AD ninth century, a fjord somewhere in Northern Europe.
While morning frost still clung to the grass, Vig Hakanson was awakened by the chirping of ravens outside. Wrapped in a worn sheepskin coat, he left his bed.
The moment he pushed open the oak door panel, a cold, salty sea breeze hit him head-on. He looked out at the western fjord; the sea was calm, reflecting the leaden gray clouds in the sky. Flocks of ravens circled overhead, foreshadowing the imminent arrival of a bitter cold wind from the north.
“It’s still late August. Why is the temperature dropping so fast?”
Vig was fifteen years old. He had been raised by his sister’s family since childhood. Last summer, his sister had moved to Britain with her second husband, leaving the farmhouse and land to her younger brother.
However, Vig’s luck was truly bad. A sudden storm in early autumn of the previous year had destroyed most of his crops. He was forced to sell his livestock to buy grain. If this year’s harvest was equally poor, he would probably not survive the winter.
“Not even a month since I time-traveled, and I’m facing a survival crisis. Why couldn’t I have time-traveled to the Tang Dynasty or the Eastern Roman Empire? I ended up in a poor, remote area of Northern Europe, and I don’t even know the exact year.”
The youth muttered a few complaints to the sky, then suddenly heard a scream from the south. Turning his head, he saw eight unfamiliar men surrounding the house of his neighbor, Joren.
Raiders?
According to the established rules, if a neighbor is attacked, Vig has an obligation to help. He returned to the farmhouse, taking out a round shield and a wooden spear, and finally, he stuck a hand axe into his belt.
By the time he had gathered his equipment, he found that several other neighbors were also gathering near Joren’s house. The adult men were equipped with round shields and hand axes; the women and boys carried hunting bows. In total, eighteen people had gathered.
“Shield wall!”
At the urging of a middle-aged man, twelve people, including Vig, formed a shield wall and slowly advanced toward the raiders. The women and boys were positioned on the flanks, randomly throwing arrows with their hunting bows.
One hundred meters.
Seventy meters.
Fifty meters.
When they were thirty meters apart, a woman finally hit a target. She excitedly showed off to her comrades, but the next moment, she was shot in the neck by an enemy arrow, falling to the ground and twitching before quickly falling silent.
Bang bang, bang bang.
Unconsciously, Vig’s heart pounded violently. He suppressed his fear, his eyes fixed on the raider opposite him. When the distance was reduced to fifteen meters, both sides stopped simultaneously, shouting to intimidate the enemy.
Outnumbering them by twice the amount, Vig’s side successfully overwhelmed their opponents. The seven surviving raiders exchanged glances, then quickly carried their sacks of grain and fled. Two died from arrows in their backs, and the remaining five disappeared into the dense forest.
Everything returned to calm.
After driving off the raiders, everyone held a short funeral, then went their separate ways. Life in Northern Europe is full of hardship and unpredictability; they were used to it, and some even thought death was a kind of liberation.
In September, the north wind became increasingly fierce. Vig began harvesting his wheat field. The blade slicing through the ripe barley stalks made a rustling sound; the golden ears fell beside his leather boots, like hair that had been combed.
Due to his lack of experience, this year’s harvest was very poor. According to later measurements, he harvested four hundred kilograms of barley. Ten kilograms per mu of land had to be set aside as seeds, and approximately forty kilograms of grain had to be paid as taxes. In the end, only two hundred kilograms remained, just enough to ensure he wouldn’t starve to death, with a near-zero chance of weathering any further risks.
“The life of a peasant farmer is really not easy.”
The next morning, he took the best part of his grain, put it in a sack, and went to Gothenburg, twenty kilometers to the south, to pay his taxes.
Gothenburg’s permanent resident population was about seven hundred. The ruler, Olaf, was a large, middle-aged man who loved strong drinks. For this reason, he had specially built a large brewing workshop and ordered the peasants under his rule to pay fresh grain annually. Those who disobeyed would be deprived of their land.
Passing a low fence, Vig walked along a muddy road strewn with sewage toward the market. Brass bells jingled among the merchants’ tents. Slavs in furs hawked honey wine; a blacksmith silently hammered red-hot iron ingots; and a Sami witch drew patterns on birch bark using reindeer blood. Countless noises converged into a whole, making Vig, usually solitary, feel unusually at ease.
After a short while, he arrived at the granary. “Vig Hakanson, from the northern region. This is the barley I am paying as tax this year.”
An elderly one-armed man was sitting in front of the warehouse. He took a small handful of barley, examined it for a moment, then poured the entire sack of grain into a wooden crate.
“You have completed your taxes this year. May Odin bless you with a good harvest next year.”
The elder took a specific document from five parchments, laid it flat on the table. The scroll roughly outlined the distribution of farmland north of Gothenburg. He dipped his index finger in some dark green dye and lightly touched a plot of land. “Next.”
After paying his taxes, Vig planned to work odd jobs in Gothenburg for a few days to earn some money for emergencies.
At that moment, a group of noisy Vikings walked toward him, carrying roast meat in one hand and wine jugs in the other, singing songs about Odin.
These men had a fierce demeanor, all equipped with iron armor. Vig did not want to have a conflict with them, so he silently stepped aside to the roadside, but his gaze was drawn to the roast lamb in their hands.
In the past year, Vig’s life had been poor and miserable. Sometimes, if he was lucky, his fishing nets set in shallow water would catch one or two cod, but the fish was too low in fat to be filling. Based on his experience, one bowl of pork would often last as long as two bowls of cod.
Sighing, Vig walked forward with his head down, when suddenly his shoulder was slapped hard. Turning around, he found the bearded leader handing him a large lamb chop.
What’s going on? Did they mistake me for someone else?
He looked puzzled, but the bearded man just smiled nonchalantly and snatched a wine jug from a comrade, handing it over. “Honey wine from Britain. Try it.”
Amidst the complaints of his comrades, Vig heard a name that was both unfamiliar and familiar—Ragnar.
Ragnar Lothbrok. History records that he once led a raid that broke through Paris, forcing Charles the Bald to pay indemnities for peace. He was the most famous legendary figure of the Viking Age.
In an instant, countless fragments of memory flooded his mind. Vig stood there dumbfounded. When he came to his senses, the Vikings, who had been singing merrily, had already gone. Only their song remained in his ears:
The uncharted west beckons in the mist,
Great seafarers, will we fear to be buried by the waves?
When Odin’s ravens bring victory,
The mead of Valhalla will fill our horns.