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Chapter 46 - Chapter 46: Wealth

With a hundred and fifty warriors storming the battlements from the three turtle ships, the defenders' last hope of resistance collapsed. In less than half an hour, the remaining soldiers threw down their arms and surrendered.

In the lord's hall, Vig found Ivar with his armor off, binding a wound on his left shoulder.

"Damn Sweyn—he set an ambush with heavy crossbows. Any word on him? I swear I'll drink from his skull."

"He fled."

Before all the warriors, Vig recounted the farcical chase. The hall filled with raucous laughter.

"That man dares call himself a king?" Ivar winced, his thick brows furrowed as the bandages pressed his wound.

That afternoon, Ivar gathered two thousand townsfolk and over a thousand warriors. Together, he and Vig stepped onto the balcony of the hall to proclaim their rule.

"Who approves? Who objects?"

None dared to speak against them. From the crowd came only the muffled sobs of women and children. Ivar ignored them and gestured for the plunder to be piled before the hall.

Before division of spoils, he seized Vig's arm.

"For this battle we owe most thanks to Vig Hákonarson. His ships and stratagems saved many warriors' lives and brought Dyfflin down ahead of time. By Odin, may his deeds be sung until the end of the world!"

At his lead, the host roared Vig's name.

"Snake of the North!"

"Snake of the North!"

"God's Chosen!"

"Snake of the North!"

The cheers shook the town. Clearly "Snake of the North" had outshone "God's Chosen"—most mistook the golden dragon on Vig's banner for a serpent.

Suppressing the urge to protest, Vig joined the division of spoils led by Ivar:

Five and a half shares went to the warriors.

One and a half each to Ivar and Vig.

The remaining share to the nobles of Mancun and Lancaster.

"My dearest brother, you choose first."

"You're sure?"

Ivar wasn't jesting. Vig vaulted from the balcony to the ground below to make his pick.

Though Tynemouth lacked hands, he refused to take slaves—their loyalty too frail, like living powder kegs.

Instead, he chose two sapphire-and-gold brooches. The nobility of Britain prized such ornaments; he and Heligif should have proper ones to keep their station.

"Ten pounds of silver," a man cried, "You still have two hundred and thirty pounds to claim!"

In the next minutes Vig requested:

One hundred and fifty pounds of silver,

Fifty damaged suits of mail,

Three intact heavy crossbows,

Sixty light crossbows,

And every Latin book in the town.

Once checked, his men loaded the prizes onto wagons. Vig then watched the others choose: armor, swords, silver, jewels for most; drink and slaves for some; cloth and tools for others. Grain and livestock, too burdensome to carry, were least desired.

By dusk, most were satisfied. Under Ivar's hosting, Dyfflin plunged into three days of drunken revelry.

That night, drunk beyond sense, Ivar clapped Vig's shoulder again and again.

"You've done me a great favor, brother. When you march on the Picts, call on me."

"Likely two years yet," Vig replied.

The north could be conquered, but ruling it would be harder. Mishandled, it might descend into endless guerrilla strife. Better first to raise literate clerks and officials, then march with firm ground beneath him.

After the feast, Vig's fleet sailed north along the coast. When a sailor spoke of the "Giant's Causeway," Vig's curiosity rose.

"Where is this wonder?"

"Half a day north," said a towering young raider.

By dusk they reached a desolate shore. The tide was out, and jagged gray pillars of stone rose from the waves, hexagonal, their faces glowing bronze in the sunset.

They stood ten meters tall, arrayed with uncanny order, stretching for kilometers—a road of stone as if hewn by a giant's axe.

"By the gods…" Men leapt ashore, hacking at the columns with axes. Sparks flew, but only pale scars marked the basalt. Soon all agreed: it must be the work of a giant.

As the tide fell further, countless more pillars emerged, vanishing into the sea. Jorund pointed, awestruck:

"Look! The columns go out into the water!"

Indeed, tens of thousands of them, forming what seemed a bridge rising toward Jötunheim itself.

(Jötunheim: in Norse myth, realm of the frost and mountain giants.)

Vig alone remained calm. He knew what later scholars would write: these columns were basalt, cooled lava from volcanic eruptions tens of millions of years past.

"Enough staring. Find a place to camp. We cross at dawn."

At the Derwent estuary, Vig landed. Three days later, in late May, he returned to his lands.

Seeing the dragon banner over Tynemouth, he finally set down his worry. Away at war, he had feared most for his home.

"My love, you're back!"

Heligif was reading atop the wall, basking in the sun. At the sight of her husband she flung down her book and ran, losing a shoe in her haste.

She threw herself into his arms. Vig ruffled her dark auburn hair with a smile. "How fares the land?"

"The summer harvest went well. We've received two groups of Viking farmers—one hundred and five households."

She fastened the sapphire brooch to her chest. "The heavy iron plough is far faster and deeper than the light wooden ones. The gentry and small landholders love it. I let them copy the design, but required them to devote a third of their land to the three-field system. Nearly half refused, preferring their old ploughs."

"No matter. When the autumn oats and peas are reaped, they'll see the advantage soon enough."

With the estate thriving, Vig and his wife enjoyed rare peace—until June, when a new trouble arose.

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