There was something undeniably magical about riding a ship to discover new lands; the spray of salt water against your face, the creak of timber beneath your feet, the endless horizon stretching before you. If only you could ignore the mind-numbing hours of doing absolutely nothing, which was tedious beyond measure.
The wind cut across the deck, cool and relentless. Salt spray drenched them constantly, and the rain came in sheets that chilled them to the bone. It didn't bother Bjorn, but the same could not be said for his men, whose complaints grew louder with each passing day.
"My arse feels like stone!" one of twenty to ride with him and Ragnar to Lindisfarne bellowed over the howling wind, his voice cracking with frustration. "How much longer must we endure this, Bjorn?"
"As long as the sea wills it," Bjorn called back, his tone sharp. "Stop whining like a babe at his mother's breast."
The men grumbled, shifting uncomfortably on the hard benches, but knew better than to push further.
To pass the time, they sang old songs about heroes long dead, their voices rising and falling with the rhythm of the waves. They told stories too, epic sagas passed down through generations, each version slightly different from the last, the truth buried somewhere beneath layers of exaggeration and faded memory.
"Tell us about the great wall again, Bjorn!" One shouted from amidships, his beard dripping with seawater. "The one that crosses the entire world!"
Bjorn obliged, as he often did. He told them about the Pyramids of Egypt that touched the sky in distant deserts, about the Colosseum where men fought and died for the entertainment of thousands, and about the Great Wall of China that snaked across mountains and valleys for distances beyond comprehension.
He made these foreign peoples relatable, drawing parallels between their values—bravery, honor, loyalty—and the Norse ideals his men held sacred.
"This wall," Bjorn said, his voice carrying across the deck, "stretches so far that a man could walk for months and still not reach its end. Thousands upon thousands of workers built it, stone by stone, to keep out invaders from the north, just as we Vikings come from the north to raid the soft lands of the south."
"Did it work?" a young warrior asked, his eyes wide with curiosity.
"For a time," Bjorn replied, a knowing smile playing at his lips. "But no wall lasts forever. No matter how high you build it, someone will find a way over, under, or through."
The men nodded thoughtfully, absorbing this wisdom.
As always, they attributed Bjorn's knowledge to Bjorn ancestor Odin the Wanderer, the All-Knowing, who sent him visions of these distant lands in his dreams. They spoke excitedly of the silver and gold they would plunder, of the strange gods they would meet and conquer.
Bjorn said nothing to that. Let them believe what comforted them.
They had stopped twice during the voyage. The first island had no name that Bjorn knew, so he simply called it the First Island—a rocky outcrop barely worthy of notice. Then came the Faroe Islands, where they rested properly, refilled their water barrels, and hunted seabirds for fresh meat. From there, they sailed without stopping, for no land existed between the Faroes and their destination.
By the third day, the monotony began wearing on everyone. The waves grew rougher, rising and falling in great swells that made the ships pitch violently. Several men became seasick, leaning over the rails to empty their stomachs into the churning waters below, the acidic smell of vomit mixing with the brine.
It wasn't until the fourth day since departing Kattegat that Bjorn spotted it—a dark smudge on the horizon, barely distinguishable from the clouds. His eyes were keener than most, a gift that served him well.
He rose from his seat and strode to the prow, one hand gripping the carved dragon head as he stared into the distance. The shape was there, faint but unmistakable. Land.
Every man on the ship felt the shift in his posture. Conversations died. Oars paused mid-stroke. All eyes turned to their leader.
Bjorn turned slowly, meeting their gazes one by one, then spoke a single word: "We're here."
Confusion rippled through the crew. They squinted at the horizon, seeing nothing but endless grey water meeting grey sky.
"If you saw it then we'll see it soon enough, i guess."
And he was right. Within the span of a few dozen oar strokes, shadows began to materialize in the distance—dark, angular shapes that grew steadily more defined. When the men finally saw it, a roar erupted from every ship in the fleet.
"LAND! LAND!" The cry echoed across the water like thunder, men beating their fists against their shields in celebration, the metallic clanging creating a battle rhythm that matched their thundering hearts.
"Finally!" one bellowed, his voice hoarse with emotion. "My legs have forgotten what it feels like to stand on solid ground!"
"Bjorn, the gods have guided you true!" Floki screamed, arms raised toward the sky.
Bjorn studied the approaching landmass with keen interest as details emerged from the haze. The island rose before them like something from a saga—jagged mountain ranges stretching toward the sky, their peaks easily over a thousand meters high.
Even in summer, snow clung to their upper slopes, gleaming white against dark rock. Lower down, the mountains wore a patchwork cloak of vibrant green valleys and grey stone.
