It was almost midnight when Ragnar, accompanied by his brother, Floki, and the two other men, stepped out of the longhouse.
Ragnar did not speak, but at the mere sight of him all the men stood.
They knew the time had come.
Lagertha stood at the doorway, watching the group, jealousy plain in her eyes.
Beside her stood Gyda,her daughter.
Bjorn walked over, kissed his sister on the brow, and embraced her.
Lagertha then kissed her son in turn.
“Be brave, my son,” she said, cupping his cheeks tenderly.
“I will, Mother.”
Her eyes then moved to Thorson, who stood where Bjorn had left him.
She pushed her way through the crowd of men until she reached him.
“How is your wound?” she asked, already reaching over and pulling back the warm woolen cloak he had wrapped around himself.
The biting wind sank its fangs into him as the frosty air touched his exposed skin, but he did not flinch.
“I’m doing well, thanks to your caring hands.”
She smiled as she gently pressed his shoulder.
“It has healed well.
That is a good sign.
Do not put too much strain on it.
You will only tear the flesh again.”
She smiled as she covered him once more.
Even she knew what she was asking was impossible for a Viking set for a raid
Thorson looked toward the longship waiting before them.
It was impossible to give her that promise.
He simply returned her smile, and she moved back to stand beside her daughter once again.
One by one the fires were smothered until pitch blackness surrounded them.
The only light now came from the single torch in Floki’s hand.
Thorson had almost expected Ragnar to give a short speech, but just as he had heard, Ragnar was not a man of many words.
With a wave of his arm, the men immediately grabbed their shields and axes and fell in behind him.
All the extra supplies had already been stored inside the longship’s cargo compartment.
Thorson had seen longships before and had heard tales of them through the many winters he had spent beside his mother’s hearth.
He had almost imagined they were as light as fishing boats.
They were not.
Especially not the monster that stood before them now.
Floki had not built several ships.
He had built only one, and it was nothing short of a masterpiece.
Thorson had spent time alongside Bjorn examining it while Bjorn explained its different parts.
Everything in a longship came down to the keel.
The keel was the spine of the ship, and because of that, the shipbuilder chose the finest tree, the strongest and straightest of them all, free of cracks and bends.
Everything else was built around it.
The keel alone took the strength of three strongest men to lift
After shaping it smooth, the hull and the rest of the ship were built around it.
Normally a ship would be tested before touching the sea on its maiden voyage.
This one would not.
Where could they test it?
Everything was frozen.
Its first voyage would decide whether they lived or died.
If it sailed, there would be celebration.
If it failed, it would spell doom, because a return journey with the little food they carried seemed impossible.
It looked as though the men had already arranged everything before he arrived, or perhaps they had sailed with Ragnar for so many years that they already knew what needed to be done.
Two thick ropes had been fastened to the front stern of the longship, with two parallel pulling lines attached.
Ten men stood waiting on each rope.
That meant twenty men at the front.
Another five men positioned themselves along each side.
Thirty men were already occupied with the ship itself.
That, however, was not where the real battle lay.
Under Floki’s watchful eye, another ten logs had been fashioned into rollers.
Each log measured nearly ten feet.
The moment Thorson saw them, he knew they were in for a slow, grueling task.
Rolling the ship over logs was the Vikings’ usual method of dragging a ship across land.
It was not what he would have recommended.
It would have been better to drag the ship directly over the ice.
Not only would this method be slower, but it would also demand far more strength.
As the ship rolled forward, the men who were not pulling or stabilizing it would rush to collect the freed logs, carry them ahead, place them beneath the keel again, and repeat the process over and over.
The question was whether they could sustain that until they found open water.
Once again, Thorson had the strong feeling that Ragnar was not taking him seriously.
Judging by his preparations, Ragnar still believed open water would not be far away.
That was wrong.
They were about to discover just how wrong.
There was no cry to begin as there usually would have been.
Floki simply raised his hand.
The twenty men tightened their grip on the ropes.
He held up his hand again, waiting until he had gone around to ensure every man stood where he should.
“Pull.”
At once the men leaned into the ropes.
At first the ship refused to move.
Strong as the men were, the ship was stronger.
The timber used to build it alone weighed well over three tons.
Add to that the cargo, the shields, and the axes, and the weight became immense.
Every time the ship groaned, Floki cried out as though someone were killing his own child before his eyes.
And he was right.
If anything broke inside that ship, they were going nowhere.
They would have to stop and repair it, and repairing a longship was no simple matter.
Eventually the ship lurched.
As soon as the front reached the first row of rollers, the rest of the ship began moving more smoothly.
“Pull.”
One step after another, the men settled into a rhythm.
Ropes stretched across broad shoulders.
Slowly they left Ragnar’s longhouse farther and farther behind.
Not long afterward it disappeared into the darkness.
Even then, by ordinary standards, their pace was little better than a snail’s crawl.
Their only hope was to cover enough distance before daylight revealed what they were doing and Haraldsson’s men caught wind of it.
At first the journey went smoothly.
The men were fresh, and the plan seemed to be working.
That changed when they reached the area where the sea had once been deepest.
Earlier they had been dragging the ship over rough snow packed down by people.
Out here, far beyond where anyone usually ventured, the ice was hard, smooth, and untouched.
That was a disaster.
On solid ground, the logs rolled evenly.
On smooth ice, the polished logs became a danger instead.
Rather than rolling beneath the ship, they began sliding sideways.
At one point a log shot out of alignment and knocked the feet from beneath one of the men supporting the port side of the hull.
The man caught himself against the ship.
In doing so, he forced the vessel, already balanced delicately upon its keel, to tilt dangerously.
Floki let out a horrifying cry.
“Hold her.
Hold her!”
Every man rushed to steady the ship.
No one even looked to see whether the fallen man had been injured until the swaying finally stopped.
Only then did a collective sigh escape them.
By now the men were panting and drenched in sweat.
They had spent so much time rotating between pulling the ropes, rearranging the logs, and relieving one another that none of them cared about the freezing cold anymore.
Bjorn and Thorson had been assigned as scouts.
The men had refused to let either of them waste their strength pulling.
Bjorn had not appreciated such treatment, but his father had insisted.
Thorson ranged nearly twenty paces ahead of the main group.
Bjorn remained twenty paces behind.
Two more men had been sent east and west.
Their task was to provide the first warning if Haraldsson’s men discovered the expedition and came to intercept them.
Thorson did not like the thought.
It would be a massacre.
Haraldsson commanded far more warriors than Ragnar.
Still, Thorson doubted the Earl would bother pursuing them.
Ragnar had long been a thorn in his side, and if Haraldsson truly believed this expedition was a death march, he would gladly let them leave and perish on their own.
After a long time passed without seeing the others, Thorson guessed the column had come to another halt.
He stopped as well.
Driving his axe into the ice, he lifted his eyes to the black night sky above.
All this effort…
All this hope.
Only for them to march toward the monstrous wall he had seen in his vision.
For the first time since the visions had begun, despite knowing they were true, Thorson found himself wishing they were not.