The Sons of Ragnar
The longship cut through the river like a blade, its hull gliding smoothly over the calm waters. The rhythmic creak of the oars and the deep hum of the crew's song filled the air. Kaya stood at the bow, her fingers grazing the rough wood of the railing as the wind tousled her dark hair. The sun hung high, its golden embrace warming her face as the trees on the riverbank blurred into streaks of green.
The river was alive with activity. Small fishing boats bobbed alongside them, their occupants casting wary glances at the Viking vessel. Children played on the riverbanks, their laughter mingling with the calls of waterfowl. Smoke curled lazily from the chimneys of modest village huts, each one nestled precariously close to the water's edge. A few fishermen paused in their work to wave or shout warnings, though their voices were lost to the steady beat of the drum keeping the rowers in time.
Kaya's sharp eyes caught sight of fish breaking the surface of the water, their silver scales gleaming in the sunlight. For a brief moment, she allowed herself to appreciate the serenity of the scene, though she knew it was fleeting. Their destination lay ahead, and it promised anything but peace.
Behind her, Eivor's voice rose above the crew's song, his commands clear and unwavering. He stood tall at the helm, one hand on the tiller, the other gesturing to his warriors. "Keep steady! The river narrows ahead. Thor's hammer, don't let us run aground!"
The crew responded with a cheer, their spirits high despite the weight of the journey. Kaya glanced back at them, their camaraderie a sharp contrast to the unease she felt brewing in her chest. These were men and women who thrived on the thrill of conquest, their hearts beating in time with the songs they sang. For them, the promise of battle was life itself.
As the day wore on, the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in hues of amber and crimson. Shadows stretched long across the river, the golden glow softening the edges of the world. Kaya folded her arms across her chest, leaning back against the ship's railing. She closed her eyes, letting the fading warmth of the day seep into her skin.
The air grew heavier as Eivor and Kaya approached the dilapidated church. The structure loomed against the darkening sky, its stones cracked and weathered by the ravages of time and war. Creepers had claimed much of its walls, snaking through the gaps in crumbling mortar. The surrounding area was eerily quiet, the only sounds being the distant rustle of wind through the trees and the faint call of crows circling overhead.
Kaya stepped over a patch of broken stone, her eyes scanning the desolation around them. "I didn't take the Sons of Ragnar to be holy men," she remarked, her voice laced with dry humor.
Eivor gave a small grunt of agreement. "Holy? No. But they'll claim any place that gives them an advantage—whether it's the house of a god or the home of a farmer."
Kaya glanced over her shoulder toward the longship where their crew rested, enjoying a brief reprieve from the journey. The stillness here felt like a different kind of battlefield, one where blood had been spilled but the war wasn't over.
A faint sound broke through her thoughts—low, desperate, like a man pleading for mercy. Kaya's body tensed, her hand instinctively moving to the hilt of her dagger. Eivor caught the sound as well, his eyes narrowing as he gestured for her to follow.
They stepped into the shadow of the church, the scent of damp stone and rot thick in the air. The heavy wooden door groaned as Eivor pushed it open, the sound echoing in the hollow space beyond.
The scene that greeted them made Kaya's stomach turn.
A man hung upside down from a beam, his feet bound tightly with coarse rope, his hands tied cruelly behind his back. He was stripped to his undergarments, his pale, battered body covered in bruises and cuts. His shallow breaths came in ragged gasps, and blood dripped steadily from his nose onto the cracked stone floor beneath him.
At the center of the room stood another figure—a somewhat-tall, wiry man whose presence radiated danger. He was turning a rusted wheel that lifted the bound man higher, each creak of the mechanism like a scream in the suffocating silence. His back was to them at first, but when their footsteps came close, he stopped and turned.
"Who stands before Ivarr Ragnarsson? Are you Sigurd's dregnr? Aygor?" Ivarr said, pointing at Eivor with a sort of twisted look in his eyes.
His sharp eyes shifted past Eivor and landed on Kaya, narrowing slightly. He tilted his head, inspecting her in the same way one might study a wild animal—a mixture of curiosity and danger.
