are in good health then?” Bjorn asked.
“Even better,” Thorson replied with a smile.
“Thanks to your mother.”
Bjorn nodded.
“Father is attending to important matters.”
“What I have to say is more important,” Thorson insisted.
Bjorn studied him for a few seconds.
“Come.”
The two pushed through the crowd before entering the longhouse.
There were five people inside.
The first Thorson noticed was Ragnar himself, standing among the others.
Next was Rollo, Ragnar’s brother and Bjorn’s uncle.
Floki, the shipbuilder, stood nearby.
Torstein was there as well.
The last man was another towering warrior whom Thorson had seen at the market but did not know well.
He did know the man was one of Ragnar’s companions, one of those who often raided against Haraldson’s wishes.
The only woman present was Lagertha, Ragnar’s wife.
Usually women did not attend such war councils.
But Lagertha was no ordinary woman.
Everyone knew she was a fierce shieldmaiden.
Still, judging by the way she was dressed and the disappointment on her face, Ragnar had no intention of letting her come on this expedition.
It was probably the wiser choice.
Someone had to remain behind to tend the farm.
“We are in the middle of something here, Bjorn,” Ragnar said.
“I told you not to interrupt.”
“Father, Thorson wishes to speak with you,” Bjorn replied.
“Why can it not wait?”
“It cannot,” Thorson answered himself.
“We must not go north.
We should go south.”
Every eye in the room turned toward him.
Silence followed.
It was as though they expected him to explain himself.
But Thorson had nothing more to say.
He could hardly tell them his knowledge came from visions.
“Isn’t he the boy from the Thing?” the unfamiliar warrior asked.
“The very same,” Ragnar replied before turning back to Thorson.
“Pray tell, why should we commit such folly?
We have discussed it all night and we are of one mind.
We must sail north.
It is our best chance of finding rich lands.”
Thorson shook his head firmly.
“There is nothing north,” he said, stepping forward.
“Only the same deadly white, only worse.
North you will find the biggest wall of ice you have ever laid eyes on, We must head south.
I dare say that is our best chance of finding open water and lands worth raiding.”
“And you have proof of this?” Rollo asked.
Thorson remained silent.
Of course he did not.
“These men and I have gone on countless raids,” Ragnar said calmly.
“You can trust us to know where loot can be found.”
“The boy’s blood must still be boiling from his first battle,” the unfamiliar warrior added.
“He must be eager.
But be careful what you wish for.
Sometimes battles come too quickly, and they become more the only thing you crave”.
“Well said,” Ragnar replied, clapping the man’s shoulder.
“We were just wrapping things up.
We are sailing north.
But by the gods, we are pushing the damn longship until we find open water.”
Thorson hesitated.
He looked around at the men before him as though preparing for another battle.
But he was not that foolish.
He knew when he had been beaten.
Right here and now, he had no answer to their experience.
They were right.
He had never been on a raid.
The men gathered outside were not following Ragnar because of anything Thorson had said at The Thing
They were following him because of what Ragnar had accomplished.
That was how a man convinced Vikings to stand against their rightful Earl.
They needed proven leadership, not the visions of a sixteen year old boy.
Thorson knew Ragnar was wrong.
Unfortunately, Ragnar’s decision was the one that mattered.
With a sinking feeling, he realized something he had not wanted to admit.
Ragnar had never truly believed his stories about the land changing.
The man had always intended to carry out this winter raid, even without Thorson.
The only reason Thorson had become part of the expedition was because Ragnar had seen the makings of a capable warrior.
And on a raid, every axe mattered.