They approached from the east, where the coastline revealed a deep fjord—a natural gateway carved by ancient ice and time. Steep basalt cliffs flanked the entrance like sentinels, their dark faces catching the weak northern sunlight and throwing it back in muted greys and blues. Waterfalls tumbled down from unseen heights, their white threads visible even from this distance, the sound of falling water beginning to reach them as a distant rumble.
The air changed as they drew closer—growing crisper and cleaner, carrying strange new scents. Sulfur, faint but unmistakable, drifted from somewhere inland.
Seabirds appeared in increasing numbers, their harsh cries filling the air as they wheeled and dove. Gulls, terns, and birds Bjorn didn't recognize swarmed the cliffs in the thousands, their white bodies creating moving patterns against the dark rock.
What struck the men most was the complete absence of human presence. No smoke from cooking fires. No docks or boats. No cleared fields or built structures. Just raw wilderness, untouched and untamed, existing exactly as it had for countless generations.
As the ships entered the fjord's mouth, the view expanded dramatically. Black sand beaches curved along the shore, so dark they looked like coal dust. Waves crashed against them with thunderous force, exploding into brilliant white foam before being sucked back into the sea, leaving the dark sand glistening and wet.
That's when Bjorn started laughing.
It began as a chuckle, then grew into genuine mirth that shook his shoulders and echoed across the water. The sound was so unexpected, so out of place, that several men stopped their celebrations to stare at him in bewilderment.
His laughter was swallowed by the renewed cheering of his crew. More than seventy men on his longship alone, all bellowing their joy at reaching land. The nine other ships in their fleet joined the celebration, their crews adding to the cacophony until the very fjord seemed to ring with Norse voices.
"Look at the black sand!" someone shouted. "The very earth here is different!"
"Is it cursed?" a nervous voice called out.
"Blessed, you blind fool!" Floki countered immediately, his voice carrying the absolute certainty of the truly devout.
Bjorn continued his examination as they penetrated deeper into the fjord. The cliffs on either side rose even higher, their faces decorated with strange hexagonal patterns—basalt columns formed by ancient lava flows, cooling and cracking into geometric precision.
Thousands of seabirds nested in every crack and crevice—puffins with their comical orange beaks, sleek guillemots, and aggressive arctic terns that dove and screamed at the passing ships.
The waterfalls he'd spotted from afar were even more impressive up close. Fed by melting glaciers and underground springs, they plummeted hundreds of feet down moss-covered slopes, the impact creating permanent mist clouds that caught the sunlight and threw rainbows across the fjord. The roar of falling water became a constant background noise, primal and powerful.
The fjord's waters shifted from the deep blue-black of the open ocean to a calmer turquoise green as they moved inland, reflecting the colors of the surrounding vegetation. The lower hillsides were densely forested—a surprise in such a northern land.
Birch trees grew thick here, some reaching fifteen meters tall, their leaves rustling in the wind and creating a sound like distant whispers. Willow shrubs filled the gaps between the larger trees, and the entire landscape was carpeted in vibrant green moss that seemed to glow in the diffuse light.
In this pre-settlement era, nearly sixty percent of the visible land was forested, a stark contrast to the barren landscapes Bjorn have expected.
Movement in the water caught Bjorn's eye. Seals, their round heads breaking the surface, watched the passing ships with curious dark eyes before diving beneath the waves with barely a splash.
Further out, where the fjord met the open sea, a whale breached—its massive body rising from the water in an explosion of spray before crashing back down with a boom that echoed off the cliffs.
The crews were enthralled, their heads swiveling to take in every sight. They scanned the shores for suitable anchorages, noting the hidden coves and protected inlets that could shelter their vessels. The rumble of distant waves never ceased, and the air was filled with the constant cries of ten thousand seabirds.
"There," Bjorn commanded, pointing to a sheltered bay that curved invitingly along the fjord's southern edge. "That bay; it's protected from the worst winds. We anchor there."
The ships responded smoothly, experienced crews working in coordination. They guided their vessels into the bay, where a gentle crescent of black sand beach awaited them, backed by low dunes covered in hardy grass that bent and waved in the breeze.
The keels scraped against volcanic soil with a grinding sound that sent vibrations up through the ships' timbers. Men leaped into the shallow water, ropes in hand, dragging the vessels higher onto the beach. The crunch of ash and small pebbles beneath boots and hulls was oddly satisfying.
The moment the first warrior's feet hit dry sand, he collapsed to his knees, overcome with emotion.
