Viking Invasion-Chapter 59 – The School

The examinations had concluded. Rurik summoned the sixteen shamans, the Raven-Speaker among them. He did not speak at once. Instead, he sat behind his desk in silence, hands folded, eyes half-shuttered, waiting for one of them to offer an explanation worthy of his patience.

As both High Priest of the Temple and headmaster of the academy, the Raven-Speaker was the first to step forward. His appearance had changed markedly since the wild, blood-streaked days of the old rites. Gone was the feral look that once marked him; in its place, a sober dignity. He now wore a robe of plain black cloth, neat and unadorned. The strange tattoos that once coiled across his face had faded to faint shadows, and his hair—black, smooth, and straight—hung down his back, lending him a quiet air of gravity and mildness.

"My lord," he began, his voice even, "in truth, we have all labored with care. Only a few among the newly arrived shamans have not yet mastered the teaching materials. I swear before the gods, on behalf of all my colleagues, that we shall heed your instruction with diligence in the coming two months."

When he had finished his declaration, Rurik merely lifted his right hand in a weary, dismissive gesture. The Raven-Speaker let out a breath he had been holding. He had come to know that motion well. It meant the lord would not pursue the matter further. Were Rurik instead to turn away in silence, his face dark as iron, that would be the sign that punishment was near.

Rurik rubbed his temples and asked mildly, "What are your own thoughts on improving the quality of teaching?"

A woman among them spoke first. "We could lengthen the school day—extend it from six lessons to eight."

"Not advisable," Rurik said at once, kneading the bridge of his nose. "The human mind tires easily, especially that of a child. Five or six hours is the limit before attention falters." He waved for the others to continue.

A young man stepped forward next, his name Kemi Wildfire—a striking figure, with hair the color of bright embers and a face that bore faint traces of Slavic blood.

"Then, my lord," he said, "perhaps we should increase the supply of parchment. At present the school owns but fifteen full sets of teaching texts—hardly enough for the masters, let alone the pupils. One in five of the children, I have found, show great eagerness to study, yet are held back for want of materials. They resort to copying lessons by hand onto papyrus, but the paper is so frail that many of their efforts crumble before they are done."

"Finances are tight," Rurik interrupted, tone clipped. "Do not expect me to squander more coin on parchment."

Parchment—tough, durable, and cruelly expensive. After an animal was slaughtered, the tanner scraped away its hair and fat with a curved knife, soaked the skin in limewater, tanned it, stretched it taut, and polished it smooth. The entire process consumed three weeks. From a single calf’s hide one might cut four to eight folio sheets, each capable of holding perhaps a thousand characters. Sheep, being smaller, yielded only three to six pages. Writing on both sides was possible but risky—the ink bled through, marring the words.

Papyrus, by contrast, had existed for millennia and was cheap enough to buy by the crate whenever wool merchants from the continent came to trade. Yet it was fragile. A child’s careless touch could ruin a sheet beyond repair.

During lessons, the students wrote on small wooden tablets with charcoal sticks, rubbing them clean when done. Only the best pupils were granted the privilege of practicing on papyrus.

At that point Kemi Wildfire, eyes bright with purpose, drew something from his cloak—a small, hand-bound booklet made of birch bark.

"My lord," he said with care, "in Novgorod, where I was raised, our shamans could not afford parchment either. We stripped the inner bark from white birch, boiled and dried it, then drew our runes upon it. A thin layer of beeswax, brushed over the surface, could preserve it for years."

"Beeswax?" Rurik’s brows knit at the word.

Beeswax candles were a luxury known only to cathedrals and courts—their flames burned steady and bright, their scent sweet. The price was ruinous. If birch pages required beeswax, the savings would vanish.

Still, Rurik took the small booklet and thumbed through it absently. The pages were light, the scent of resin faint but pleasant. Not wishing to discourage initiative, he nodded.

"Very well. Take fifty silver pennies from Mitcham. If the cost proves manageable and the results acceptable, we may expand the experiment. If not—let it rest."

Near noon, Rurik dined in the refectory.

The fare was simple—fish stew, coarse bread, and vegetables from the garden. On good days, the students might share a small cup of milk—goat or cow—between them.

Rurik ate until he was barely satisfied, then yawned, stretched, and went to his office to continue drafting the curriculum for the secondary school. This new level of study would include Latin, history, and an introductory course in economics.

For economics, Rurik borrowed heavily from the theories of Keynes, seasoning them with his own pragmatic views. He intended that his pupils, once sent forth to serve in towns and markets, should think not merely as officials but as men of trade and reason—earning profit through commerce and industry rather than squeezing the peasants for tax.

By afternoon, weary from a day’s labor, Rurik was preparing to go home when the Raven-Speaker appeared again.

"My lord," he said with a faint smile, "besides their lessons, we have not forgotten the noble traditions of our people. The children are also taught the arts of war. Would you care to see?"

Curiosity roused, Rurik agreed.

Within moments, a hundred and fifty students assembled on the training field. At the Raven-Speaker’s command they formed a shield wall, moving in measured unison across the yard. When he shouted that arrows were raining upon them, they shifted formation—shields locking in a tight circle, crouched like a living fortress.

When the drill ended, Rurik’s expression, stern all day, at last softened.

"Loyalty and glory!" cried the Raven-Speaker, leading the chant.

"Loyalty and glory!" the children echoed, their voices rolling like surf.

Rurik nodded once. The session was dismissed, and the Raven-Speaker himself escorted the lord to the gate.

Over the next two months, Rurik devoted his full attention to training teachers. Outside the walls, the world too was settling. The long Norwegian wars had cooled; the bands of raiders and refugees that had plagued the countryside were dwindling at last.

Word came from travelers and refugees alike: King Erik had subdued more than twenty settlements in southern Norway, distributing them among four earls and over a hundred knights. Yet when he advanced along the western coast, he met resistance. The lords of Bergen and their allies rose in unison, forming a defensive league.

Erik’s army, worn thin from months of conquest, faltered. After weeks of stalemate, as the first harsh winds of winter swept down from the fjords, both sides agreed to parley.

The terms were simple: fifteen lords, including Bergen’s, swore fealty to King Erik, acknowledging him as Norway’s supreme ruler. They would pay a token tribute each year, but no longer be bound to military service or court attendance in Oslo.

Peace returned.

With the war over, Tynburg’s arms exports collapsed—but Rurik, counting the ledgers, found no cause for alarm. The trade had earned him forty-seven pounds of silver, nearly the same as the fifty pounds he had spent housing refugees. Gain and loss, as ever, balanced.

The true reward lay elsewhere: the population had swelled. Viking settlers now numbered four thousand; the total inhabitants of the territory neared fifteen thousand. Once the two-year tax exemption expired, and with the three-field system in full operation, revenue would surge.

He mused, pacing his study:

"Choosing Tynburg was the wiser path. It opens the way northward and draws an endless tide of Norse immigrants. They land first in Britain—York chooses its share, then comes Manchester, Leeds, Sheffield. By the time they’re done, few remain for the south. In a few years, Tynburg’s strength will eclipse them all."

He smiled faintly to himself, the candlelight glinting off the silver inkstand. Outside, the school bell tolled the evening hour, echoing through the halls where the next generation of scholars and warriors awaited their dawn.