Rurik bent low, slipping an arm beneath Ragnar's shoulder and helping the battered warrior rise. Blood slicked the floor beneath them, soaking into the rushes. Olaf's body lay still, the life gone from his eyes. Rurik had struck the killing blow, yet even as he steadied Ragnar, he spoke as though excusing his deed.
"Think nothing of it," he muttered. "Call it repayment for the meal you shared with me."
The words sounded thin even to his own ears. For in truth, Rurik himself scarcely knew why he had acted as he did. It had not been reason, nor calculation, but something deeper—an inexorable tug of fate, as if the Norns themselves had woven this moment into the thread of his life. Whatever the cause, destiny had willed him to save this man.
Choking down his revulsion, Rurik severed Olaf's head with one brutal stroke and flung it onto the trampled earth outside. Then, raising his voice in a raw howl, he cried to the ring of shield-bearers, "Olaf is dead! To fight further is folly—lay down your arms!"
At the sight of their lord's lifeless head, the twenty surviving guards wavered. Fear and despair overcame them, and at last their shields and axes clattered to the ground.
One of Ragnar's companions, a golden-haired giant of a man, stepped forward, his voice carrying in the night air. "Olaf broke sacred custom, plotting against guests beneath his own roof. His bloodline is stained with treachery and is unworthy to rule Gothenburg. Ragnar alone has the strength to take the jarl's seat!"
At once, the remaining companions—nine hardened warriors, each sworn to Ragnar—took up the cry. Their voices rang together, chanting his name into the dark, while the firelight cast their shadows long across the ground, monstrous figures dancing in the storm-driven night.
Half an hour later, at the sound of the war-horn, the people of Gothenburg assembled before the longhouse. More than seven hundred souls gathered—farmers and fishermen, craftsmen and thralls. Fear clouded their faces, mingled with curiosity, suspicion, even hatred. For some, Ragnar was the hero of songs; for others, a usurper who had bathed their home in blood.
Ragnar stepped forward, his voice ragged yet commanding. He cleared his throat and spoke to them:
"Olaf was ever greedy, and his deceit left us no choice but to raise arms. Yet hear me now—as your new lord, I swear to treat the folk of Gothenburg with fairness. For the next two years, your taxes shall be cut in half!"
A murmur ran through the crowd. The promise of relief—less tribute to scrape together, fewer cattle claimed, fewer children sent hungry to bed—softened the air. Suspicion did not vanish, but it ebbed. Ragnar pressed on, smiling faintly, then turned his gaze to the captured shield-bearers.
"If any man doubts my right to rule," he declared, "let him challenge me here and now. I will meet him in single combat, beneath the watchful eyes of the gods. Let Odin himself decide."
Silence settled, heavy as snow. No warrior stepped forward. At last, the stillness became consent. Thus, without further bloodshed, Ragnar Lodbrok was acknowledged as jarl of Gothenburg.
The most perilous moment had passed. Yet Ragnar's mind, restless and shrewd, turned at once to his companions. One by one, he spoke, his voice carrying not only authority but a rare warmth.
"Gunnar," he said first, looking to the golden-haired man. "My truest friend. For more than ten winters you have stood beside me. Without you, my bones would have long rotted in Frankish soil."
"Ivar," he said next, turning to his eldest son. The youth's face was pale but fierce, his body twisted by fate, his legs crippled. "Enemies tremble at your name, calling you 'the Boneless.' I am proud, for you are the greatest gift Odin has ever granted me."
"Bjorn," he continued, addressing his second son. Broad-shouldered, only just of age, the boy stood eager with eyes bright as flame. "Though scarcely a man grown, you have shown courage enough for ten. No one is more deserving of the name 'Ironside.'"
Then he turned to a young archer at his flank. "Nils, my sister's son. Your arrows fly as though blessed by Ullr himself. May your aim never falter, and may your enemies fall before you."
