Viking Invasion-Chapter 56 – Iceland

Bjorn did not share Rurik’s opinion of their comrade. "You have Tynburgh," he said flatly. "Ivar has Derwent and Dufelin. And what do I have? It’s true, I love the sea — the pull of the wind in the sail, the salt on my tongue — but a man must have a place to rest his feet when the voyage ends. I’ll not return to York every time, not with Queen Sola watching us three like a hawk. The woman despises us, and never misses a chance to remind us of it. Her tongue’s venom could sour a whole feast hall."

He bent down and scooped up a handful of dark earth. The soil was damp, cool between his fingers. He inhaled deeply, as though the scent itself might clear his thoughts.

"The longer I stay in the royal hall," he murmured, "the more I feel like a guest in another man’s home. A stranger at his own hearth. No — it’s time I found a place that belongs to me."

Rurik saw the resolve in his friend’s eyes and knew further persuasion would be useless. Instead, he changed the subject lightly. "If you truly mean to settle in those lands, then perhaps we can trade. I’ll need volcanic ash for my work. In return, I can send you supplies — iron, timber, salt meat."

Bjorn looked at him in surprise. "Volcanic ash?"

"I learned of a formula in the Eastern Roman lands," Rurik explained. "They mix ash with lime and stone dust to make a kind of concrete — hard as the cliffs themselves. I’ll need much of it soon."

They talked for a while longer, and by the time they returned to Tynburgh for the evening meal, their talk had turned to lighter matters. Rurik, half teasing, mentioned Princess Eve. A shadow passed over Bjorn’s face; he gave a short, regretful laugh and shook his head.

"It came to nothing," he admitted. "Ah, but she was the fairest woman I have ever known — soft of form, smooth of skin, a voice that could still the sea. Only her ambition was too fierce. One day she asked if I meant to claim the crown after Father’s death. I had no answer for her. Above me stands my brother Ivar, and below me Halfdan and Ubbe. When I look at myself, I see no claim save my seamanship. And that alone wins no throne."

He took up his great silver cup and gazed through the flickering candlelight as if watching something far away. "When she learned I meant to sail west again, to make a home on some barren island, she grew cold. Two days later she boarded a ship with her brother, young Erik, and left without farewell."

His voice faded. For a while he ate in silence, chewing mechanically, his eyes on the table. When the meal was done, he excused himself and went to rest, leaving Rurik to the crackle of the hearth fire and the sigh of the wind against the shutters.

For the next three days Bjorn busied himself with preparations. He sold his remaining cargo at market, bartered for stores of cheese, smoked fish, tar, and rope, and oversaw the loading of his new ship — a fine longboat, twenty meters from stem to stern, freshly built from oak that still smelled of sap. Upon its pale-grey sail was painted a soaring gull: his chosen crest, the emblem of his freedom. Since the lands he sought were said to be barren and rocky, he brought six sheep aboard, hoping to breed them once they found pasture.

On the morning of departure, the docks of Tynburgh were crowded. Rurik clasped him by the shoulders.

"Farewell, brother," he said solemnly. "May your oars bite clean and your gods guard your way."

Bjorn grinned. "Wait for good tidings. You’ll hear of me again."

To the cheers of the townsfolk, his ship slid into the current and drifted downriver to the mouth of the Tyne. From there, he steered north along the grey coast until, after several days, the prow cut the waters of the Shetland Islands.

Years before, these islands had been little more than wind-torn rocks, but now they teemed with life. A thousand Vikings had made their homes there — fugitives from war, wanderers, and even a few exiled nobles. Fires burned in turf-roofed halls, and the sound of hammers rang from the shores.

When they learned of Bjorn’s destination, many were skeptical.

"You believe there lies a great island west of the Faroes?" one man asked, incredulous.

"I do," Bjorn replied. "The word came from Rurik, and he does not speak idly."

The men murmured among themselves. By nightfall, four ships had joined his, drawn by promise and daring — two hundred and three souls in all.

