That night, no fire was lit.
Ragnar still did not feel safe enough.
Lighting a fire would only send signals to any pursuing party.
But even if they had wanted to light one, where would they have found wood?
They had not carried any for the obvious reason of shedding unnecessary weight.
Wood would only weigh them down.
Speed had seemed far more important than comfort.
One might have thought they would simply chop some from the surrounding area.
That was where their real problem began.
You see, when Thorson had told the people that the land had changed, he had become a laughingstock.
Even at the beginning of this journey, no man had paid much attention to the boy they believed was simply frightened by the prolonged winter and far too inexperienced to know what he was talking about.
The treachery of the whole thing almost seemed like a trick orchestrated by the hands of the trickster god Loki himself.
The land around Kattegat, or what most of these people still believed to be Kattegat, had retained a sense of familiarity.
Yes, it was buried beneath ice like everything else, but men could still recognize their farms by the scattered trees, even though the trees had shed their leaves and were slowly dying from the bitter cold.
The land still felt familiar.
But as soon as they had traveled for half a night’s journey, everything suddenly changed.
The land became as flat as a mat, stretching in every direction as far as the eye could see, with nothing but a sea of white death glaring back at them.
Throughout the night, Thorson began to hear men quietly wondering whether he had actually been right after all.
They still spoke of it jokingly, still mocked him, convincing themselves that there had to be some explanation behind all this.
Thorson wondered what explanation they were forming in their stubborn heads.
Had the winter swallowed every tree?
Had someone somehow chopped them all down and flattened the entire land?
Why would they not simply open their eyes and see that this was no longer Kattegat?
These were the barren Lands of Always Winter at the edge of the strange world he knew as Westeros.
However, he did not fancy his chances of raising the matter again.
The mood among the men was slowly being poisoned by uncertainty.
No one spoke of it openly, but uncertainty showed itself in their behavior
Men huddled together upon skins and wool they had spread over the frozen ground, whispering among themselves.
Some wondered whether they had made the wrong choice by answering Ragnar’s call for a winter raid against their better judgment.
Others quietly questioned whether the gods were punishing them for going against their rightful Earl, Haraldsson.
Still, no one dared raise the matter with Ragnar.
As soon as the first streak of light pierced the darkness, Ragnar once again rallied the men.
The pulling shifts were changed, fresh shoulders took up the ropes, Thorson rushed ahead to scout, Bjorn dropped back to resume his own position, and the journey continued.
With their bodies somewhat rested and the men now accustomed to the rhythm of pulling the ship, they covered far better ground this time with only a few mishaps.
After about half a day’s journey, Ragnar called for another halt.
The men reached for their rations, and everyone was reminded once again to use their food sparingly.
One thing Ragnar had not done was combine all the rations together.
Initially every man had been asked to come with whatever he could afford to carry.
This was yet another mistake that pointed to the fact that Ragnar had not taken Thorson’s warning seriously.
He had believed he would find open water quickly, just as he always had, and that they might even catch fish along the way to supplement their limited food supply.
The gods have mercy, but they were about to receive the shock of a lifetime.
It was not until the second night began to creep in during their journey that the men started expressing their doubts more freely.
At one of their stops, a man actually asked Ragnar outright whether he had an actual plan.
It was not a question Ragnar appreciated.
But judging by the fact that he did not confront the man, Thorson knew Ragnar had already accepted that his hope of finding open water that day had died.
Thorson knew the worst was yet to come.
Soon they would be standing before a wall made of the very same ice that lay beneath their feet.
He realized he was almost looking forward to that moment.
The thought shamed him, knowing it might cost some of the men their lives.
But for Thorson, that confirmation meant far more than mere survival.
It would prove that his entire life had not been a lie.
Were these visions truly real?
That question had haunted him for as long as he could remember.
The moment he laid eyes upon the Wall with his own eyes, he would know beyond all doubt that Odin had indeed granted him the Sight.
He did not know how he would react then.
There would be no joy in it, because nothing he had ever seen in those visions had brought hope.
The sight of that Wall would almost certainly be a death sentence for the raiding party unless they somehow found another route.