"Solid ground!" he shouted skyward, his voice cracking. "Thank all the gods, solid ground at last!"
His reaction triggered a wave of similar responses. Men dropped to the beach, some laughing, some kissing the dark sand itself, others simply sitting with their heads bowed, grateful to be off the constantly moving ships. Four days at sea without respite had taken their toll.
Bjorn took a moment to appreciate what lay before him. The shoreline teemed with life in ways he hadn't expected.
Massive driftwood logs, bleached grey by sun and salt, lay scattered like the discarded toys of giants—timber from distant forests carried here by ocean currents, some pieces as thick as a man's torso.
Seals had hauled themselves onto rocks to bask in the weak sunlight, their wet skin gleaming.
Arctic foxes, their coats a white snow, darted through the dunes and grass, hunting for the eggs and chicks of nesting birds. One fox, bolder than the rest, snatched an egg from an unguarded nest and bolted, the outraged mother bird screeching and diving after it uselessly.
"Look at that clever bastard go!" a warrior called out, pointing at the fleeing fox with genuine admiration.
Bjorn's peaceful observation was shattered by Floki's voice, suddenly loud and filled with religious ecstasy. The boat-builder stood on a slight rise, arms spread wide toward the sky, his face tilted upward.
"Allfather!" Floki screamed, his voice filled with emotion. "Greatest of gods! Thank you for delivering us safely across the whale-road! Thank you for revealing these wonders to us! Thank you for this land of fire and ice!"
Other men joined in, some kneeling, others standing with heads bowed. Their voices mixed together in prayers and thanks to various gods; Odin, Thor, Njord, Freya. The sound of their devotion echoed across the beach.
Then came the questions, dozens of men all asking at once: "Why is the sand this color?" "Is it safe to touch?" "Has the earth been burned here?" "Do people live in this place?"
"It's from the mountains," Bjorn called out, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Fire from deep within the earth, turned to stone, then ground to powder by wind and waves over more years than we can count."
The men absorbed this, some nodding knowingly though Bjorn doubted they truly understood.
Ragnar appeared beside him, his boots crunching on the dark sand. His experienced eyes were already surveying the land with a settler's assessment. "I see good grazing grass along that river," he said, gesturing to a clear stream that tumbled down from the hills. "The water looks clean and cold. There are fish in it; I can see them jumping."
He paused, his expression growing more serious. "But Bjorn, compared to England, compared even to Norway... this land is harsh, rocky, steep and unforgiving. It could sustain a few families, yes, if they work themselves to the bone and know what they're doing. But look around you—"
He swept his arm across the view. "Even now, in the summer, there's snow on those peaks. This place is colder, windier, more brutal than anywhere we've ever settled. Winter here won't just be uncomfortable. It will be a battle for survival itself."
Ragnar turned to face his son directly, his eyes searching. "So tell me true, why are we really here?"
"Is discovering new land, uninhabited and ripe for the taking, not reason enough?" Bjorn asked lightly, a slight smile playing on his lips.
Ragnar didn't smile back. His face remained serious, expectant. "You didn't sail four days across open ocean, risking all our lives, to simply stand on a beach and admire the view of a new Island. You knew about this place and you want something specific from it. What is it?"
Bjorn held his father's gaze for a long moment, then sighed; a sound mixing amusement and resignation. He bent down, scooped up a generous handful of the black sand, and held it up between them.
The grains were cool against his skin, finer than normal beach sand, almost powder-like. They smelled faintly of iron and old smoke, a scent carried from some ancient eruption in the mountains beyond.
"Look at this," Bjorn said quietly, his voice dropping to a tone reserved for important truths. "Really look at it."
Ragnar examined the dark powder skeptically. "If that's why we came, then I assume it's not just sand and dirt."
"It's not." Bjorn let the sand slowly trickle between his fingers, watching it fall back to join its brothers on the beach. "This is sand mixed with volcanic ash. You see those mountains—the ones with snow even now? Those are volcanic mountains. Deep beneath them, the earth itself burns hotter than any forge. Sometimes that fire breaks through the surface in eruptions that can be seen for hundreds of miles. The rock that flows out is molten, like liquid metal, but when it cools it becomes this—basalt and ash. Then wind and water, working for centuries, grind it all down to powder."
He paused, making sure Ragnar was following. "The ash has special properties. By itself, it's soft, almost like flour. But if you mix it with lime and water in the right proportions, then leave it to dry... it hardens. Not like mud that hardens and can be scratched away. It becomes as hard as stone. Harder, even, in some ways."
