After a round of greetings, "Fat" Erik and the eight jarls took their seats. Though he styled himself king, Erik was not their overlord. There was no feudal bond between them, only mutual convenience. Thus his manner was affable, not commanding.
"Brothers," Erik cleared his throat.
"Since we carved the western sea-route, countless warriors have sailed to Britain and Frankia, bringing back riches beyond imagining. Yet these are but petty raids—two hundred men at most, striking villages, never cities. It is time to gather a true host and sack a royal capital. Then we shall all grow fat on plunder!"
The hall erupted in thunderous roars, a wave of sound like a storm crashing on rock. Some jarls' eyes gleamed with bloodlust, while others frowned, fearing Erik might lure away their sworn shield-men.
When the clamor faded, Erik had servants unroll a crude map of Britain. A patch of the southeast was blackened. Vig leaned closer. The mark was on Essex.
"Londinium," Erik declared—the Roman city later called London. "That is where we strike."
He launched into a long-winded boast, painting Londinium as the richest city in all the western isles, a place of overflowing treasures. Vig stifled a yawn.
What wealth? he scoffed inwardly. Rome abandoned Britain in the fifth century, and the city rotted since. It won't thrive again until the Normans in the eleventh. If we plunder now, we might be raiding an empty shell.
At last, when no lord spoke in objection, Erik drained half a golden goblet of mead and waddled over to Ragnar.
"Ragnar Lothbrok. Whether or not they've met you, all here know your name. Eighteen years you have raided the West. You know Britain's coasts as well as your own fjord. Let the fleet sail under you. What say you all?"
From across the ring, one jarl sneered. "Ragnar is a fine sellsword, a hound for hire. But he has no place as our equal."
At once, Ragnar's shield-men bristled. Insults and curses flew, but none so fierce as Ivar's. He tore off his furs, drew his sword, and leveled it straight at the man.
"Ivar the Boneless, son of Ragnar and Lagertha—challenges you to a duel!"
The hall roared its approval. Among the Norse, no glory outshone trial by combat. Erik, unwilling to fight the tide of cheers, said nothing. He slumped back into his chair, drinking in silence.
The jarl, pale with anger, refused the duel himself. "Your bloodline is nothing. You are unworthy." Instead, he thrust forward a shield-man of formidable build.
"That's all?" Ivar spat, crooking a finger. "Come. Let's end this quickly."
From Vig's angle, he saw only Ivar's back, the flash of steel, and then the man fell. His throat split wide, blood pulsing out in hot rivers.
But Ivar did not stop. He snatched up his shield and smashed it down again and again, bones cracking like dry twigs.
Only then did Vig truly understand why they called him "Boneless."
When the corpse finally stilled, Ivar rose, eyes like chips of ice. He glared at the jarl—Borg by name—and spoke colder than winter wind.
"Next."
Borg sent another, then another. Three more fell the same way, their blood soaking the rushes. Ivar seemed intent on slaughtering every man in his retinue.
Sensing the tide slipping beyond control, Erik finally rose. "Enough! Your blood is meant to spill in Britain, not on my hall's floor. This ends now!"
Under his command, the meeting resumed. Yet the lords' thoughts were elsewhere, their eyes still drawn to Ivar—the son who had slain four men before two thousand witnesses, humiliating a rival jarl. His renown would spread like wildfire. Skalds would sing of this day.
When the council adjourned, Erik sought to smooth the rancor with feast and mead. He bade the jarls and their men to table.
The fare was simple, yet hearty. The centerpiece: a whole roasted pig, its hide glazed with honey and dusted with precious pepper. Platters of cod, pickled beef, and lamb followed, along with blood sausages stuffed with offal.
On one tray lay the dreaded fermented shark, reeking foul enough to curl the stomach.
There was one vegetable dish only—turnips, onions, and beans stewed in broth. The bread was hard as bark, the cheese aged and sharp. Mead flowed without end.
When Erik raised his goblet in toast, the banquet began.
Vig ate in silence. He had no mighty deeds to boast of, no songs to claim, no renown. Instead, he focused on filling his belly. With hardship looming, better to store strength now.
He chuckled inwardly. In his old life, he had despised fatty pork, calling it greasy. Now he craved it more than fish or fowl. A slab of fat was worth more than lean meat—it kept a man alive through winter.
As he chewed, scraps of gossip drifted his way. Borg, it seemed, had once been close friends with the former jarl of Gothenburg—Olaf. Just two months ago, he had sworn to shelter Olaf's widow and children.
Ah. No wonder he spat venom at Ragnar.
Meanwhile, Ivar was making oaths of his own, his voice carrying over the feast.
"I swear I will cut down the king of Essex myself! I'll seize his crown, tear down his palace stone by stone, and level it to the earth!"
Level it to the earth? Vig snorted into his bread. The fool's never seen a Roman wall. These aren't timber halls. If we fail at the first rush, it'll turn into a brutal siege.
Best find a chance to speak with Ragnar in private. If he'll hear me, maybe he'll listen to sense.
But not tonight. Not among drunken Vikings, where a careless word could earn an axe to the skull.