Ragnar stood at the bow of the Sea-Wolf, shielding his eyes against the glare of the sun on the grey water. For three days, they had sailed south, and the modified ships had performed exactly as his calculations predicted.
"Look at them all." Bjorn breathed, standing beside him.
Ahead of them, the fjord widened into a massive natural harbor. And it was full. Hundreds of longships were beached on the sand or bobbing at anchor. It looked less like a military encampment and more like a heavy metal festival that had run out of sanitation.
"The Great Heathen Army," Ragnar muttered. "It's bigger than the history books said."
"History books?" Bjorn asked, tilting his head. "We have books about this?"
"Figure of speech," Ragnar said quickly. "I mean... the sagas. It's bigger than the stories."
Bjorn grinned, slapping his axe handle. "More Danes means more glory!"
Ragnar looked at the sprawling camp and saw something else: a logistical nightmare. There were thousands of men down there.
No wonder they need to invade England, Ragnar thought. If they stay here another month, they'll eat Norway down to the bedrock.
He turned to look at his father. Ulf was standing by the tiller, his knuckles white as he gripped the wood. The bravado from the village had evaporated. Now, he was just a small-time chieftain from a backwater village arriving at the court of sharks.
Ragnar walked back to him.
"Steady, Father," Ragnar said softly. "The ship handles well."
Ulf looked at him, his eyes tight. "It's not the ship I fear, Ragnar. It's the King. Horik is... intense. He eats men like us for breakfast to test his teeth."
"We aren't breakfast," Ragnar said firmly. "We're the caterers. Nobody kills the caterer."
Ulf let out a short, nervous snort. "I hope your wizard words work, boy. For the sake of your brothers and sisters."
As the Sea-Wolf, followed by the Iron Serpent and the Storm-Caller, drifted closer to the main docks, the reaction was immediate.
Vikings on other ships stopped coiling ropes to stare. Warriors sharpening swords on the beach stood up and pointed.
"Look at that tub!" someone shouted from a nearby vessel. "Did it swallow a whale?"
"Hey!" another warrior yelled, cupping his hands. "Your ship is fat! Did you feed it too much pork?"
Laughter rippled across the water.
Bjorn bristled, his hand going to his weapon. "I'll cut their tongues out!"
"Let them laugh," Ragnar said, placing a hand on Bjorn's massive arm. "They see a fat ship. I see a cargo capacity of forty tons with a draft of only one meter. Let them laugh while we get rich."
They guided the ships onto the shingle.
A group of King Horik's elite guards marched down the beach. They wore chainmail that actually fit and carried axes that looked sharp enough to shave with.
"Identify yourselves!" the lead guard barked.
Ulf stepped off the ship, splashing into the shallow water. He puffed out his chest, trying to look larger than he felt.
"I am Ulf, Jarl of Oakhaven! These are my sons. We answer the King's call!"
The guard looked at Ulf, then looked at the strange, wide ship behind him. He looked confused. "You brought... that? To war?"
"We brought three of them," Ragnar interjected, stepping down beside his father. He stood tall, projecting the confidence of a man who knew he was right. "And we require an audience with King Horik immediately. We have a tactical advantage to discuss."
The guard blinked. He clearly didn't know what "tactical advantage" meant, but Ragnar's tone seemed to work.
"The King is in the Great Hall," the guard grunted. "Leave your weapons. Keep your... fat ships... out of the way."
The Great Hall was a massive structure of timber and thatch, smelling of roasted boar, stale beer, and power.
As Ragnar, Ulf, and Bjorn entered, the noise hit them like a physical wall. Hundreds of warriors were drinking, shouting, and boasting. In the center of the room sat King Horik.
He was lean, wiry, with eyes that darted around the room like a hawk looking for a field mouse. He wore a simple tunic, but the rings on his arms were heavy gold. Beside him, sitting on a lower stool with perfect posture, was a young woman with sharp features and eyes that seemed to be counting the number of threads in everyone's tunics. His daughter.
Ulf marched to the center of the room and knelt. Ragnar and Bjorn followed suit.
"King Horik!" Ulf announced, his voice cracking slightly before he steadied it. "Ulf of Oakhaven offers his sword!"
The King looked up from a map spread across his knees. He looked bored.
"Ulf," the King said, his voice dry. "I remember you. You're the one who lives up near the ice shelf where even the fish freeze. You brought thirty men?"
"Thirty-two," Ulf said proudly. "And three ships."
"Ships?" The King's daughter spoke up. Her voice was cool and melodic. "We heard reports of... unusual vessels docking. They say they look like pregnant cows."
The hall erupted in laughter. Even the King cracked a smile.
Ulf turned red. He opened his mouth to defend himself, but the words failed him.
