Riders!" Arne's shout cracked across the courtyard.
For a heartbeat, men froze—loot in their hands, mouths open, minds trying to decide if the sound meant danger or opportunity.
I didn't let them choose wrong.
"Move!" I barked. "Beach. Now. If you can't carry it, drop it."
A man—Kauko—clutched a heavy metal candlestick like it was his newborn son.
"Drop it," I snarled again.
He hesitated.
Rollo stepped in, ripped it from his hands, and threw it into the dirt. It landed with a dull, expensive thud.
"Run," Rollo said, voice like a whip.
That did it. Men started moving—fast, messy, hungry with fear now instead of greed.
Æthelstan stumbled in the crush, rope tight in Leif's fist. His eyes were wide, face pale, lips moving in silent prayer like he thought his god might hear better if he didn't speak.
Floki drifted close to him, grin sharp as a fishhook.
"Pray," Floki whispered. "Pray louder."
I shoved Floki back without looking at him. "Not now."
Floki bristled, but he fell into step, muttering curses to gods who didn't care about his feelings.
We spilled out of the gate and down the slope toward the dunes.
Ahead, the beach stretched grey and empty—our ship a dark shape pulled high enough that the tide wouldn't steal it, low enough we could still drag it back down.
Behind us, the monastery started screaming properly.
Bells rang—wild, desperate.
Not sacred.
Alarm.
Arne reached the crest of the dune first and dropped to one knee, bow in hand, peering back.
"How many?" Torstein demanded, not slowing.
Arne's voice came hard. "A few dozen at least. Spears. Some swords. No armor worth a damn."
"They can still kill," Erik snapped.
Rollo's laugh was ugly. "Good. Then we kill them first."
"No," I said. "We leave. That's the point."
Rollo turned his head, eyes flashing. "We're not running from farmers—"
"We're not fighting for pride," I cut in. "We're here for wealth, not a grave."
He hated that answer. I could see it in his jaw. But he kept moving because even Rollo understood one truth: dead men don't spend silver.
The wind off the water hit us, cold and wet. The tide was changing—waves creeping higher, the beach narrowing inch by inch.
Good and bad at once.
Good because it put water under us faster.
Bad because if we fumbled the launch, the sea would smash the hull or pin it half-floated, half-grounded.
Torstein read the shoreline like it was carved runes. "We launch at an angle," he said. "Bow toward deeper water. Oars ready."
"Do it," I said.
Men grabbed the hull. Hands dug into wet wood. Feet slid in sand. The ship groaned as we dragged it down.
Loot clinked in sacks. Someone tripped. Another man shoved him back up without stopping.
That was the old way: survive first, pity later.
Arne's first arrow took a rider's horse in the throat before I even saw the man clearly. The animal screamed and collapsed, throwing its rider into the mud.
The sound behind us changed immediately—shouting, anger, fear.
They were closer than I wanted.
"Keep dragging!" I shouted. "Don't stop for them!"
An arrow hissed past from inland and buried itself in the sand beside my foot.
They had bows too. Bad ones. But bad arrows still make holes.
Leif flinched and tightened his grip on Æthelstan's rope.
Æthelstan stumbled again, half-falling, and Rollo caught the back of his robe and yanked him forward like baggage.
"Don't die yet," Rollo growled at him. "You're worth more alive."
Æthelstan looked like he might vomit.
Floki laughed. "He already smells like fear."
I snapped, "Floki—help with the hull or I throw you back to your new friends."
That shut him up. For now.
The ship hit water with a heavy splash. Men heaved again, pushing the stern out until the waves started taking weight off the wood.
"Oars!" Torstein roared.
Oars slid into place. Hands found their grips like prayers.
Rollo climbed aboard first, axe ready, eyes on the dune line.
Arne kept firing—slow, deliberate—picking targets that mattered: horses, men with bows, men who looked like they were shouting orders.
A rider reached the edge of the dunes and raised a spear.
He wasn't a warrior. Not really. He was a man trying to become one because panic demanded it.
He screamed something in English and charged down the sand.
Leif, face hard now, stepped forward and buried his axe in the man's shoulder. The rider went down in a heap, mouth opening and closing like a fish.
Leif stood over him, breathing fast, and for a second his eyes looked empty—like part of him had just snapped into place.
Welcome to it, I thought grimly. This is what the west costs.
"Push!" I shouted. "Push harder!"
The hull lifted. The sea took us.