Bjorn's eyes gleamed with the intensity of his vision. "We can use this to build houses. Real houses that don't require valuable timber that should be saved for ships. No need to haul massive stones from distant quarries either. This is lighter, easier to work with, and strong enough to keep out the worst storms. Walls that won't rot, won't burn easily, and will last for generations."
Ragnar stared at the trickling sand, then at his son, then back at the sand. His mind was clearly working through the implications. "You're telling me... we can use this to build houses? Solid houses that will stand against wind and weather?"
"Yes."
"And you're certain of this?"
"I was born certain."
Ragnar clapped him on the shoulder, his grip strong. A gesture that Said everything without saying anything.
Together, father and son ventured inland, away from the beach and the celebrating crews. They followed the fjord's edge, where the land rose in gentle slopes covered in thick vegetation.
The grass grew knee-high here, lush and green, fed by constant moisture from the nearby water. Between the grasslands stood dense birch woods. The trees grew tall in sheltered spots, some reaching ten to fifteen meters, their trunks pale and their leaves creating a canopy that rustled and whispered in the constant breeze.
Sunlight filtered through in golden shafts, illuminating patches of wildflowers that added splashes of color to the overwhelming green.
The ground beneath their feet was soft, slightly springy—centuries of fallen leaves and moss creating a thick carpet. The air smelled of growing things, of earth and vegetation and life, so different from the salt and wood smell of the ships.
As they walked, they came upon wetlands where the ground became soft and boggy. Meadows here bloomed with wildflowers—purple lupines standing tall, their cone-shaped flower clusters swaying gently. Yellow buttercups dotted the grass. Small white flowers Bjorn didn't recognize carpeted entire sections.
Then they encountered something truly unusual, but usual for Bjorn. Steam rose from the ground itself, wisps of white vapor curling up from cracks in the earth. The air here smelled strongly of sulfur—that rotten egg stench that had been faint at the shore but was now unmistakable.
"What magic is this?" one of the men who'd followed them shouted, stopping abruptly as if the rising steam might attack him.
"It's not magic," Bjorn explained, approaching the nearest vent carefully. "It's the earth's own warmth rising from below. Remember what I said about the fire beneath the mountains? This is proof of it."
The ground near the vents was warm, almost hot to the touch. And where the steam emerged most strongly, it had created pools of heated water; natural hot springs that steamed invitingly in the cool air.
The men needed no encouragement. With whoops and hollers of delight, they stripped off their sea-stained clothes and plunged into the warm pools. The contrast between the cool air and the hot water drew groans of pure pleasure from warriors who'd spent four days cramped and cold on wooden benches.
"This is better than any bathhouse!" Rollo shouted, his entire body submerged except for his head, his wet beard spreading across the water's surface. "I could stay here until Ragnarok itself!"
"The gods have blessed this land!" another called out. "Warm water rising from the earth itself!"
Bjorn smiled at their enthusiasm but also made a mental note. When he returned home, he should construct something similar—a proper bathhouse with heated pools. Though the stonemason was currently occupied with castle construction, managing forty apprentices and the labor of slaves. It would have to wait.
Leaving the men to their bathing, Bjorn, Ragnar, and a smaller group pushed deeper inland. The terrain began to rise, gentle slopes becoming steeper foothills.
Here they encountered lava fields—vast expanses of jagged black rock, frozen mid-flow from eruptions that might have happened decades or centuries ago. Moss covered much of it now, bright green against the black stone, softening the harsh lines and creating an otherworldly landscape that looked more like something from a saga than reality.
Clear streams cut through the lava fields, their water so cold and pure it hurt your teeth to drink. The streams were fed by glacial melt from those distant peaks, and they absolutely teemed with fish. Salmon fought their way upstream, their silver bodies flashing in the sunlight. Arctic char, smaller but equally delicious, darted through the shallows.
"Look at this!" a warrior shouted, thrusting his hands into a stream and actually managing to grab a salmon through sheer luck and determination. The fish was massive, easily as long as his forearm, thrashing powerfully. "We feast like kings tonight!"
"Forget the dried fish in the ships!" another called. "This stream has enough for all of us!"
The easy fishing lifted everyone's spirits even higher. They could supplement their supplies without touching the food reserves meant for the return journey; a crucial advantage.
Everywhere they looked, they found pristine wilderness. No paths worn by human feet. No cleared areas where crops had been planted. No fire pits or shelter ruins or any sign that people had ever set foot here. Just raw nature, existing exactly as it had since the land rose from the sea.
They did find numerous natural wonders. More hidden hot springs bubbling up from underground, their water mineral-rich and smelling of earth. Viewpoints where the land opened up to reveal the full expanse of the fjord below, with glaciers visible crowning the distant peaks like frozen crowns. Small waterfalls, some only a few meters high, others plunging dozens of meters into crystal pools.