"And who's this shadow at your side?" he asked, his tone shifting, quieter now but no less threatening. His twisted grin returned, this time aimed at her. "A woman, eh? Sigurd sends a lamb to the wolf's den."
Kaya's jaw tightened, but she held her ground, her icy gaze locking with his. "A lamb?" she echoed coldly. "You've got the wrong animal. Keep testing me, and I'll show you my teeth."
Ivarr's grin stretched wider, a glimmer of delight sparking in his eyes. He stepped closer to her, the air between them thick with unspoken challenge. "Oh, I like this one," he said, glancing at Eivor. "The fire in her belly. Let's hope it doesn't burn out too quickly."
Kaya didn't flinch, though her fingers curled tighter, wanting to release her hidden blade and slash at the lunatic's throat. She could feel the madness radiating off Ivarr, his unpredictability making him more dangerous than any warrior on the battlefield.
Ivarr wasted no time on showing off his personality.
"Eh, this place could use some color," Ivarr said, his voice dripping with mockery as he looked about the church. His gaze flicked to Kaya, the twisted grin on his face daring her to react to his madness.
Kaya's jaw tightened, her fingers twitching near the hilt of her blade. She didn't need to respond; the disgust in her eyes spoke volumes.
Eivor stepped in, his tone steady but firm. "Who are they?" he asked, motioning to the battered captives. His eyes darted to Kaya for a brief moment, silently urging her to keep her composure.
Ivarr chuckled, spreading his arms as if showcasing a masterpiece. "All spies," he declared, his voice filled with cruel delight. "Dressed to look the part of a peasant. Got feisty."
As he spoke, Ivarr sauntered toward his victims, his boots echoing on the cold stone floor. Kaya's attention snapped to a figure she hadn't noticed before—a man standing near the shadows, his eyes bound with a tattered cloth. He was frail, his movements hesitant as he struggled to stay upright.
The blind man held a steel rod in his trembling hands, using it as a crude guide to navigate the space. His steps were unsteady, his bare feet scraping against the rough stone. It was clear he had been stripped not only of his sight but of his dignity.
The blind man whimpered as Ivarr shoved him closer to the hanging captive. The steel rod clattered to the ground as his hands fumbled, his movements desperate and pitiful.
Kaya couldn't take her eyes off the scene. The air felt heavy, suffocating, as though the building itself was complicit in the horrors unfolding within its walls.
"Pitchfork," Ivarr said with a twisted smirk, gesturing lazily toward his dangling prisoner. "From this rabid little one."
His voice was almost amused, as if discussing a trivial matter rather than the brutal scene before them. Kaya's eyes flicked to the prisoner, his face pale and streaked with blood. The ropes around his feet creaked with every weak thrash, and the man's ragged breaths barely escaped his cracked lips.
"Was a time when you met and slew your enemy on the field before they could dream of things like sending spies." Ivarr continued, circling the bound man like a predator stalking its prey.
With a sudden, violent motion, Ivarr struck the blind man across the back of the head. The man stumbled forward, clutching at nothing as the steel rod slipped from his trembling hands. It clattered to the ground, but Ivarr didn't let it rest for long. He seized the rod, his grin widening as he jabbed it against the hanging man's exposed ribs.
The scream that followed tore through the hollow church, a raw, guttural sound that echoed off the stone walls and made Kaya's stomach churn. It was the cry of a man on the edge of death, a sound that clawed its way into her ears and refused to leave.
Ivarr stepped back, surveying his handiwork with the satisfaction of a mad artist admiring a deranged masterpiece. His eyes glimmered with a perverse joy, and his grin stretched wider, as if the man's agony was fuel for his twisted soul.
Kaya's fists clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. She had seen many horrors in her life—war, bloodshed, betrayal—but this? This was madness. The kind of senseless cruelty that turned men into beasts.
"This is sickening," she muttered under her breath, her voice trembling with restrained fury. She couldn't tear her eyes away, though every fiber of her being wanted to look anywhere else.