They set sail west by northwest, and after two days reached the farthest edge of the known world: the Faroe Islands, steep and storm-swept. The land rose in sharp cliffs from the sea, bare of trees, the wind tearing at the grass in ceaseless fury. Scattered along the coasts were a few hardy settlements of turf and stone. The people here fished, herded sheep, and hunted the strange black-backed, white-bellied birds with bright beaks — puffins, they called them.

Bjorn ate five roasted puffins that evening and declared them a delicacy. "If a man could eat such fare every day," he said between mouthfuls, "he’d live like a king!"

After replenishing their food and water, the fleet weighed anchor again at dawn, steering farther into the wild northwest. The sea stretched endless before them — a rolling wilderness of steel-grey waves beneath a sky of cloud. Salt wind whipped their faces raw; the taste of brine coated their lips. Behind them the Faroes dwindled, then vanished, a dark smudge swallowed by mist.

Now they were in unknown waters. Storms, icebergs, thunder, monsters — who could say what awaited them? A nameless dread settled on the men. They fingered their amulets, whispered prayers to Thor and Odin, and kept their eyes on the shifting horizon.

On the second day, a fierce north wind struck. The sails screamed in protest, ropes snapping, canvas tearing. One of the smaller ships, weakest of the lot, broke apart under the pounding waves — split clean in two. Thirty men went down with her, their cries lost to the roaring sea.

For three days and nights the fleet battled the storm. The waves towered higher than houses, crashing over the decks; the men bailed frantically, clinging to the oars, drenched and shivering. Many were swept away by the sea’s white claws. Yet the survivors endured, teeth chattering, eyes hollow with exhaustion.

At last, on the fifth morning, the water beneath them changed hue — from black to a paler green. Someone shouted, pointing. Hope flickered like a spark in their hearts. Bjorn released a raven from its cage. The bird circled, croaked harshly, then flew off to the northwest and did not return.

A roar rose from the men — a cheer that defied wind and wave alike. They rowed after the raven’s path with renewed vigor. When the sun rose on the sixth day, a lookout gave a strangled cry: ahead, through the lifting fog, rose cliffs of slate and basalt, stark and immense, their peaks veiled in cloud. Gulls wheeled above them in shining flocks.

"By Odin’s hand," Bjorn whispered, "He has blessed us."

They skirted the coastline half a day before finding a narrow beach where they could land. Four battered longships scraped against the shingle, their hulls cracked, sails in tatters. Not far off lay a stranded whale, vast and glistening, dead but unspoiled. A man cut off a strip of flesh with his dagger, chewed thoughtfully, and nodded.

"Fresh," he said. "We’ll not starve tonight."

The whale was taken as a sign — a gift of the gods. They feasted that evening and rested, then set about exploring. The land was bleak but not lifeless: low hills carpeted in moss and lichen, stunted birches clinging to the valleys, the wind howling endlessly from the sea.

After ten days of scouting, they found a valley sheltered from the western gales, where a small grove of birches grew beside a winding stream. It was quiet there, the soil less stony, the air softer.

"Here," Bjorn declared, standing upon a rise. "Here we shall make our home. This island shall be called Iceland. I, Bjorn Ironside, son of Ragnar and Lagertha, claim it as my dominion."

A cheer broke out, echoing across the empty land. Under his command, the men felled trees, built longhouses, and fenced off the slopes for their sheep. Bjorn marked out a plot of ground on a sunlit hill and ordered it ploughed. "We’ll sow rye come September," he said. "It endures the cold better than wheat or barley. If it takes root, this land may yet sustain us."

That night, he looked to the northern sky and whispered a prayer. "Let it grow. Let this harsh earth yield something worth the struggle."

Then the ground trembled beneath his feet. A faint shudder, like a giant turning in its sleep. The men lifted their heads, uneasy. From beyond the mountains rose a pillar of smoke — black and churning, twisting upward like a serpent. The air grew sharp with the stench of sulfur. Birds shrieked and scattered.

Bjorn ran to the hilltop. Far to the north, the horizon glowed red — a wound in the earth bleeding fire into the sky. 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆𝙬𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝒎

"What in Odin’s name..." he breathed.

And there, under the pall of smoke and flame, the saga of Iceland began.