Wildlife was abundant. Ptarmigan—arctic grouse—burst from the undergrowth in explosions of brown feathers when the men passed too close, their harsh calls echoing across the hills.
The arctic foxes were everywhere, their sharp barks carrying on the wind as they communicated with each other.
"This land has never known the touch of man," Jarl Runi observed, his voice quiet with something like awe. "It's unclaimed territory, untouched since the gods shaped it."
"Which means it's ours to claim," Rollo replied, his voice carrying absolute certainty. "No one else has a prior right to it. No battles to fight for possession. We simply take it."
The sense of isolation was overwhelming, but not oppressive. It felt bountiful, rich with possibility.
A land of fire beneath ice—that's what the skalds would call it when the stories spread. A land where the elements themselves still fought their ancient battle, creating something unique and terrible and beautiful all at once.
After several hours of exploration, during which the men swam in hot springs, caught enough fish to feed a small army, and generally reveled in being on solid ground again, Bjorn called them all together on the beach.
"Listen well!" he shouted, his voice carrying across the black sand. The men quieted, turning their attention to their leader. "We came here for a specific purpose. I need you to gather this black sand—as much as we can carry. Fill every sack we brought. Fill every barrel. Pack it tight."
"How much do we need?" one man called out.
"As much as the ships can hold without riding too low in the water," Bjorn replied. "Fill them until we can't safely load more."
"All this for building material?" Erik asked, his skepticism clear.
"Trust me," Bjorn said, his voice absolutely confident. "When we return home and I show you what this can do, you'll understand. You'll see buildings rise that will make our current homes look like children's toys."
The men exchanged glances, shrugged, and set to work. If the King said to fill barrels with sand, then they would fill barrels with sand.
While the majority of the crews worked on gathering sand from the beaches—back-breaking labor involving shoveling, carrying, and careful packing—Bjorn organized a separate expedition. Some of the men had reported finding areas inland where the ground was covered in pure black powder, different from the mixed sand on the beaches.
"Show me," Bjorn commanded, and they led him away from the fjord, up into the foothills where the birch forests thinned and gave way to more barren terrain.
The group walked for perhaps an hour, climbing gradually higher. The landscape changed as they ascended—fewer trees, more exposed rock, and eventually they emerged onto a plain of fine black ash that stretched for hundreds of meters in every direction.
When Bjorn stepped onto it, his boots sank slightly with each step. The ash was incredibly fine, almost like flour, and it puffed up in small clouds with every footfall.
This was pure volcanic ash from relatively recent eruptions, probably deposited within the last few decades or century. The wind whipped across the exposed plain, carrying the faint smell of sulfur from the volcanic mountains that loomed in the distance, their peaks sharp and menacing against the sky.
The sun had begun its slow descent toward the horizon—though in this northern summer, it wouldn't drop below it completely. The low angle of light turned the barren black landscape into a study in gold and shadow, every small ripple in the ash creating dramatic contrasts.
Bjorn's experienced eyes scanned the horizon, cataloging everything worth noting. This ash plain was a treasure—pure material, no need to separate it from sand or other contaminants. And far safer to gather here than venturing closer to active volcanic sites.
Then he heard it.
A faint whimper, so soft it was almost lost in the wind's constant whisper. Bjorn froze instantly, his head turning, listening with complete focus. There—again. A small cry, weak and desperate.
He glanced back at his men, but their expressions made it clear none of them had heard anything. They were looking at him with confusion, wondering why their leader had suddenly stopped mid-step.
Without explaining, Bjorn moved toward the sound. He walked carefully, placing each boot with precision to avoid making excessive noise, stepping around jagged chunks of basalt that protruded from the ash and navigating around small ridges where the wind had sculpted the powder into miniature dunes.
The men watched him go, exchanging puzzled looks. One started to speak, to ask what was happening, but another grabbed his arm and shook his head.
Bjorn followed the sound for several minutes, his path winding through the desolate landscape. The crying grew gradually louder as he approached its source. Then he saw it.
In a shallow depression in the ash, where the wind had carved out a small hollow, lay a tiny fox pup.
Its coat marked it immediately as the blue phase of arctic fox—not the pure white winter coloration they saw before, but a smoky silver-grey that would provide summer camouflage.
The color deepened to charcoal along the spine and down its legs, creating beautiful gradients. Fine volcanic ash clung to the fur in patches, dulling the natural sheen and giving the creature a ghostly, powder-grey appearance, as if the landscape itself was slowly claiming it.