A wave slammed our side and spun the ship slightly. Torstein corrected. Men dug in with oars, pulling, pulling, pulling until we were clear of the shallow break.
Then another arrow struck wood and stuck quivering near the stern.
Erik swore. "They're still shooting!"
"They'll stop when we're out of range," Torstein said through clenched teeth. "Row!"
We rowed.
Not in glory. Not in song.
In ugly, desperate rhythm.
The shoreline slid away behind us. The riders grew smaller, their shouts swallowed by wind and surf.
Then Floki did the one thing he'd been itching to do since we stepped onto that shore.
He pulled a small clay pot from a sack—pitch inside—and took a torch from a bundle.
"Floki—" I started.
He didn't even look at me.
He hurled the pitch into the monastery's direction—toward the nearest wooden outbuilding—then flung the torch after it.
A second later, a tongue of orange climbed up against the grey.
Smoke rose, black and fast.
The riders turned their heads, screaming louder now, some peeling away toward the fire.
Floki smiled like a man watching an offering burn.
"Now they chase that," he said softly.
It was cruel.
It was practical.
It was also going to make the next time harder, because now they'd remember.
But there was no clean way to start a war.
Only the way you chose to survive.
When the coast finally faded into a smear, the ship settled into a quieter rhythm.
Men slumped against the gunwales, panting.
Hands shook as they tied down loot. Someone laughed once—thin and hysterical—then shut his mouth like he was ashamed of it.
Æthelstan sat bound near the mast, rope around his wrists, rope around his ankles, rope like a verdict.
He stared at the horizon, lips moving again. Still praying.
Rollo walked the deck, looking into sacks, weighing cups in his hands, eyes bright with the kind of satisfaction that makes men careless.
"This is more than east," he said, voice low and hungry. "More than all those cursed villages."
Torstein didn't look up. "More also means more attention."
Rollo shrugged. "Let them look."
Erik sat with his head down, breathing like his ribs hurt. "They'll raise an army. Next time they'll have men who know how to kill."
"Next time," Arne said, "we'll be ready."
Leif kept glancing at his axe blade like he didn't recognize the dried blood on it.
I crouched beside him. "You're shaking."
Leif swallowed. "He looked at me," he muttered. "Like I was a demon."
"You were," I said. "For him."
Leif's jaw tightened. "Does it get easier?"
I didn't lie.
"No," I said. "You just get used to what you're capable of."
He nodded once, staring at the sea like it might wash him clean.
I stood and walked to Æthelstan.
He flinched when my shadow fell across him.
I spoke in English, slow enough to be clear. "You're alive because you're useful."
His eyes flicked up—fear, confusion, relief all tangled.
"I… I am a man of God," he stammered.
"That doesn't matter here," I said bluntly. "What matters is what you know."
He swallowed. "You… you speak our tongue."
"A little," I lied, because telling him the truth would only make him more dangerous.
His voice shook. "Where will you take me?"
"Home," I said.
He blinked, misunderstanding. "Home—England?"
I shook my head. "My home."
His breath hitched. "To your land."
"Yes."
He closed his eyes like he was trying to endure it by not seeing it.
Behind me, I heard Floki's soft steps.
I didn't turn. I didn't need to.
"Ragnar," Floki said sweetly, "why do you bring poison onto my ship?"
I kept my eyes on Æthelstan. "He's not poison. He's information."
Floki's voice tightened. "He is a Christian."
"So?" I said.
Floki's "so" was venom. "So he carries a weak god in his mouth and he will spit it into your house. He will infect your children."
I turned then—slow—and met Floki's stare.
"This is not your decision," I said quietly.
Floki smiled, but it wasn't humor. It was offense.
"You trust him more than me?"
"I trust you to build ships," I said. "I trust you to fight when needed. I don't trust your temper with something valuable."
That hit him. His smile faltered for a half-breath.
Then it returned sharper.
"I built you a road," he said. "And now you bring home a worm."
I stepped closer until Floki had to tilt his head up to keep eye contact.
"Careful," I said. "Don't start pretending you're the only reason we're alive."
Floki's nostrils flared. For a moment I thought he might actually swing at me.
Then Torstein's voice cut across the deck like an axe laid flat.
"Enough," Torstein said. "Save your anger for the sea."
He pointed to the horizon.
Grey clouds were gathering again—low and thick.
Erik followed the line with his eyes and swore softly. "Storm?"
