Viking Invasion-Chapter 82 — The Stones of the Ancients

The city rejoiced in victory, yet beyond its jubilant walls, Rurik remained in the camp. Under the steady glow of candlelight, he bent over his table, quill in hand, drafting his chronicle of the war.

Though Wessex had surrendered, he dared not let down his guard. He had insisted on taking the night watch himself; to be caught in a drunken feast and slaughtered like a penned beast would have been too inglorious a death to bear.

From within the city came the distant echoes of cheer and song, the revelry of triumph. Rurik raised an eyebrow, then turned back to his parchment, finishing the closing pages of The Britannic Wars — The Wessex Campaign. It took him two hours more to perfect the final passages.

When that task was done, he drew out a new roll of clean vellum. There began a labor greater than any before — the writing of a military treatise.

It would be a work divided into three volumes: Training, Logistics, and Tactics.

Because it was meant to endure beyond his lifetime, to be passed to future generations and trusted captains, Rurik wrote in minute detail. The Chapter on encampment alone swelled past two thousand words and still was unfinished, complete with careful sketches of camp formations, watch rotations, and storage layouts.

He sighed, flexing his cramped fingers. "Gods, my hand aches."

By the time he set down his pen, the campfires had burned low. He rubbed his stiff wrist, walked a slow circuit around the sleeping encampment, then returned to his tent and doused the flame. Sleep came quickly.

By morning, he was jolted awake by news that made his blood run cold: Ragnar had announced a campaign into Frankish lands the following year.

When Rurik confronted him, the king looked faintly embarrassed.

"As a ruler," Ragnar explained, "one cannot make public vows and fail to fulfill them. It would tarnish the crown’s authority. I have no wish to seize Frankish soil — merely to march in arms, to remind that shaven fool Charles that we have not forgotten him."

Half an hour later, the nobles began to gather — red-eyed, hungover, but eager for what mattered most: the division of spoils.

From Goodwin’s hands, Ragnar received the ledger of plunder. He leafed through it slowly from beginning to end.

The war had lasted half a year, and the results had exceeded all reckoning. The tally listed a staggering hoard — gold and silver plate, gems, armors, blades, horses, cattle, sheep, and fine Frankish cloth — together valued at more than twelve thousand pounds of silver.

At last Ragnar cleared his throat. "Four and a half shares to the soldiers and captains. One and a half to the crown. The remaining four to the nobles. Of all who fought, the greatest merit lies with Ivar, Rurik, and Gunnar. They shall choose first — and the rest shall follow."

Ivar’s lands had been ravaged by war, and he chose practical goods — three hundred battered suits of armor, six hundred yew bows, and fifty thousand arrows, the rest taken in coin.

When Rurik’s turn came, his allotted share was six hundred pounds of silver.

He turned the pages of the record thoughtfully. His first thought was horses, but the stock of warhorses was small. In the end, he claimed thirty fine Frankish steeds — twenty mares and ten spirited stallions. Each mare was worth five pounds of silver; the stallions, double. Two hundred pounds spent in all.

Next, he selected two hundred damaged suits of armor. "Most of these are made for the short-bodied Angles," he murmured, "we’ll need to reforge them for Norsemen."

As for the rest, he closed the ledger and handed it back to Goodwin. "The remainder in silver."

Then came Gunnar’s turn. As commander of the cavalry, he too took thirty horses, along with a modest cache of weapons and armor — and, curiously, six thousand sheep.

"Strange," Rurik mused inwardly. "The lands around Cambridge are fit for grain, yet he turns to pastures."

Still, the reasoning revealed itself soon enough. With trained dogs, one shepherd could tend two hundred head. Thirty shepherds could manage the lot. On that flat country, each acre of grassland might feed three sheep — meaning he would need roughly two thousand acres, equal to two great manors.

"Sheep mean more than wool," Rurik thought. "They yield milk, meat, hides. If Gunnar breeds wisely, he’ll flood the markets with wool inside a few years, and prices will fall across the realm."