The pup's muzzle was darker than its body—almost black around its small nose. Its ears, disproportionately large for its tiny head, were tipped with a cool steely shade that contrasted sharply with the paler fur of its throat and belly. The little animal couldn't have been more than a few weeks old, still dependent on its mother for everything.
Its eyes, half-open and watery from exposure to cold wind, were a muted grey-blue that seemed to reflect the color of glacial ice. When it lifted its head at Bjorn's approach, those oversized ears trembled with the effort. Its tail—short, fluffy, almost perfectly round like a child's feather duster—was pulled tight against its side in a futile attempt to conserve warmth.
Despite obvious weakness, the pup's limbs looked healthy and well-formed. Its paws were dark and appeared sturdy, the pads still soft. This was a creature that had fought to survive, that had clung to life with the desperate tenacity only young things possess. There was nothing magical or supernatural about it—just toughness, pure and simple, born from surviving in a land that killed the weak without mercy.
Then Bjorn saw the mother.
Her body lay perhaps five meters away, already stiff and cold. She'd been dead for at least a day, possibly longer. Bite marks covered her small frame—deep punctures and tears that spoke of a vicious fight. Her fur was scattered across the black ash in tufts, evidence of the struggle. Some larger predator, perhaps a rival fox or even an eagle, had killed her and probably tried to drag her away before something had interrupted it.
A harsh reminder that this beautiful land showed no mercy to the unprepared.
Bjorn knelt slowly, carefully, making sure his movements wouldn't startle the orphaned pup. It watched him with those watery eyes, trembling from cold and fear and exhaustion, but it didn't try to flee. Perhaps it was too weak. Or perhaps the isolation of these volcanic plains had taught it that not all large creatures were enemies—there had been no humans here to teach it fear of men.
Bjorn extended one hand, moving slowly, letting the pup see and smell it. The small black nose twitched, taking in his scent—salt, sweat, woodsmoke, and human.
"Aren't you the survivor," Bjorn murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, speaking more to himself than to the animal. "Out here alone, mother dead, yet you're still alive and still fighting."
The pup hesitated for a single heartbeat. Then, as if making a decision, it pressed its small head against his palm. Bjorn felt it shivering intensely, its tiny body burning through what little reserves it had left just to stay warm.
He scooped it up gently, cradling it against his chest with both hands. The pup was incredibly light, weighing less than a newborn lamb. Its small heart beat rapidly against his fingers—a desperate, fluttering drum of life refusing to be silenced by this harsh land.
Bjorn straightened, looking out across the black plains to where the mountains rose in jagged peaks, their snow-covered slopes glowing in the golden light. The wind pulled at his silver hair and cloak, carrying ash and the smell of distant sulfur.
"What should I do with you?" he asked the pup, though he already knew the answer.
The little fox gave a small, soft yip—a pathetic sound that nonetheless carried determination. Its tiny paws kneaded against his hands, seeking warmth and safety, seeking something to replace the mother it had lost.
"You want to come with me, don't you?" Bjorn asked, smiling slightly. The pup yipped again, more insistently this time, trying to burrow deeper into his hands, pressing against the warmth of his body.
The decision was easy. Bjorn tucked the pup securely inside his cloak, against his chest where his body heat would warm it. He could feel it settle there, still shivering but already beginning to calm.
Then he turned and walked back toward his men, his stride purposeful and steady.
When he rejoined the group, several of them immediately noticed the small bulge moving beneath his cloak.
"What have you got there?" Ragnar asked, his expression curious. He stepped closer, peering at the cloak.
"A fox pup," Bjorn replied simply, opening his cloak slightly to reveal the small grey face. "Found it alone close to his dead Mother."
Ragnar studied the tiny creature for a moment. "And you're keeping it?"
"Why not?" Bjorn shrugged, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "It survived on its own for at least a day after losing its mother. That's something."
"It's a wild animal, Lord," one his trusted huskarls interjected, his face creased with concern. "It'll grow teeth and claws. When it's full-grown, it'll turn on you, they always do. Wild things stay wild."
Floki pushed through the small crowd that had gathered, his wild eyes immediately fixing on the pup. He stood there for a long moment, staring at it with an intensity that made others uncomfortable. Then his face split into a wide, gap-toothed grin.
"The fox is Loki's creature," he declared. "Cunning and clever, a trickster and survivor. This is no accident, Bjorn. The gods themselves have sent this creature to you. A sign of favor, or perhaps a test. Either way, you were meant to find it."
Bjorn gestured to Floki, amusement clear on his face. "I like this answer better."
