Chapter 4: Floki's Boat and First Blueprints
Two weeks of farm work had given my body time to adjust to its new reality, though "adjust" might have been generous. Every morning brought fresh reminders that I was inhabiting flesh shaped by malnutrition and hard living. My hands, soft from an engineering career spent pushing pencils instead of plows, had sprouted calluses and scars from repairing tools and mending fences.
But the work had served its purpose. The Lothbrok family had grown accustomed to their strange eastern guest, and I'd learned enough about Viking daily life to avoid the most obvious cultural mistakes. I could split wood without cutting off my fingers, help with the endless maintenance that kept a farm functional, and tolerate the fish-heavy diet that seemed to sustain everyone except my modern digestive system.
More importantly, I'd begun to understand my powers. The metallic manipulation remained frustratingly weak—twenty minutes of concentrated effort left me exhausted and nauseous. But I could heat small objects reliably, sense iron content in ore samples, and occasionally bend metal with subtle precision that looked like skilled craftsmanship rather than impossible sorcery.
The blueprint manifestation was easier to hide and harder to control. Simple designs took five minutes of intense concentration, leaving behind parchment that materialized from thin air. I'd managed to pass off three or four such manifestations as "eastern drawing techniques," though I could see Lagertha's growing suspicion every time paper appeared without visible ink or stylus.
The engineering knowledge was the most valuable and least dangerous of my abilities. It felt like having access to a vast technical library, though one that came with splitting headaches if I tried to access too much information at once. Still, I'd been able to suggest improvements to their tools and farming methods that had earned cautious respect.
Which was why, when Ragnar announced it was time to meet Floki, I felt reasonably confident about my ability to navigate whatever test the shipbuilder might devise.
I was wrong.
The first thing I noticed about Floki wasn't his wild hair or manic energy—it was the way he moved. Like a man who existed in three dimensions while everyone else was trapped in two, dancing around his half-built boat with steps that followed some internal rhythm only he could hear.
The second thing I noticed was that he was brilliant.
The longship taking shape on the beach was a masterpiece of practical engineering. Every curve and joint spoke of deep understanding about hydrodynamics, structural stress, and the relationship between form and function. This wasn't a primitive craft built by primitive people—this was the result of centuries of incremental improvement by master craftsmen.
I was still absorbing the implications when Floki spotted us approaching.
"Ragnar!" His voice carried across the beach like a raven's call. "You bring the eastern stranger. Good, good. I have questions for eastern strangers."
He abandoned his work and came toward us with that peculiar dancing gait, his pale eyes fixed on my face with uncomfortable intensity. When he reached us, he began to circle me like a predator evaluating prey.
"Soft hands," he announced after his third orbit. "Too soft for a builder. Too clean for a smith. Yet Ragnar says you fixed what Orm could not fix." He stopped directly in front of me, close enough that I could smell the pine tar and wood shavings that clung to his clothes. "Tell me, eastern stranger—did the gods send you, or something else?"
The question hung in the salt air like the blade of an axe waiting to fall. This wasn't casual conversation—this was a spiritual evaluation by someone who took the supernatural very seriously indeed.
"The gods send storms and calm seas both," I replied carefully. "I'm just a man who knows something about working with metal and stone."
"Just a man." Floki's laugh held no humor. "Just a man who appears on our beach in winter, speaking of impossible things, making broken metal whole. Just a man whose very presence makes the ravens gather and the wind change direction."
I glanced at Ragnar, hoping for some indication of how seriously to take this mystical interrogation. But his expression offered no guidance—just the same calculating interest he'd shown from our first meeting.
"Perhaps," I said finally, "the ravens are simply curious about new people. As are the best craftsmen." I gestured toward the longship. "That's beautiful work. The curve of the keel especially—it must cut through waves like a blade through silk."
Floki's eyes narrowed, but I caught a flicker of pleasure at the professional compliment. "You know ships?"
"I know the principles that make them work." I approached the boat more closely, letting my engineering knowledge analyze its construction. "Though I've never seen design quite like this. The shallow draft must give incredible speed in coastal waters."
"Coastal waters, yes." Floki followed me, his suspicion warring with craftsman's pride. "But Ragnar dreams of deeper waters. Western waters, where no sensible ship should venture."
"Ah." I ran my hand along the partially completed hull, feeling the smooth join between planks. "Ocean voyaging. That would require different compromises."
"What kind of compromises?"
The question was a trap, and I knew it. Floki was testing whether my claimed knowledge extended beyond casual observation to practical understanding. One wrong answer would mark me as a fraud.
But this was exactly the kind of problem my enhanced engineering knowledge was designed to handle. As I studied the longship's design, solutions began crystallizing in my mind like water freezing into ice.
"Deeper keel for stability in heavy seas," I said, tracing the boat's lines with my finger. "Probably means sacrificing some speed for predictable handling. Higher freeboard to keep waves from swamping the deck. And the sail rigging—you'd want more flexibility for wind changes that last for days rather than hours."
Floki stopped moving. For the first time since I'd met him, he stood perfectly still, staring at me with an expression I couldn't read.
"You speak like a man who's been there," he said quietly. "To the western waters."
"I speak like a man who's listened to those who have." The lie came easily, built on a foundation of technical truth. "Where I come from, we preserve knowledge differently. What works, what fails, what kills the men who try it—all written down for others to learn from."