At last, Ragnar's gaze fell on the stranger who had saved him. A pause followed, for words did not come easily. Yet after a moment he forced them out. "Rurik Hakonsen. Though we met only tonight, I value the bond between us. You are a friend."
The words were courteous, but truth lay plainer in his heart. Ragnar had given Rurik a portion of roasted meat out of nothing more than casual pity. Never had he expected such charity to be repaid with his life. Still, something about the youth stirred him—the lad bore a presence, a certain gravity, though he lacked all skill at arms.
"He has the look of promise," Ragnar thought, though not without skepticism. "A pity he has no training. Very well. I shall make him a shield-bearer. Let him spend this winter learning the art of war."
When the introductions were done, Ragnar raised his voice once more and pointed toward the longhouse looming behind them.
"Go, my brothers! Take what you desire!"
With shouts and wild laughter, the warriors stormed the hall. Rurik followed, uncertain, yet unwilling to part from the company he had bound himself to.
The lord's longhouse was a fortress of oak, forty meters in length and twelve in breadth, its roof high and steep, shaped like the hull of an overturned ship. Entering, they came first to the great hall, where a stone hearth smoldered at the center, sending smoke curling upward through the roof-vent. Olaf's high seat stood at the far end, its carved back rising tall as a throne. Along either side ran tables long enough for a feast of fifty men.
Behind thick pelts hung the lord's private chamber, while smaller rooms branched left and right—quarters for household guards, storerooms, and at the coldest edge, the larder and cellar. Olaf, ever fond of mead, had hollowed a great pit beneath the floor to store his casks.
Already the warriors set to plunder.
"This sword is mine!" cried Ivar, snatching a long blade from the wall. Its hilt was set with a blood-red gem, which he caressed with trembling fingers.
"This hauberk fits well enough," Bjorn declared, slipping into a coat of mail. The links shone dully, its pattern unlike any he had seen before, yet strangely suited to him.
Gunnar rummaged through a chest until he gave a shout of triumph. From it he drew a horn bound with gold at the rim. "Ha! Olaf's famed drinking-horn. Now it shall serve me."
Nils, for his part, seized a bow and quiver, stroking the polished wood as though it were alive. Others fell upon silver coins, jewels, and ornaments, stuffing them into sacks.
Only Rurik searched with restless intensity, ignoring treasure.
Ivar frowned. "And what is it you hunt, boy? Gold? Jewels? A maiden hidden away?"
Rurik shook his head, muttering, "Five sheepskin scrolls. They hold the survey of Gothenburg's fields. With them, the lord collected his tax each autumn. Without them—where are they?"
The warriors stared, bemused, for to them such things seemed trifles beside weapons and silver. Yet Rurik spoke truth. Those scrolls, like the fish-scale registers of Ming China, recorded each farm and its dues. In a land of scattered homesteads—neighbors sometimes half a kilometer apart, men and women living almost in isolation—such records were the key to rule. Without them, no lord could command tribute, and wealth would slip away like water through an open hand.
The search grew frantic, stretching through the night and into the dawn. No scrolls were found.
At last Ragnar summoned the townsfolk again, standing weary but resolute before them. "Whoever finds these scrolls shall have two pounds of silver for each! Even a rumor shall earn reward!"
From the crowd, a man raised his hand. "In the dead of night, I saw Olaf's wife fleeing with their children. She carried a bundle, tight under her arm. It may be what you seek."
At once, whispers surged through the assembly, unease rippling like a tide. Ragnar's hold upon the people—fragile, newly won—trembled with doubt.
When the crowd dispersed, Ragnar gathered his most trusted close within the hall. His voice was low, but edged with iron.
"Gunnar, Nils—ride to our old allies. Tell them Ragnar Lodbrok calls, and their swords are needed."
"Bjorn—return home. Bring back Lagertha and little Halfdan. Lose no time."
"Ivar—you remain. Guard Gothenburg, and see that Rurik learns the way of war."
Thus the hall emptied once more, the dawn light creeping over a land on the cusp of change.