"What will you name it?" his trusted huskarl asked, his earlier skepticism replaced by genuine curiosity. He leaned in closer, squinting at the small face peeking from Bjorn's cloak.
Bjorn looked down at the pup, considering. The tiny creature gazed back at him with those grey-blue eyes, its small pink tongue visible as it panted softly from the warmth of his body heat. "I'll think of something," he said finally. "For now, it needs food and water more than it needs a name."
The men accepted this and returned to their work, though many cast glances back at their leader and his unusual find. The gathering of volcanic ash continued, barrel after barrel being filled with the fine black powder, each container sealed tightly to prevent the lightweight material from blowing away in the constant wind.
By the time they returned to the beach, the sun was approaching its lowest point. The sky turned shades of pink and orange and deep purple, creating a twilight that would last for hours before the sun began climbing again.
The crews had been industrious. The beach was crisscrossed with footprints and drag marks where men had hauled heavy barrels and sacks from collection points to the ships. Every vessel in their small fleet sat noticeably lower in the water now, their hulls weighted with hundreds of pounds of volcanic material.
-x-X-x-
They didn't linger in Iceland—that's what Bjorn had decided to name it, it's future name, simple and fitting. Ice-land. A name describing exactly what any man would find there: a realm where ice crowned every peak.
If Bjorn had believed the time was right for settlement now, he would have ordered it. But it wasn't.
Before departing, Bjorn planted his raven-sword banner on the highest point of the black sand beach. The fabric snapped and cracked in the relentless wind, his mark driven deep into the volcanic soil. A claim. A declaration. If anyone ever reached these shores, whether Norse navigators following rumors of new lands, or others, they would know that the Silver haired king had been here first. The land was claimed.
He didn't truly expect others to find it anyway soon. The journey was long, the navigation difficult, the seas unpredictable. But the Norse were exceptional sailors, perhaps the finest in the world.
The return voyage stretched before them: another four days of mind-numbing tedium punctuated by moments of back-breaking labor. The same endless horizon. The same taste of salt on cracked lips.
The loaded ships rode lower in the water now, heavy with their unusual cargo.
Bjorn's ship carried most of the ash.
The crews fell back into the rhythms of sea travel. They sang the old songs again, though with less enthusiasm than on the outbound journey. Anticipation of discovery had given way to simple desire to be home, to sleep in a real bed, to eat something other than dried fish and hard bread.
the fox pup spent most of the voyage sleeping in the nest of furs he'd prepared, her small body rising and falling with the ship's motion. She adapted remarkably well to the constant movement, showing none of the distress that sometimes afflicted young animals at sea.
When awake, she would poke her grey head out and watch the crew with bright, curious eyes.
On the morning of the fourth day, someone spotted the familiar coastline of Kattegat.
As the ten longships navigated into the harbor, people began gathering on the docks. Word spread quickly through Kattegat. Everyone wanted to see the return of the King's expedition, to hear news of the mysterious land he'd sought.
By the time the first ship's hull scraped against the dock, several hundred people had assembled. The crowd pressed forward eagerly, voices raised in questions that overlapped into an incomprehensible din.
The crews disembarked to thundering applause. Hands reached out to clasp shoulders, to embrace friends and family, to touch the returned travelers.
Bjorn let his men answer the initial barrage of questions while he supervised the unloading of their cargo. Barrel after barrel of black sand and volcanic ash was carried onto the dock. The crowd watched with growing confusion as the unusual cargo accumulated—dark powder and coarse sand that looked nothing like the silver and gold they'd expected.
"You sailed for four days... for dirt?" someone finally asked, voicing the question on everyone's mind.
The comment drew scattered laughter, but it died quickly when Bjorn turned to face them. His expression wasn't angry, just patient, as a teacher might look at a student who hadn't yet grasped a lesson.
He could see the skepticism in their faces after he explained to them volcanic ash; the polite disbelief of people humoring someone they respected but didn't quite believe.
Even after all he is done, they still couldn't believe him.
'Humans' Bjorn thought.
That was fine. Doubt would make the eventual demonstration all the more impressive.
The celebration began properly once the cargo was secured in storage buildings near Bjorn's hall. Mead barrels were rolled out. Fires were lit in every hearth. The feast tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, fresh bread, preserved fruits, and every delicacy Kattegat could offer.
Musicians played—drums, lyres, bone flutes—creating a pulsing rhythm that seemed to match the beating hearts of everyone present.
The drinking began in earnest. Horns were filled and emptied and filled again, the golden liquid flowing as freely as water from a spring. Men's voices grew louder with each round, their gestures broader, their laughter more explosive. They told and retold the journey, each version slightly different from the last, details being added or embellished as the mead loosened tongues and fired imaginations.