Back among the main party, the men were growing increasingly restless.
“I’m beginning to wonder whether Ragnar believed the words of the boy,” one of the men pulling at the front whispered to his companion.
“There’s a reason we stay put in winter.
I do not know how Ragnar came to this decision, but this I know.
The gods are not pleased.”
The men kept their voices low.
None of them wanted Ragnar to hear.
Someone else, however, was not hiding his thoughts.
Rollo had been seen arguing with him after the two withdrew some distance from the others.
From Ragnar’s manner, it was clear he was beginning to admit that things were not unfolding as he had intended.
Yet his response was not despair.
In fact, that very night they broke camp before half the night had even passed.
The men groaned in exhaustion, but each obediently took his place.
To begin what Thorson knew would be their final great push.
To spend what he knew was the last of their strength.
And he was right.
The men pulled as though possessed, as though they knew open water lay only a short distance ahead.
But Thorson knew the disaster in that.
It meant the unity and resilience of the Vikings were about to break.
Once that final burst of strength was spent, there would be only anger, frustration, and questions.
Endless questions with no answers.
An axe or two would be drawn.
A life or three would be lost.
It always happened when Vikings failed to find answers to their endeavors.
True enough, when the night faded, daylight returned, and half another day had passed, one of the men at the front suddenly released his rope.
“Grab your rope, you lazy fool,” the man opposite him snarled.
“Mind your tongue, you toothless bastard,” the exhausted man spat back.
“Do you think all of us are childless like you?
Some of us left families behind, you barren bastard.”
That was the first death.
Those words were among the worst insults one Viking could throw at another.
To mock a man’s barrenness was to insult his very name and honor.
Barrenness was heavily frowned upon among the Vikings.
Being unable to father children was humiliation enough.
The man being mocked was already the laughingstock of the village.
His first wife had left him, and his second had never hidden her contempt for his failure to put a child in her womb.
Now another brother had spoken those words openly before everyone.
It shattered the last of the man’s self respect.
He let go of the rope and lunged for the other man’s throat.
The only fortunate thing was that their shields and axes had already been stowed aboard the ship to make the men lighter and quicker while pulling.
But that good fortune was limited.
A Viking’s greatest weapon was never his shield.
Even the smallest among them was built for violence.
The moment the two men grabbed each other and fists began flying, the first true casualties were suffered.
By the time Rollo reached them and dragged them apart, the man who had first dropped his rope was almost beyond recognition.
It was already too late.
There was nothing left to save.
Rollo looked once at the victim whose blood stained the ice before releasing the assailant.
The man shut his eyes.
For a brief moment, regret crossed his face.
But regret came too late.
The wounded man was dying.
Slowly but Painfully.
His hands stretched forward, almost pleading.
Without another word, the attacker drew a dagger and, in one swift motion, cut across the man’s throat, ending his suffering.
Silence settled over the gathered men.
Watching a holmgang or falling in battlefield against an enemy was one thing.
Watching a brother kill another brother was something entirely different.
None of them were fools.
They all knew what had truly caused this violence.
There were questions none of them had been willing to ask aloud.
Now that illusion had shattered.
The dead man’s closest friend also released his rope and turned toward the gathered company.
“Is this the loot Ragnar Lothbrok promised us?
You spoke of open waters when the Earl himself, in his wisdom, warned that every sea was frozen and that raiding in winter would bring nothing but death.”
“Aye.
Aye.”
Several voices echoed his cry, and the man grew bolder.
“Look around you,” he shouted, sweeping his arm across the frozen wasteland.
“A worse fate than this awaits us.
We shall all die upon this barren land, far from our families.
And for what?”
He turned to Ragnar.
Ragnar stepped toward him.
“Onik, this voyage was never meant for cowards.
If you lack the courage to continue, then take your shield and axe and make your own way home.”
Onik sneered.
“He calls this a voyage.
I do not see a single man holding an oar.
Or have you begun seeing things like that boy?”
He pointed toward Thorson.
Ragnar immediately reached and grabbed the man by the throat.