When word spread that Borg had fled in disgrace, Ragnar and his sons were eager to give chase. But King Erik barred their path.
"Ragnar, we are about to launch the greatest raid in history. I need you to guide the way. Here's my offer: I and six other nobles will pool twenty pounds of silver as a bounty for Borg's head. What say you?"
Though his tone seemed courteous, the pressure beneath was unmistakable. One by one, the other nobles closed ranks behind Erik, silent but firm, bearing down on Ragnar.
In this tense moment, it was Ivar who steadied first. "Father, go with them to Britain. Bjorn and I will take men east to hunt Borg. Even if he hides in Jotunheim itself, I'll drag him out and kill him."
He turned to the shield-warriors. "Who's with me to cut down that coward?"
The hall fell silent. Then, unexpectedly, Vig stepped forward. "Count me in."
His unlikely volunteering sparked the others' courage. Soon, a band of ten was sworn to the pursuit.
Their hunt led them far afield. In Stockholm they learned Borg had boarded a ship three days earlier, bound for the Rus lands. Ivar laughed coldly.
"So. The rat scurries into another's warren. A clever prey."
They sold their horses, took ship eastward, and reached the mouth of the Neva—future St. Petersburg. Following the river upstream, they came to a lakeside village at Ladoga.
The place was ringed by oak palisades two men high. Inside stood half-dug wooden huts with thatched roofs still clinging to snow. Muddy tracks were gouged by sled runners and hooves.
As Vig asked around, he learned the locals grew rye and barley much like in Scandinavia, with the same meager yields. To survive, many turned to trade: buying furs, amber, and slaves, ferrying them down the rivers to Constantinople for vast profits.
The thought struck him uneasily: What if Borg didn't linger here? What if he kept fleeing south?
At dusk, the hunters regrouped on the green before the chieftain's hall. Ivar's face was dark.
"Empty your purses, brothers. We've still a long road ahead."
Sure enough, Vig's premonition was right. Borg was bound for Constantinople. And so was he.
The route was known to the Vikings of this age: down the Neva into Lake Ladoga, through the Volkhov into the Dnieper, out to the Black Sea, and at last along the coast to the shining city itself.
For such a journey, Ivar recruited a seasoned guide—a Rus-trader named Rurik. He was a towering man with wild red hair, hard-eyed, and scarred by battle.
"Eastern rivers aren't like the northern seas," he warned. "If you value your lives, follow my advice."
Ivar sized him up and nodded. "On the road, we'll heed you. In Constantinople, we part ways. You chase profit, we chase blood. Don't get in our way, and we won't get in yours."
Rurik agreed, purchased a cargo of white fox pelts and amber, and announced their departure. Counting his four retainers, their ship now carried fifteen hardened men. Seven took oars to port, seven to starboard, while Rurik steered at the stern.
Their first stop was Novgorod on Lake Ilmen, bustling with Norse and Rus merchants. The market rang with cries of barter and coin.
"Two days' rest," Rurik declared with a yawn. "You'll need it."
When they set out again, the river narrowed, and soon Rurik gave the order to halt.
"What's happening?" Vig asked, as he saw the rudder being dismantled and the sails taken down.
Rurik called them ashore. "We drag her overland from here. Cut logs. Make rollers."
It was backbreaking work. To save the hull, they laid round timbers beneath like rails, dragging the ship forward a few meters at a time. Those ahead hauled on ropes, those behind ran forward with the spent logs to relay them to the front.
To Vig, there was only one word for it: hell.
Up at dawn, a quick bite, then hours of straining labor. By dusk they'd crawled scarcely four kilometers. At slopes, pulleys and winches were needed to hoist the vessel like an ox carcass.
The only saving grace was that Ivar, Nils, and the others were expert hunters, keeping their bellies full of meat. Without that nourishment, Vig's body would have broken.
He lost all sense of time, working until his mind was numb. And then—suddenly—the world opened wide.
Under spring sunlight stretched boundless steppe, lush and green. At its heart flowed a broad, gleaming river. Birds wheeled overhead in joyous swarms, as though to hail their victory.
"The Dnieper! By the gods, we made it!"
Vig staggered to the bank, staring at his own filthy reflection in the water. He raised his callused hands and felt a surge of giddy relief, as though escaping death itself.
They reassembled the rudder, shoved the ship into the current, and collapsed on deck as the waters rocked them gently. For a brief moment, the world was perfect.
Then Rurik cleared his throat. "Brothers… there are still seven more portages ahead."
Seven.
Seven times dragging ships overland.
Vig nearly broke down. "Why in hell do we need to drag it again? Doesn't the Dnieper flow straight into the Black Sea? Are you mocking us?"
He wasn't alone. Ivar and the others cursed furiously, venting days of pent-up misery.
"Calm yourselves!" Rurik raised his hands. "It's not my will. The Dnieper has seven rapids where no ship dares sail. You'll see with your own eyes soon enough why we must."