"Maybe," Torstein said. "Maybe worse. Wind's turning."
Floki's anger didn't vanish. It simply found a new place to sit.
He backed away, eyes still on Æthelstan like he was marking prey.
I watched him go, then looked down at Æthelstan.
"Do you understand me?" I asked.
Æthelstan nodded, barely.
"Then understand this," I said. "If you try to run, you die. If you try to trick us, you die. If you obey, you live."
His voice came out thin. "Why?"
Because I want leverage, I thought. Because I want to know the world before it swings back at me. Because Haraldson thinks like a small man and I need big advantages.
But I didn't say any of that.
"Because I said so," I answered.
In this world, that's reason enough.
The storm hit before midnight.
Not a full fury like the one that nearly broke us on the way out—this one was colder, meaner, more patient.
Wind rose in steady punches. Rain came in sheets. The sea didn't stand tall; it pulled low and ugly, slapping at the hull from bad angles.
Worse—clouds swallowed the stars.
No sun. No board. No clean direction.
Torstein took the steering line with me. "We hold the wind off the port," he said. "Keep the swell on the bow. If we turn wrong, we'll take waves sideways and roll."
"We keep steady," I agreed.
Rollo stumbled up, soaked, hair plastered to his skull. "If we lose the ship now, I'll kill you before the sea does," he shouted, half-serious.
I shouted back, "Get to the lines and make yourself useful!"
He did—because underneath everything else, Rollo was always a worker when it counted.
A wave slammed us. The ship lifted and dropped hard enough that teeth snapped together.
Æthelstan cried out in fear, struggling against his ropes.
"Quiet!" Arne yelled at him.
Æthelstan didn't understand the word, but he understood the tone. He shut his mouth and trembled.
Hours dragged. Men swapped on and off the lines, hands numb, arms burning.
Then, just before dawn, the wind shifted—lightening.
The rain thinned. The waves eased.
Not mercy. Just the storm growing bored.
Torstein leaned close to me, voice low so only I heard. "We're alive. But we've drifted."
"How far?" I asked.
He shook his head. "Don't know yet."
I exhaled through my nose, tasting salt and exhaustion.
Innovation gets you out here.
Tradition brings you home.
When the sky finally softened enough to show a pale sun through broken cloud, I pulled the sun board again.
Torstein watched the shadow.
His expression tightened.
"We're south of where we should be," he said. "Not by a little."
Erik heard him and swore. "So the storm pushed us toward more nothing."
"Toward coast," I corrected. "Different coast."
Rollo frowned. "Meaning what?"
I thought fast—Ragnar's memories and my own logic grinding together.
"If we hug the coast too long, we risk running into people," I said. "And if we're too far out, we risk starving before we see home."
Torstein nodded. "So we split the difference."
"Exactly," I said. "We steer north-west until midday tomorrow. Then we correct."
Leif looked up, hollow-eyed. "And if we're wrong?"
"Then we row until we're right," I said.
Nobody liked it.
Nobody argued.
That's how it works when men are too tired to pretend they have better ideas.
On the fifth day, Kattegat finally returned as a smudge against the water.
Men stood straighter. They licked cracked lips. They looked at home like it was a feast.
Rollo grinned. "We did it."
Erik whispered, "Thank the gods."
Floki stared at the horizon and said nothing.
Torstein's eyes narrowed. "Something's wrong."
I followed his gaze.
Smoke rose over the settlement—normal enough.
But along the shore, near the main landing, figures waited.
Too many.
Not fishermen. Not women. Not children.
Men.
Armed men.
I felt my stomach tighten.
Rollo saw them too. "Haraldson's?"
Torstein's voice went flat. "Looks like it."
Floki's smile came back, cold and satisfied. "Of course," he murmured. "The Earl does not like men who return with proof."
Leif swallowed. "What do we do?"
I stared at the waiting line of spears and cloaks—at the shape of power bracing itself on our shore.
I didn't sugar-coat it.
"We land," I said. "We don't look afraid. We don't crawl. We walk in like men who brought home wealth… and a weapon he didn't expect."
I glanced back at Æthelstan—bound, silent, watching us like he was watching wolves return to their den.
"And if Haraldson tries to take it all?" Rollo asked.
I met his eyes.
"Then we find out if our oaths mean anything on land," I said.
The ship kept sliding forward, water hissing along the hull.
Home was right there.
So was the next fight.