Ninth century AD, somewhere along a Scandinavian fjord.
When the morning frost still clung to the blades of grass, Vig Hakonarson was awakened by the harsh cawing of ravens outside. Wrapping himself in a ragged sheepskin coat, he rolled off the bed.
The moment he pushed open the oak door, the icy, salt-laden wind slapped him in the face. Gazing westward across the fjord, he saw the sea surface calm and mirror-like, reflecting the leaden clouds above. Ravens wheeled and circled in flocks, heralding the bitter northern winds soon to sweep south.
"Late August… Why is the temperature dropping so quickly?"
Vig was fifteen years old. He had been raised by his sister's family since childhood. Last summer, she had followed her second husband to settle in Britain, leaving the farmhouse and fields behind for her younger brother.
But fortune had not favored him. In early autumn a sudden storm destroyed most of his crops, forcing him to sell off his livestock for grain. If this year's harvest turned out poorly again, he feared he wouldn't survive the coming winter.
"I've been here less than a month since traveling through time, and I'm already facing a survival crisis. Why couldn't I have ended up in the Tang Dynasty, or in Byzantium? Why did it have to be some godforsaken backwater in Scandinavia—and I don't even know the exact year…"
The young man muttered complaints toward the sky—then froze as a scream rang out from the south. He turned his head to see eight unfamiliar men gathered near his neighbor Jorund's house.
Raiders?
The soil of Scandinavia was too barren for farming, so banditry thrived. Some chose to take to the sea, raiding or trading. Others couldn't be bothered to sail, and simply robbed whoever was nearby.
By custom, neighbors were obliged to aid one another in times of attack. Vig hurried back inside, fetched a round shield and a wooden spear, and tucked a single-handed iron axe at his waist.
When he emerged, he found other neighbors converging on Jorund's home. Adult men carried shields and axes, while women and youths held hunting bows. All told, they gathered eighteen people.
"Shield wall!"
At the bark of a middle-aged man, twelve of them, Vig included, locked their shields together and advanced slowly toward the raiders. The women and youths spread to the flanks, losing arrows in haphazard volleys.
A hundred meters.
Seventy.
Fifty.
At thirty meters, a woman managed to strike one of the strangers and cried out in triumph—only to fall a heartbeat later, an arrow through her throat. She collapsed to the ground, twitching until stillness claimed her.
Thump, thump. Thump, thump.
Vig's heart hammered in his chest. Forcing down the fear, he locked his eyes on the raiders before him. At fifteen meters, both sides halted as one, shouting war cries to intimidate their foes.
Numbers won the day: with nearly twice their strength, Vig's side roared louder. The seven surviving raiders glanced at one another, then shouldered their stolen grain and fled. Two fell with arrows in their backs; the other five vanished into the forest.
Peace returned.
After a brief burial for the fallen, the villagers dispersed. Life in Scandinavia was harsh and uncertain. They were long accustomed to death—some even saw it as a release.
By September, the northern winds grew sharper. Vig began to harvest his barley, the sickle slicing through stalks with a dry rasp. Golden heads of grain toppled at his boots, neat as hair combed into place.
But his inexperience showed. By modern measure, the yield came to only four hundred kilograms. Ten per mu had to be kept as seed, another forty for tax, leaving just two hundred kilograms. Enough to stave off starvation—but with no margin against disaster.
"Life as a free farmer is anything but easy."
The next morning, Vig packed the best of his grain into a sack and set out for Gothenburg, twenty kilometers to the south, to pay his dues.
Gothenburg had about seven hundred permanent residents. Its ruler, a burly middle-aged man named Olaf, was fond of strong drink. He had even built a massive brewery and demanded fresh grain every year from his farmers. Any who refused had their land confiscated.
Passing through a low stockade, Vig walked along a muddy street choked with sewage toward the marketplace. Brass bells jingled between merchant tents. Slavic traders wrapped in furs shouted prices for mead, a blacksmith wordlessly hammered glowing ingots, and a Sami witch painted runes on birch bark with reindeer blood. The mingled clamor of voices swelled into a chaotic chorus—yet to Vig, who usually lived alone, it was oddly comforting.
Before long, he reached the granary. "Vig Hakonarson, from the north. This is my harvest for the year."
An elderly one-armed man sat at the entrance. He pinched a small handful of barley, studied it, then poured the sack into a wooden bin.
"You've met your tax for this year. May Odin grant you a better harvest to come."
He drew one of five sheepskin scrolls from the table, spreading it open. The map roughly sketched the farmland north of Gothenburg. Dipping his finger in dark-blue dye, the old man dabbed a mark over Vig's plot. "Next!"
With his dues paid, Vig planned to find short-term work in Gothenburg, just in case.
It was then that a rowdy band of Vikings came swaggering up the street, meat in one hand, wine skins in the other, bellowing hymns to Odin.
Their air was fierce; all wore mail and iron. Vig stepped quickly aside, not wishing to provoke them—but his eyes were drawn, unwillingly, to the roasted mutton clutched in their hands.
The past year had been one of poverty and hunger. Sometimes luck brought a cod or two into his nets, but fish was lean and unsatisfying. A single bowl of pork could fill him better than two bowls of cod.
He sighed and lowered his head, walking on—until a heavy hand slapped his shoulder. Turning, he found the bearded leader grinning as he thrust a great hunk of lamb into his hands.
What was this? Mistaken identity?
Still frowning, Vig hesitated. But the big man only laughed, grabbed a wineskin from a companion, and shoved it at him. "Mead from Britain. Taste it!"
Over the grumbling of the others, Vig caught a name—one both strange and familiar. Ragnar.
Ragnar Lothbrok. History recorded that he once led an assault on Paris, forcing Charles the Bald to buy peace with tribute. The most legendary figure of the Viking Age.
Memories surged in a torrent, freezing Vig where he stood. By the time he blinked back to himself, the raucous band was already gone, their voices fading into the distance—
The lands to the west beckon from beyond the mists.
Great voyagers, who would fear a grave beneath the waves?
When Odin's ravens bring us victory,
the mead of Valhalla will brim in our horns.