Ragnar stood up.
"They are not cows, Princess," Ragnar said calmly. "They are granaries on water."
The room went quiet. You didn't just interrupt the King's laughter.
King Horik leaned forward, his hawk eyes locking onto Ragnar. "And who is this? The calf speaking for the cow?"
"I am Ragnar, son of Ulf," he said. "And I built those ships. They are wide because they carry three times the cargo of your standard longship. They are reinforced to carry horses without breaking their legs in rough seas. And they sail just as fast as your raiding parties."
The King stared at him. He stood up and walked slowly down the steps of the dais. He circled Ragnar, looking him up and down.
"Three times the cargo?" the King asked.
"Yes, my King."
"And they sail fast?"
"Physics guarantees it," Ragnar said.
The King stopped in front of him. "Physics. Is that a god?"
"A law," Ragnar corrected. "Like gravity. Or the fact that fire burns."
The King narrowed his eyes. "You speak strange words. Tell me, ship-builder... if your ship is so fat, does it not get tired?"
Ragnar blinked. "Tired?"
"Yes," the King said, looking genuinely curious. "A fat man runs slow. A fat horse breathes heavy. If you feed the ship so much wood to make it fat, does the spirit of the ship not become lazy?"
Ragnar fought the urge to face-palm. Right. Animism. They think the ship has a soul.
"It is not fat with meat, my King," Ragnar improvised, thinking fast. "It is... big-boned. It has a strong skeleton of iron. It does not get tired because the wind pushes it, and the wind never tires. It is built to serve you, to carry the heavy burdens so your warriors can save their strength for swinging axes."
The King seemed to consider this logic. "Big-boned," he muttered. "I have an uncle like that."
The King's daughter stood up and walked over. She was looking at Ragnar with intense curiosity.
"If we fill it with grain," she asked, "will it sink?"
"It will sit lower," Ragnar explained, using his hands to demonstrate. "But the bottom is flat. It pushes the water away. It floats. I have calculated the displacement."
"Dis-place-ment," the King repeated slowly, savoring the weird word. "Is that a spell?"
"In a way," Ragnar smiled. "It is the magic of knowing how much water a rock pushes out of the bucket."
The King looked at Ulf, then back at Ragnar. He suddenly clapped his hands together, a sharp sound that echoed in the hall.
"Insane!" the King declared cheerfully. "You are insane. You take a perfectly good ship and make it a bucket."
Ulf's shoulders slumped. He thought it was over.
"But," the King continued, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous intelligence, "I have five thousand men who eat too much. I have catapults that are too heavy for my ships. I have horses that kick holes in the hulls."
He leaned in close to Ragnar, smelling of wine and violence.
"Does your bucket ship keep the horses dry?"
"Bone dry, my King," Ragnar promised. "And stable. The horses won't get seasick."
"Horses get seasick?" the King asked, surprised.
"It makes a terrible mess," Ragnar said seriously.
The King threw his head back and laughed. It was a genuine, barking laugh.
"I like him!" King Horik shouted to the room. "He speaks madness, but he answers straight! He worries about vomiting horses while we worry about glory!"
The King grabbed Ragnar's shoulder.
"We sail for England in two days. You will take my siege engines. You will take the heavy reserve grain. If your fat ships sink, I will tie you to a stone and see how good your 'displacement' is then."
Ragnar bowed low. "That is fair."
The King turned to his daughter. "Gyda, see that the 'Logistics Master' gets a place near the royal tents. I want to see these fat ships for myself tomorrow."
As the King returned to his throne, dismissing them with a wave, Ulf grabbed Ragnar's arm. They walked out of the hall, past the staring warriors, and into the cool evening air.
Ulf let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for an hour.
"You are a madman," Ulf whispered, wiping sweat from his brow. "You told the King his horses would vomit."
"I told him the truth," Ragnar said, feeling the adrenaline finally fading, leaving his knees a little weak. "We have the contract, Father. We're in business."
Bjorn, who had been silent the whole time, suddenly punched the air.
"Did you see the Princess looking at you?" Bjorn grilled, grinning like an idiot. "She looked at you like you were a shiny new axe!"
"She looked at me like I was a puzzle she wanted to take apart," Ragnar corrected, though he had noticed the look too.
"Same thing," Bjorn shrugged.
Ragnar looked down at the harbor, where his three ugly, efficient ships sat among the sleek raiders.
"Come on," Ragnar said, heading for the camp. "We need to prep the cargo holds. If we're carrying siege engines, I need to design a winch system by morning."
"Winch?" Ulf asked wearily. "Another wizard word?"
"You're going to love it, Father," Ragnar promised. "It lifts heavy things so you don't have to."