"Written down." Floki's voice carried wonder and suspicion in equal measure. "You preserve boat-knowledge in writing?"
"Among other things." I pulled my concentration together and reached for my blueprint manifestation ability. "Would you like to see?"
Ragnar stepped closer, clearly recognizing what was about to happen. "Show him."
I pulled a piece of bark-paper from the supplies scattered around Floki's work area and laid it flat on a convenient stump. Then I closed my eyes and visualized the modifications I'd been discussing—a deeper keel design with improved stability characteristics for ocean sailing.
The familiar sensation of manifestation washed over me—a pulling feeling, as if something was being drawn out through my fingertips and onto the writing surface. When I opened my eyes, the bark-paper was covered with precise technical drawings that showed the keel modification from multiple angles, complete with measurements and construction notes.
Floki stared at the impromptu blueprint like I'd just turned water into wine.
"How?" he whispered.
"Eastern technique for preserving knowledge," I said, fighting down the exhaustion that always followed manifestation. "We... trap ideas on parchment so they can be shared exactly as intended."
"Impossible." But Floki's hands were already tracing the lines I'd drawn, following the technical specifications with the hungry attention of a master craftsman encountering new possibilities. "These measurements... these proportions... where did you learn this?"
"From teachers who learned from other teachers, going back generations." I managed to keep my voice steady despite the growing headache. "In my homeland, knowledge builds on knowledge. What one generation discovers, the next generation improves."
Floki looked up from the blueprint with eyes that held a mixture of awe and terror. "If this could be built... if it works as you show... it would change everything."
"Perhaps we should find out," Ragnar said quietly. "Build it. Test it. See what eastern knowledge can do when combined with western craftsmanship."
And that was how I found myself standing ankle-deep in cold seawater, helping Floki modify his masterpiece according to plans I'd manifested from impossible knowledge.
The work itself was fascinating. Floki might have been half-mad, but he was also a genius at practical construction. He understood wood grain and stress patterns in ways that made my theoretical knowledge look childish. When I suggested techniques for joining the new keel sections, he'd improve them on the spot, finding solutions I would never have considered.
But what made the work truly remarkable was the way my metallic manipulation abilities let me perfect the critical details. Iron nails that should have split the wood instead slipped into place like they'd been designed for exactly those holes. Metal braces bent to perfect angles without visible effort. Joints that should have required hours of careful fitting came together seamlessly.
To any observer, it looked like a combination of skilled planning and lucky craftsmanship. Only I knew that luck had nothing to do with it.
The modification that should have taken three days was finished by sunset. When we tested the keel's flexibility by rocking the boat gently in the surf, it moved exactly as my engineering calculations had predicted—stable but responsive, ready for deep water.
Floki stood waist-deep in the waves, running his hands along the new work with the expression of a man touching something holy.
"Wayland the Smith," he breathed. "Either you are blessed by Wayland himself, or..." He looked at me with something approaching religious awe. "Or the gods are playing games I don't understand."
"The gods play games no one understands," I replied. "I'm just grateful when the games work in our favor."
As we walked back toward the farm in the gathering dusk, Ragnar fell into step beside me. His expression held the same hungry calculation I'd seen when he first examined my fever-dream blueprint.
"Earl Haraldson has been asking questions," he said casually. "About the eastern stranger living on my farm. About the strange improvements to my boats."
My blood turned to ice water. "What kind of questions?"
"The kind that suggest opportunity to some men, and threat to others." Ragnar's smile held no warmth. "Word travels fast in communities this small. When a farmer's boats suddenly become the finest on the fjord, people notice."
I felt the weight of unwanted attention settling on my shoulders like a lead cloak. In my old life, professional success brought promotion and recognition. Here, it seemed, it brought danger.
"What does Earl Haraldson want?"
"What all earls want. Control over anything that might change the balance of power." Ragnar's hand drifted to the sword at his hip. "The question is whether you're content to remain under my protection, or whether you'd prefer to see what his offers."
The threat was subtle but unmistakable. Ragnar had invested time and resources in me, and he expected returns on that investment. Loyalty, specifically.
"I'm content," I said quickly. "More than content. Grateful."
"Good." His smile returned, warmer but no less predatory. "Because I have plans that will require... eastern knowledge. Plans that could make us all wealthy beyond imagining."
As we approached the farm buildings, I caught sight of Bjorn sitting on the porch steps, whittling at a piece of wood with fierce concentration. When he saw us, his face lit up with the kind of uncomplicated joy that made me remember what it felt like to be young and optimistic about the future.
"Did it work?" he called out, abandoning his carving to run toward us. "The new boat design?"
"It worked," I told him, ruffling his hair in a gesture that felt surprisingly natural. "Your father will have the fastest ship on these waters."
"And then we'll sail west," Bjorn said with absolute confidence. "To lands where no one has ever been before."
Looking at his eager face, I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the evening air. Ragnar's plans for wealth and western lands were starting to take shape in my mind, and I didn't like the picture they painted.
But I was committed now, bound by debt and circumstance to whatever future my hosts had in mind. All I could do was hope that my engineering knowledge and supernatural abilities would be used for building rather than destroying.
Somehow, looking at the calculating gleam in Ragnar's eyes, I doubted my hopes would be sufficient.
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