The locals had begun calling Rurik the "God-chosen." He did not mind the name. After all, had he not been inexplicably cast into this strange world? In that sense, the title seemed apt enough.
Having witnessed the might of this so-called God-chosen, Lord Lennard agreed at last to join Ragnar's expedition—but on one condition: his neighbor Ulf must also take part.
"I do not trust that man," he explained. "If I sail away alone, he may well seize the chance to raid my undefended lands."
Thus, unwilling though he was, Rurik consented to ride on to Konsell and persuade Ulf.
Compared with Lennard's holding, Konsell was a picture of poverty. The entire settlement numbered scarcely sixty households. The people stooped and thin, their faces gaunt, the streets more akin to a slum than to any thriving village.
"No wonder they stoop to stealing game," Rurik muttered as he tethered his horse.
He pushed open the door of the lord's hall. Inside, the fire burned low, the air dim. A tall, gaunt man, clad in ragged furs, dozed beside the hearth. Rurik roused him with a shake.
"I am a shield-bearer of Ragnar Lodbrok," he announced. "I have come to invite Lord Ulf to Gothenburg. Where is he?"
The man rubbed his eyes and yawned.
"I am Ulf. I thank Ragnar for his goodwill, but I cannot spare the time. Lennard readies to march upon me. Gods, all this over a single reindeer! The man is hardly a Viking."
As the complaints tumbled out, Rurik pieced together another version of the quarrel: Ulf's men had wounded the beast first, but it had fled into Lennard's territory, sparking endless contention.
It mattered little to Rurik who was right or wrong. "I have spoken with Lennard," he said evenly. "He has agreed to set aside the feud and join the raid—on the condition that you do the same."
"You persuaded that miser?"
Ulf's voice leapt in pitch. He barked for his wife to bring mead for their guest.
"Tell me, how in Odin's name did you manage that?"
"I built a kite and drew the thunder of heaven into a clay jar."
Ulf stared, then laughed in disbelief. Still, with his borders safe for the moment, he gave his word. He had little choice—without fresh plunder, he could hardly pay the wages of his eight shield-bearers.
Two days later, Ulf and Lennard stood together in an open field, swearing before the gods never to make war upon one another for the next three years.
Back in Gothenburg, Rurik reported all this to Ragnar, who repeated with amusement the epithet "God-chosen."
"I never guessed you had such a gift," he said warmly. "Well done. With Lennard and Ulf pledged, we now have twelve lords committed to the raid."
With their leadership, Ragnar estimated, the host could number no fewer than three thousand warriors. To carry so vast an army across the sea would demand ships and provisions beyond counting—a colossal expense.
Seeing the weight of doubt upon Ragnar's brow, Rurik made his decision. He would invest his entire fortune in the expedition. His reasons were simple:
First, the treasure could not be carried with him, and if left behind in Gothenburg, it would almost surely be stolen.
Second, such a contribution would win him a measure of authority in the coming raid, along with no small increase in reputation.
"Are you in earnest?" Ragnar's eyes widened. Moved, he rose from his seat and poured Rurik a cup of mead with his own hand.
"Your generosity will not be forgotten. When the raid succeeds, the spoils shall be divided by merit. With luck, your twenty pounds of silver will return to you doubled."
By March of the year 843, the weather softened. From every quarter of the North, men converged. Off Gothenburg's western shore, a hundred longships lay at anchor. More than three thousand strangers thronged the once-quiet village, and order swiftly frayed. Brawls broke out daily, and the shield-bearers struggled to keep peace.
"Stand down, or I'll have no choice but to use force!" Rurik shouted at two drunken louts. When they ignored him, he struck them down and dragged them off to the pigsty. Before he could catch his breath, a woman's scream split the air.
"Why have we not sailed yet? We cannot live like this!"
Soon Björn arrived with two companions, muttering sourly, "We wait only on King Erik. The old fox loves his ceremony, and must always be last to appear. Likely he has not even set out."
As the days dragged on, tempers worsened. Ragnar's second wife, Sola, lost several strings of beads; Ivar's silk vanished; even Björn's prized maps were stolen, never to be found.
Rurik breathed a sigh of relief that he had already invested his wealth in the raid. Otherwise, he too would have suffered loss. Each night he slept with his mail shirt beneath his head and the Dragon-Breath sword clasped to his chest, lest thieves covet his most precious arms.
At last, in mid-March, King Erik arrived with twenty ships. With Ragnar included, thirteen lords now commanded the host—more than three thousand five hundred souls, a full quarter of them shield-maidens.
Yet of these, fewer than three hundred possessed iron armor. The vast majority bore only a round shield and a simple axe.
On the eve of departure, Ragnar summoned shamans from Uppsala to preside over sacrifice. Rurik recoiled from the bloody rites and slipped away to a lonely spot, gazing westward over the leaden sea.
(Note: Uppsala, near modern Stockholm, was the holiest sanctuary of Norse polytheism in the Viking Age.)
"So, the famed God-chosen avoids the ritual. Is there a hidden reason?"
A figure emerged from the alley—a man in a black cloak. Seeing Rurik's indifference, he pulled back his hood. His scalp was shaven, his body tall and thin, his face ghastly pale. Dark blue runes were inked into his skin, and his gaze was sharp as a blade.
"I am called the Raven-Speaker."
Rurik stiffened. "What do you want?"
The man's eyes seemed to pierce his very thoughts.
"You shrink from these sacrifices. I share your distaste. Yet tradition rules us all—elders hold sway, and the young dare not speak against them. To challenge such rites is to invite ruin. In this, Uppsala is no different from any other hall."
"I never suggested changing anything," Rurik answered curtly, though the words rang hollow.
Suddenly, the Raven-Speaker seized Rurik's wrist with hands cold and hard as iron.
"Rurik Stone, chosen of the Aesir, destiny awaits you. Great deeds lie before you, and I shall be your truest ally. You may not trust me now, but one day you will. Until then—may your path lead to its rightful end."