When the last share had been claimed and the army made ready to march, a shaman named Kemi Wildfire came to Rurik.

"My lord," said he, his painted face gleaming with excitement, "there are whispers in camp — twenty kilometers west of Winchester lies an ancient ruin."

"A ruin?" Rurik frowned. "If you’re lying, I’ll have your beard for thread."

But curiosity bested him. With time to spare before the army’s departure, he gathered a handful of shieldmen and rode out under Kemi’s guidance.

After half a day’s ride, they came to a lonely plain. A shepherd led them farther on, across low hills and thin grass, until they saw it: a circle of massive stones standing silent beneath the pale sky.

Dozens of gray-white monoliths rose in concentric rings, the tallest more than seven meters high, crowned by horizontal lintels that formed a rough circle in the air.

"Stonehenge!" Rurik’s voice was low but filled with awe.

Sensing his thrill, his gray stallion surged forward, galloping ahead of the others. Rurik dismounted and pressed his palm against one of the stones — its surface rough, cold, and scarred by centuries of wind and rain. 𝕗𝐫𝚎𝗲𝘄𝐞𝕓𝐧𝕠𝘃𝕖𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝚖

A breeze whispered through the grass. From the distant sky came a rasping cry; several black ravens descended, settling upon the stones.

Rurik drew out a roll of parchment, sat cross-legged upon the ground, and began to sketch. His lines were uncertain at first, but the image took form — the standing stones, the ravens, the wild grass swaying like waves of the sea.

Behind him, Kemi and the shieldmen grew noisy. They pooled their coins to buy a sheep and two hens from the shepherd and hastily arranged a sacrifice. Drums and chants mingled with the murmur of the wind, an echo of some forgotten age.

By the time they were done, Rurik had finished his drawing. He rolled up the parchment carefully, tied it with string, and decided to camp there for the night. Beneath the ancient stones they slept, the moon casting pale fire over the weathered pillars.

At dawn they rode back to Winchester.

Ragnar, meanwhile, faced a different trial.

With the war ended and the host preparing to depart, he had resolved to bestow one of the Tamworth estates upon his newest mistress, Aslaug — a graceful farewell for her year of service and charm.

But fate had its own jest.

During the evening banquet, as the nobles dined and jested, Aslaug rose to her feet. Calmly, with one hand upon her still-flat belly, she announced that she was with child.

The hall fell silent.

Rurik, seated nearby, lowered his gaze and stared fixedly into his bowl of eel soup. Around the table, every noble adopted the same studied indifference, as though nothing had been said. The only sound was the faint clatter of spoons against pewter.

Then Ivar laughed aloud. "Why the long faces? This is splendid news!"

He launched into a tale from twenty years before — when Ragnar had been no king, only a poor sea-rover who farmed when the weather kept him from the waves.

One bitter winter’s night, a traveler came to their door — an old man, one-eyed, wrapped in a tattered black cloak, leaning on an oaken staff. Ragnar and his wife gave him shelter and food.

At that time, Ivar was eight, and little Bjorn but five. They had pestered the traveler with endless questions. The old man answered each with patient wisdom, seeming to know the world’s every secret.

At last, Bjorn posed a difficult one:

"Can you tell what will happen in the future?"

The old man chuckled. "Perhaps. What do you wish to know, little wolf?"

Bjorn said earnestly, "Every spring Father sails away to raid, and every autumn he returns. He says that once he has enough silver, he’ll stay home and play with us. Is that true?"

The old man’s single eye gleamed in the firelight. "No, child. He has greater tasks awaiting him. Ragnar is fated for great deeds. Three wives will share his life, five sons will bear his name — yet he will never have time enough to spend with them."

When Ivar finished the story, the hall’s silence deepened. Ragnar only smiled faintly.

Then Ivar said, "Father, take Aslaug back to York. If Queen Sola despises her, let her despise — better she has a rival to keep her busy than trouble herself with us."

Laughter followed, uneasy but genuine. Ragnar raised his cup, and the feast resumed — but beneath the laughter, a shadow lingered.