In the days that followed, Vig trained under Ivar, learning the art of combat. As a shield-man, he now ate his fill of bread and fish, and his once-scrawny frame grew sturdier with each passing week.
Sometimes, Ragnar himself would give a few pointers when boredom struck.
"Don't rely too much on your shield. Never let it block your vision."
"When fighting rabble, the best tactic is to let them strike first. Use your shield to block, then in that moment of imbalance—kill with one blow. But against seasoned warriors, beware their feints. Watch their footwork above all else."
"If you and your enemy both wield swords, use the bind. Press your blade against his, twist and deflect it aside—then thrust straight for the kill."
Years of bloodshed had honed Ragnar's swordsmanship into five simple, deadly forms: the Bind, the Overhead Cut, the Reverse Strike, the Thrust, and the Disarm.
Compared to the hand axe, the sword was far more versatile, capable of both cutting and stabbing. Its only flaw was its cost. A single-handed sword cost half a pound of silver—the price of four cattle. A mail shirt was dearer still, three to five pounds of silver, affordable only to nobles or veteran warriors.
With no seniority, Vig was unworthy of such finery. Instead, he wore a 26-pound scale armor stripped from a fallen shield-man, and a plain Germanic iron helm. Still, it offered decent protection.
By winter's heart, he had fully settled into his new life as a shield-man. Strangely, he found himself particularly suited to the sword. With time, he could even hold his own for a few exchanges against the likes of Ivar, one of the deadliest men alive.
"Well done. With this armor and your progress, no ordinary warrior will bring you down," Ivar said after flooring Vig once more. The training was complete.
Suddenly, a commotion echoed from the eastern street. Ivar turned and saw them—twenty young women clad in armor, round shields and axes in hand, marching in formation around Lagertha. At the rear trailed a boy in white robes, barely ten years old.
"You've finally arrived."
Seeing his mother and younger brother, Ivar hurried forward, relief clear on his face. With shield-maidens to keep order, he would finally sleep soundly at night.
Behind him, Vig staggered upright, his gaze drawn to the tall, fair-faced woman with pale white hair flowing down her back. He knew her at once.
Lagertha. The most famed shield-maiden of the North. That she had gathered her own band of followers was no surprise. As for the boy in white—he could only be the future "White-Shirt" Halfdan.
With this new reinforcement, the longhouse bustled with activity. Soon after, Gunnar also returned, bringing more Vikings to swear loyalty. Ragnar now commanded sixty warriors—but at the cost of rapidly dwindling food stores.
As the pantry emptied, Ragnar ordered a full inventory. The result was grim—even with gold and silver to buy grain, the stockpiles would never last until next autumn.
"We'll have to raid come spring. Otherwise, we starve."
At his command, carpenters began building longships, with idle shield-men sent to the workshops to help.
By now, the design of the Viking ship was perfected. There were two kinds:
Knarrs (merchant ships): wide and deep, with cargo holds and decks, 15–20 meters long, able to carry ten tons of goods.
Drakkars (warships): built for speed and maneuverability, 20–30 meters long, without holds, carrying about fifty warriors.
For over a month, Vig watched the craftsmen at work. First, they chose a flawless tree trunk for the keel, the backbone of the ship, strong enough to withstand the sea's fury.
Oak planks were overlapped and riveted with iron nails, the seams stuffed with tar-soaked moss. Vig doubted the waterproofing, but followed instructions.
Ribs and beams of hazel or ash gave the hull its shape. Sails were sewn from wool, coated in beeswax to repel water.
By late February, three new warships were launched. Combined with the two already in hand, Ragnar could now carry two hundred men to sea. Their target remained Britain.
Why Britain and not the wealthier Frankish lands? The answer was simple.
Since Rome's retreat, the island had splintered into countless petty kingdoms, its civilization rotted away. Only three realms held real power: Northumbria, Mercia, and Wessex. The rest were too weak to resist raiders.
"This time, we strike Essex again. Hopefully we bring back enough iron tools," Ragnar muttered.
But just as he prepared for the voyage, a messenger arrived from Oslo. King Erik himself invited Ragnar as a guest.
"Does he want to discuss a raid?" Ragnar asked.
The messenger nodded. "Yes. He greatly looks forward to your arrival."
"Good. I'll leave tomorrow." Ragnar recalled meeting Erik three years before, and trusted the king would not mean him harm.
At dawn, Ragnar's party set sail, hugging the coast northward. Five days later, they reached Oslo—Norway's greatest settlement, with two thousand souls.
"What a lively place," Vig breathed.
Since arriving in this age, he had never seen so many ships. Mist clung to the fjord cliffs as the cold wind tore it away. Hundreds of longships crowded the harbor, their tall masts thrusting skyward like a floating forest.
The wooden pier creaked underfoot as Vig disembarked. The air reeked of ale, pickled herring, and burning whale oil, mingled with the clanging of forges. Prosperity hung thick in the air.
On the way to the longhouse, Vig counted quickly. Over a hundred men clad in mail patrolled the streets. Clearly, Erik had summoned other lords too—his household alone could never field so many.
"Is this… a pirate council?" Vig whispered.
And sure enough, he was right. Outside the longhouse, nine chairs were set in a ring, symbolizing the equal standing of nine jarls.
"Nine lords… if each brings two hundred men, that's a fleet of nearly two thousand. Enough to crush a kingdom. This will be a rare spectacle indeed."
With awe in his heart, Vig stood silently behind Ragnar's chair, ready to witness the gathering of the sea-wolves.