"And now we shake hands and make deals," Eivor said, his voice steady, almost cold. His eyes remained fixed on Ivarr, unfazed by the scene before him. There was no disgust, no shock—just a weary resignation, as if he had long since accepted that men like Ivarr were a necessary evil.
Not my thing," Ivarr said, his voice casual, as if discussing the weather.
"I figured," Eivor replied evenly, his tone betraying no emotion.
"Blood seems more to your liking," Kaya muttered, her disgust sharp enough to cut.
Ivarr turned to her, his grin spreading like a wolf baring its teeth. "Oh, I love them whipped, weeping, and reeking of piss," he said, prowling back toward his dangling victim. He leaned in close, sniffing the man like a rabid dog catching the scent of fear.
Kaya's lip curled in revulsion. "Even animals aren't so cruel."
Ivarr straightened, his grin never faltering. "And why does the lady not like me? I'm a charmer," he said, his voice dripping with mockery.
Kaya's glare was unrelenting, her disgust palpable. Beside her, Eivor remained impassive, his face unreadable, as if he had long since resigned himself to Ivarr's depravity. But Kaya felt every ounce of revulsion burning in her chest.
"Hey!" Ivarr suddenly barked, his voice snapping like a whip. The blind man flinched, his hands trembling as he froze in place. Ivarr's wild eyes locked onto him, and for a moment, the tension in the room became suffocating.
But instead of more violence, Ivarr reached into his pouch and produced a coin. He stepped forward and pressed it into the blind man's shaking hand. "Good boy," he sneered, his tone mocking.
He turned back to Eivor and Kaya, spreading his arms theatrically. "You're free, Saxon piggy! Free to run amok through the Mercian fields," he announced with exaggerated cheer, as though bestowing a great mercy.
The blind man didn't move, his body frozen with fear and disbelief. Ivarr, clearly bored now, pulled a small axe from his belt. Without hesitation, he swung it upward, severing the rope that held his hanging prisoner.
The man crashed to the ground with a sickening thud, groaning weakly as he writhed in the dirt.
"Charming," Kaya spat, the word laced with venom.
Ivarr turned to her, his grin twisting into something darker. "Oh, I can be much more charming, little wolf," he said, his voice low and taunting.
Kaya's hand twitched again for the hundredth time, but Eivor's firm grip on her arm held her in place. "Not now," Eivor murmured under his breath, his voice calm but unyielding.
She took a slow breath, forcing herself to step back, though every muscle in her body screamed at her to act. Ivarr's laughter followed them as they turned to leave, the sound echoing through the desecrated church like the howling of a mad beast.
Outside, the fresh air did little to ease Kaya's unease. She cast a glance at Eivor, her voice low. "That man's a rabid dog. One day, he'll turn on us, too."
Eivor's gaze was steady, his expression unreadable. "Perhaps. But for now, we need him. And rabid dogs are best kept on a short leash."
Kaya said nothing, but her jaw tightened as they walked away, leaving the church and its horrors behind.
"What do you call this place?" Eivor asked as they moved along the narrow, churned-up roadway. Makeshift camps lined the route, fires flickering amidst clusters of hardened faces. Stone structures lay scattered, broken and hollow, like the bones of a long-dead beast. What had once been a prosperous village was now overrun by strangers from the water.
Kaya glanced around, the remnants of homes and livelihoods reduced to rubble. The mud clung to her boots, sucking at her steps as if trying to pull her down into the filth. The air smelled of damp earth, charred wood, and despair.
"I call itThe Shithole," Ivarr said with a savage grin, striding ahead with the air of a man surveying his spoils. "To the Mercians, it's Repton."
Kaya's lips twitched. For once, she found herself agreeing with him.
Ivarr gestured toward the crumbling church that stood in the distance, its hollowed walls silhouetted against the sky. "Their most revered kings are buried below the church. Imagine their weeping when we drove them out." His voice was laced with cruel delight, as if the memory alone could warm his blood.
"You plunged your knife deep into the heart of this kingdom," Eivor said, his tone even but heavy with meaning.