"The waves were as tall as mountains!"
"The black sand beach stretched further than the eye could see!"
"The mountains breathed smoke and steam like living creatures!"
The objects they'd brought back circulated through the crowd like sacred relics. Chunks of black volcanic glass, sharp enough to cut skin with the lightest touch. Feathers from arctic terns and puffins, their colors impossibly bright. Samples of the strange moss that grew on the lava fields, still somehow alive despite the journey. Each item was examined, touched, sniffed, discussed endlessly.
And as always, the gods received credit. This successful discovery of new lands was interpreted as divine favor.
Offerings were made. And animals were sacrificed. The pattern was familiar: any success must be the will of the gods, any failure the work of malicious spirits or insufficient devotion.
The pup remained tucked inside Bjorn's cloak during the initial chaos, overwhelmed by the noise and the press of bodies and the thousand unfamiliar scents. She was still just a pup—barely a few weeks old, vulnerable and dependent.
She couldn't hunt for herself yet. Her teeth were still small and milk-soft. In the wild, she would need her mother for at least another month before she could begin learning to fend for herself.
So she stayed in Bjorn's hall, in rooms that were warm and safe and filled with the comforting scent of the human who had saved her. Bjorn prepared a proper den for her—a large wooden box lined with the softest, warmest furs he owned. Wolf pelts, bear skins, and thick sheep fleeces created a nest that would keep her comfortable even in the depths of winter.
Though the pup came from a land of ice and snow, comfort still mattered to young animals. Warmth meant safety and softness meant security. The instinct to seek these things was written into the bones of every living creature.
Gyda squealed with delight when she saw the fox, all pretense of maturity vanishing in an instant. She sat on the floor of the hall for over an hour, letting the pup climb on her, laughing when small teeth nibbled at her fingers, making up elaborate stories about the pup's future adventures.
"She'll be the most fearsome fox in all of Norway," Gyda declared with absolute certainty. "People will tell stories about her!"
"Perhaps," Bjorn agreed, smiling at his sister's enthusiasm.
Ubbe approached the fox with the careful reverence of a boy who desperately wanted to seem tough but couldn't quite hide their fascination with cute animals.
"Can she do tricks?" Ubbe asked, trying to sound casual and failing.
"Not yet. She's too young."
"When she's older, you should teach her to steal things," Ubbe suggested, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Foxes are supposed to be clever. Imagine having a fox that could sneak into the hall of our enemies and bring back their plans!"
"Enemies, he says," Bjorn scoffed, shaking his head. "Go play with something instead," he added, mocking his younger brother's attempt to sound fierce and manly.
The pup was bonding to him, imprinting on him as she would have on her mother. Good. He kept her close during those first critical days, letting her sleep in his quarters rather than in the separate den.
At night, she would curl up on his chest while he lay on his bed, her small warm weight rising and falling with his breathing, her tiny heartbeat gradually synchronizing with his own.
Strangely, Aska developed a habit that Bjorn hadn't anticipated. Whenever he wore his sword belt—which was most of the time—she would position herself near it, often sitting with her back against the scabbard or even sleeping curled around it when he sat still long enough.
As the days passed, Kattegat settled into a strange calm. The jarls who had accompanied Bjorn's expedition returned to their own fjords and halls, taking their warriors with them. The constant bustle of a town hosting tens of additional people eased back to normal levels. The celebration faded into memory, becoming another story to tell during long winter nights.
Bjorn threw himself into experimentation with the volcanic ash he'd brought from Iceland. He began the painstaking process of determining the correct ratios in one of the workshops—how much ash to how much lime, how much water to add, how long to let it cure.
Then, on a grey morning one week after his return, a messenger arrived.
Bjorn was in his hall, absorbed in his usual tasks, when a messenger was ushered in. The man looked tense, a letter clutched tightly in his hand.
Bjorn took it without a word, sending the messenger away with a curt gesture.
He broke the seal and read the words, a faint, satisfied smile tugging at his lips.
King Eirik of Hordaland, the hidden architect of the alliance that watched him with suspicion, the spider at the heart of a web meant to check his rise, has fallen, completely paralyzed.
Bjorn sat in his chair at the head of the long table, the pup appeared from wherever she'd been napping and climbed into his lap, curling up with the ease of long practice. He stroked her soft fur absently while he thought.
'It is time.' Bjorn thought.
He needed to prepare. And preparation meant communication.
He picked up a sheet of paper and began carefully forming his letters.