The Fire from the East

Chapter 2. Ladoga

Recommended music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LdZWezCvV2w&index=11&list=PLasQ5qhkBUHEUcs5aL-ZGeTGwIIahvKJc

credit goes to Jan Valta/Warhorse studios

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As it stood before them, the small town looked like a bustling place, a remarkable trait given its size. Since the rise of Kiev and Novgorod, it had lost its former importance, but was still a notable trading centre, due to the abundance of fur in the area. Many people passed through the place, stayed for a while and then left. Northmen, cumans, poles and even arabs from distant realms. They all passed through old Ladoga. But only few remained to endure the hardships of winter, which was especially unforgiving here.

Rurik, the first king of the Rus' people, had laid the foundations of the town, and made it his capital. He had come from overseas, on longboats decorated with the heads of wooden dragons. And with him had come his people: tall, proud and fierce warriors, and beautiful women.

The streets were narrow, winding and muddy, drenched by the heavy rains that had just passed. The houses were different than those of Novgorod, still bearing the marks of the varangians, of whom just few remained, among them Helge.

In the crammed main square, which was nothing more than a large crossroads with packed dirt, people were selling their goods. From the usual furs and pelts to spices, food and even jewelry. As the two passed through the market, they heard all manner of voices and shouts, in their tongue and in foreign tongues.

Above the bustling, modest town towered the citadel. Its five, squat towers and thick walls stood guard, ready to face any menace. It had been constructed recently, and was manned by a contingent of about three hundred men, divided into archers and infantry. A small squadron of elite druzhina also had its base here, ready for swift strikes wherever they were needed.

Helge led the way and rode forward, pointing the directions out and drifting into small stories as his memories of the place returned to his mind. It had been a while since his last visit, but he still knew the ins and outs of the place. They rode past the poor excuse of a main square and turned left, following a tight street covered in puddles, until a rather well-looking inn appearead around a corner. There the northman jumped off his horse, tied the beast to a post and looked around himself. His eyes bore a look of joy, reinforced by the grin on his bearded face. In a strong and almost stony voice, he shouted:

"Faðir, erð þú heim?"

In one of the houses, an old voice roared, accompanied by the breaking of some pottery.

"Já, minn sonr!"

The door of the house next to the inn flew open, and an old, great bear of a man stepped outside. His hair was white, but the look in his eyes was still eager and lively. Helge looked like him in many ways, and even the most distant of strangers would have been able to tell that they were family. The old man embraced his son with the strength of a bear, and his face turned into one, big smile, from ear to ear. Svyatoslav looked at them, longing for the days when he used to have a family of his own.

"And who might you be, good man?"

"I'm a friend of Helge's...a new friend. Svyatoslav is my name."

"I bid you welcome in my house. Come now, leave this gritty weather outside and join me at my table. The hearth is warm, and so is the food."

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Ingvar's house had seemed modest from the outside, but the inside told another story. As Helge had explained, his father was an important local trader, dealing mainly with furs. Thus his lodging stood neatly furnished and decorated, and his pantry was full at all times. Heavy beams supported the roof, and between some of the beams planks had been laid down, creating small platforms for storing the goods. Heavy woolen carpets were strewn across the floor, and on one side of the main room stood a stony hearth, with a bright, dancing fire burning in it.

Helge's father sat down at the table, and invited the two weary travellers to take a seat themselves. A platter with meat was waiting for them, deer by the look of it, accompanied by a couple of small loaves of bread and a small keg of ale.

The three ate and drank, feeling safe together, for once. They talked about the latest rumours and told their stories, good or bad. The Ale kept them happy, and the food kept them content. Svyatoslav looked at the two, father and son, while they were eating. He had a strong doubt towards the son, given the fact that he had offered his help so soon, knowing just the bare minimum about the one he helped out. In a way, he regretted coming all this way to the north, for now he was stuck there. But he had nothing better to do, other than staying with Helge and observing him and his doings. He certainly didn't mind the food and drink offered by the Varangian, nor the abode offered by his father. Those things he appreciated beyond words. Yet it seemed odd to his mind that the Norsemen had accepted him so easily.

Svyatoslav hoped for the best, but prepared for the worst.