"That's right," Ivarr replied, grinning like a wolf. "Got a line of Saxon nobles with their lips puckered, ready to kiss our arses. Spineless bastards." He snorted, his amusement thick and raw. "The kind who think power is clean work. They'd kneel to the devil himself if it kept their hands free of blood."
Kaya watched him as he spoke, her eyes sharp with scrutiny. She had seen this before: nobles bowing low, offering false smiles while clutching daggers behind their backs. Trust was a fragile thing, and here it was as worthless as the mud beneath their feet.
"The only holdout is King Burgred and his war-thegn, Leofrith," Ivarr continued, his tone shifting to something darker. "But my brother is brewing a plan to deal with them."
"I take it that's where we'll find my brother," Eivor said, his gaze fixed on the tent they were approaching.
"Right. Talkers they are, Ubba and Sigurd. Might want to dig the wax from your ears." Ivarr smirked, then turned his gaze to Kaya. "You look the talking type, too. Perhaps you can join their little song."
Kaya arched a brow, a glint of fire in her eyes. "If I'm the talking type, then what are you, Ivarr? A jest gone wrong?"
Ivarr threw back his head and laughed, the sound harsh and wild. "A jest, eh? Good one, lady. I like you even more."
"Not mutual," Kaya muttered under her breath, her voice low enough that only Eivor heard.
The heavy canvas of the tent draped over the wooden poles creating shadows that seemed to stretch and sway with the gusts of wind outside. Kaya stepped inside, her boots thudding softly against the packed earth. Eivor was right behind her, his posture tense, as if anticipating trouble. The voices hit her first—loud, angry, and unrelenting.
At the center of the tent, a large wooden table was covered with maps and scribbled notes. Behind it sat a man with darkened hair, his beard thick and well-groomed, his sharp eyes flicking between the woman standing before him and the others in the room. He did not look like the kind of man to be trifled with. But the woman…
Kaya couldn't help but notice how much she resembled a warrior more than a woman. Her stature was imposing, her frame tall and solid with the muscles of someone who had spent years in battle. She was swathed in worn leather armor, the markings of a seasoned fighter etched in the scars on her arms. Her face was fierce, her dark eyes burning with fury as she spat words that could pierce steel.
"Don't play me for a fool, Ubba. I know Burgred's sent a weregeld your way," the woman growled, her teeth stained dark, lips curled in disgust. Kaya raised an eyebrow at the venom in her tone.
Ubba, the man behind the table, didn't flinch. His hands rested firmly on the wood as he leaned forward, his dark brows furrowing under the weight of her words. "I'm not going anywhere, bacraut," he sneered, his voice low and full of disdain. "You have the king on his heels because of me! Because of my men!"
The woman took a step closer, her boots echoing with each heavy step as she seethed. "For which you were paid, you thick-headed fool," she spat, her words sharp as daggers. "But that price doesn't change because you've caught wind of our hacksilver horde." Her fists clenched at her sides, the muscles in her arms tensing. Kaya could see her frustration reaching a boiling point.
The woman's words hung in the air like poison, her gaze cold as she squared off against the group. "You forget, I am a sellsword," she said with a sneer, her tone dripping with disdain. "I ask what I please, and I take what I'm owed." She spat, the sound sharp as a whip.
Ivar's patience snapped like a brittle branch underfoot. He had already endured enough of the woman's insults, her barbs aimed at his brother, and he wasn't about to stand idle any longer. With a growl of frustration, he swung his arm, slapping her roughly across the forearm. "If I wanted to hear you talk shit, I'd gouge out my tongue and shove it up your ass. Now fuck off," Ivar snarled.
The woman's eyes flared with fury, but she knew better than to push her luck further. With a furious hiss, she turned on her heel and stormed off, her pride swallowed up in the wake of Ivar's anger. Her footsteps were heavy, though her retreat was swift, and soon, she was nothing but a distant blur.
Ubba stood silent, his hand still on the shoulder of his brother, Sigurd. He'd watched the exchange with a mixture of disbelief and amusement, though the tension in his eyes had yet to fade. "Haggling over silver is a bad look for the son of Ragnar Lothbrok," he remarked, his voice steady but laced with a hint of distaste. "But worry not, Ubba, I have the warriors you need."
