When the spoils were finally divided, word spread swiftly through all of Gothenburg. Everyone soon learned that Ivar and his companions had struck it rich. Envy flared in every heart, and voices rose one after another, calling for another raid on Britain when spring returned.
Ragnar, faced with such eager volunteers, promised he would petition King Erik himself and raise an even greater host for the next expedition.
Once the crowd dispersed, he drew Rurik aside.
"Each pound of silver could buy eight head of cattle. That makes your share worth the equivalent of a hundred and sixty cows. How do you intend to spend such wealth?"
"I’d like to purchase a suit of chainmail from you." Rurik’s voice carried conviction. The battle against the Pechenegs had impressed upon him the value of good armor. Had he not been clad in iron that day, he reckoned he could have cut down no more than three of those steppe horsemen before falling himself.
Ragnar gave a rare smile.
"Last year, after we plundered Londenium, I kept three suits of chainmail for myself. I’ll give you one—it shall be your reward for striking down Lord Borg with your own hand."
So generous?
Rurik followed Ragnar into his lord’s chamber, where the latter drew forth a large suit of mail. As Rurik donned it, a wave of security and strength welled up within him.
He glanced down. The armor weighed roughly twelve kilograms, woven from countless iron rings scarcely a centimeter across. Each ring was linked to four neighbors, forming a dense mesh.
In those early centuries of the Middle Ages, few defenses surpassed chainmail. It could turn aside sword-blades and blunt the bite of arrows, though it did little against the crushing weight of axes or hammers. A spear-thrust, too, might still pierce through if fortune favored the attacker.
"Your generosity is more than I deserve. I ask for nothing further," Rurik said, content at last.
His mind wandered briefly to chronicles he had once read of Crusader knights, famed for their unmatched prowess on the battlefield. He now suspected their mail shirts had much to do with that reputation.
When the gifting was done, Ragnar asked for Rurik’s counsel concerning the next raid.
"The more men the better," Rurik replied without hesitation. "If we can muster three thousand warriors this time, we should strike at one of the great realms—Northumbria, Mercia, or Wessex. The rewards will be far richer than stripping the lesser fiefs."
"Just so," Ragnar nodded in agreement. "These small kingdoms have been drained by our forays year after year. There is little left to take. The time has come for another grand invasion."
Five days later, Ragnar summoned his shield-bearers, bidding them ride forth to summon nobles from across the land to Gothenburg for a feast. Rurik was sent northeast to Örebro. The distance was long, so he was granted a horse for the journey.
He had, during his half-year among the Rus tribes, learned the rudiments of riding. But skills such as mounted swordplay, couched-lance charges, and archery on horseback he had not yet attempted—for the horses of Scandinavia were poor stock, ill-suited for war. Thus the Northmen fought almost always on foot; mounted warriors were a rarity. Among Ragnar’s own shield-bearers, only Gunnar’s horsemanship was truly remarkable, though he had little chance to prove it.
The wind cut like knives. Rurik’s mount snorted and blew clouds of vapor that froze into fine crystals upon his lashes. Each breath grew harsher, more labored.
When he had left Gothenburg five days past, the beast had been glossy and strong. Now, worn down by the journey, it was flagging. Rurik eased its pace and at last, on the sixth morning, came to a crossroads.
Looking ahead, he spied columns of smoke curling skyward from the northeast. That must be Örebro. Parting ways with Nils—who bore messages southeastward toward Norrköping—he offered a clasp of the hand.
"Take care, brother."
"And you as well."
Before nightfall, Rurik reached the local lord’s great hall.
He pushed open the door and was met by a rush of warmth, thick with mead and the scent of roasted meat. Along the long tables men jostled shoulder to shoulder, feasting.
"I am Ragnar Lodbrok’s shield-bearer," Rurik proclaimed. "I come to invite Lord Lennard to Gothenburg for a feast, where we shall plan next spring’s raid upon Britain."
At his words, nearly two-thirds of the men sprang up in eager assent. Yet the rest turned their eyes toward the high seat, where Lord Lennard sat with a troubled expression.
"Ragnar would have me raid with him?" Lennard repeated.
He motioned Rurik to sit, but his face remained drawn. "Alas, it is ill-timed. Only last month, men from the neighboring fief stole game from my folk. I mean to muster my warriors and march against them. Should I lose too many men, I will not be able to raid abroad for years to come."
When Rurik learned the stolen game was nothing more than a single reindeer, he marveled at such pettiness.
"My lord, Ragnar seeks to raise an expedition of unprecedented scale. Should it succeed, the riches and glory awaiting you will eclipse all minor grievances. Better to set aside this quarrel."
"Impossible," Lennard said firmly. "Three days past I sought Odin’s will, and a lightning bolt split the sky. Plainly, He commands me to strike against Konsell."
As if to seal his words, a low thunder rolled beyond the walls, and Lennard’s eyes gleamed with conviction. "You see? Odin urges me onward. I dare not delay."
That night, as Rurik lay restless in the guest chamber, an idea seized him—an audacious, wondrous idea.
If Lennard would treat a thunderstorm as divine command, then perhaps Rurik could show these Northmen the power of reason disguised as miracle. He would reenact Benjamin Franklin’s experiment with the kite.
The next day, to the bafflement of the locals, he gathered silk thread, rags, and wooden sticks, fashioning a crude kite. From clay jars and metal foil he improvised a Leyden jar—an eighteenth-century device capable of storing static charge.
After midday, as thunderclouds thickened, Rurik planted a wooden stake in the ground, tied the thread to it, and let the kite climb into the darkened sky.
"What madness is this?" men muttered.
Blue lightning flickered among the clouds, and Lord Lennard himself, struck with awe, retreated beneath the eaves as wind and grit stung his face.
At last, sensing the moment was ripe, Rurik brought forth his jar. He touched its metal rod to the strip of iron tied into the kite’s string—and a spark leapt, a thin blue arc that cracked in the air. Cries of astonishment rippled through the gathering.
Rurik waited a moment, then touched the rod with his finger. A tingling jolt ran up his hand. He threw back his head and laughed.
"Behold! The thunder of heaven rests in my grasp. Who among you dares test it?"
The onlookers shrank from him as though he carried a plague. At last, a bold youth stepped forward and touched the rod. He yelped, then shouted with joy:
"I felt the lightning! I touched the storm!"
One after another, emboldened men pressed to try, until Lennard himself reached out. By then, the jar’s charge was nearly spent, and he felt only a faint prickle.
Yet his eyes lingered on Rurik with unmistakable fear—and reverence.
"You are no ordinary man," he whispered. "You are Odin’s chosen."