Sigurd stood from his seat, brushing off the front of his tunic as he turned to face Ubba. His tone softened, just slightly, as he clapped a hand firmly onto Ubba's shoulder, an unspoken bond passing between the two brothers. "We'll get you what you need, no more wasting time on these petty squabbles."
Kaya, feeling the weight of all the stares as she stood beside Eivor, instinctively reached for the hood of her cloak, pulling it lower to shield her face. The towering figures of Ragnar's sons made her feel small—like a dwarf among giants. Her stance remained unyielding, though, her eyes unwavering, even if the tightness in her chest betrayed her discomfort.
Eivor, ever the steady presence at her side, gave a subtle nod in Ubba's direction, acknowledging him as one warrior to another. His gaze was careful but firm, a silent message of respect that carried more weight than any words could.
Ubba's expression shifted from his usual stoic seriousness to something more contemplative as he surveyed the two before him. "If this is one of them, my worries have vanished," he said, his tone warmer than before, the faintest gleam of approval in his eyes as he turned to Eivor.
But it was Kaya who caught his attention next. He studied her for a long moment, his brow furrowing as he considered her. His eyes narrowed, yet there was a spark of recognition—something that told him she was no ordinary woman. "This small woman…" Ubba murmured to himself, his voice trailing off as he let his gaze linger on her. He saw more than just the small frame and the cloak she wore. There was something dangerous beneath the surface, something that marked her as a force to be reckoned with.
Kaya met his gaze without flinching, her hand still resting lightly on the hilt of her blade. She had learned long ago not to shrink from the scrutiny of others, especially not from men like Ubba. Her eyes burned with a quiet defiance, and she refused to let him—or anyone—believe she was anything less than what she was.
Eivor caught the exchange between Kaya and Ubba, his own expression unreadable. He knew the value of first impressions, and Kaya had never been one to shy away from proving her worth.
"Eivor! Wolf-Kissed! Kaya!" Sigurd's voice boomed with enthusiasm as he strode forward to greet them. "You have come at just the right time. Ubba and Ivarr are hunting a king."
Kaya's ears pricked up at his words, her sharp gaze locking onto Sigurd.Hunting a king.The notion stirred something deep within her—a memory of long-forgotten hunts and the thrill of pursuing those of noble blood. A small smile ghosted her lips. Perhaps this journey wouldn't be the waste of time she'd feared.
"And when we catch him," Ubba interjected, standing tall with his hands planted firmly on his hips, "we mean to crown another. Our dear Thegn Ceolwulf here."
Kaya's attention shifted to the man stepping up beside Ubba. Ceolwulf was older, his greying, slightly curling brown hair framing a face that bore the lines of age and experience. His noble attire spoke of his rank, but it was the weariness in his eyes that caught Kaya's interest. Despite that weariness, there was a flicker of resolve, the kind that hinted he could still wield a blade if the situation demanded it.
"It's not a role I begged for," Ceolwulf said, his voice even and measured, "but it's what Mercia needs just now—a man to rule fairly over both Saxons and Danes." He stood tall, his posture firm, yet there was an air of reluctance about him that Kaya did not miss.
Kaya's brow furrowed slightly. She had no qualms about the hunt for a king—it was a challenge she relished—but to crown another in his place? That left a bitter taste. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she glanced at Eivor, who shared her unspoken unease.
"I can't imagine the current king is too happy about all this," Eivor remarked, his tone sharp with curiosity and caution.
Kaya stepped forward, her voice cutting through the conversation like a blade. "Making kings is not as easy as killing one," she said, her tone measured but firm. "Even the strongest warrior can't guarantee a ruler will hold their throne. I've seen empires fall because of one man's incompetence." Her gaze flicked to Ceolwulf, her words a subtle challenge to the man who now stood at the center of their plans.
Ceolwulf didn't flinch under her scrutiny. Instead, he held her gaze, his expression unreadable.