The Rise of Rurik

At only two years old, Rurik had basically mastered the tribe’s language. On careful inspection, it’s really quite interesting how many of their words bear a strong resemblance to English from over a thousand years later, making learning the language not too difficult.

Liu Li knew his mother’s name was Niya and his father’s name was Otto. He also had a cousin named Arik. He actually had a large number of relatives who were core members of the tribe. In fact, most of the tribe members were related in one way or another.

Externally, the tribe referred to themselves as “Jiangshou,” which means “Ros,” but internally they only used first names. Some special individuals had nicknames, but there were no surnames.

“If I am Rurik, then it must be around the mid-9th century now. Am I currently on the Scandinavian Peninsula or the Jutland Peninsula of Denmark?” Rurik wondered.

“The elder claims I am blessed by Odin and destined to lead the tribe to prosperity. Well, moving the tribe to the heart of Eastern Europe would indeed bring prosperity. At least we won’t have to be stuck in the cold fjords, living off fish every day.”

His biological father, Otto, had taken a few hundred men to Novgorod to demand tribute from the locals. His mother, Niya, had been counting the days for his return, which was expected in the next few days.

Once he accepted this identity, looking at his increasingly hopeful mother, Liu Li was indeed eager to meet his returning father Otto and cousin Arik.

Otto had taken twelve-year-old Arik on this autumn tribute voyage to show him the world. Liu Li, who had grown tired of eating fish every day, wondered what treasures they would bring back. Their return meant he could enjoy a period of eating bread and even honey.

Another peaceful autumn arrived, with the days getting shorter and the north wind howling through the fjord, creating a solemn atmosphere. The climate seemed to get colder each day, and today it felt particularly unusual.

In the morning, Niya lit an oil lamp in the wooden house and prepared some brined pork and a small piece of dry bread for Rurik.

“Rurik, eat slowly. I’ll go outside and see what’s happening,” she said.

“Okay, Mommy!”

Compared to pickled shark meat, concentrated seawater-brined pork was tastier, even though it was raw. In two years, Rurik had come to understand many things, like how pork and bread were precious commodities, as was the brine used for the pork.

Living by the sea, the Ros tribe didn’t lack salt, as they boiled seawater to produce coarse blue salt, a process that consumed a lot of firewood. They traded with southern people, who somehow obtained pure, odorless white salt.

Rurik slowly nibbled on the bread and tore at the pork, a task seemingly insane for a two-year-old. But he had become fully accustomed to this diet and marveled at the incredible adaptability of people in the Middle Ages.

After a while, Niya ran excitedly back into the house. “Rurik, your father is back! Everyone’s gone to the dock. Let’s go see what treasures he’s brought.”

“Ah! Is there honey?” Rurik blurted out.

“Yes! Everything you want is there. Finish your meal quickly, and we’ll go.”

Rurik quickly ate his meal, which seemed utterly unsuitable for a child. Fortunately, his robust Nordic physique had kept him healthy despite his diet.

Niya picked up Rurik after he finished eating and, followed by a maid, hurried to the dock. Rurik was dressed in a full set of sheepskin outerwear with a soft linen lining, warm yet not hindering his movement. The biting cold of the outdoor wind made him look up at the slowly rising sun and the still visible moon.

Looking eastward towards the sea, Rurik squinted his round, blue eyes and saw many sailboats approaching the port of Rosburg against the sunlight. The large sails, some dyed with blue patterns, and the crossed oars indicated that their chieftain, Otto, was returning triumphantly with his warriors.

The dragonhead ships rode the wind to the shore, and the Viking warriors jumped onto the gravelly beach. Otto returned with a lot of cargo, and the unloading began immediately. But all he wanted was to see his family first.

“Arik, come with me to find your mother and brother.”

“Okay, Dad.”

A muscular man with a sword at his waist led a sword-bearing child away from the bustling crowd towards a meeting point at the dock. Arik had inherited his father’s sword and treasured it. It was a heavy weapon, and he had brought it along on this journey to the Sveg people’s territory with his uncle.

Following closely behind the robust Otto, Arik was too inexperienced to take anything for granted. Soon, Otto saw Niya holding their child. His rugged, bearded face broke into a smile, as if holding countless gold.

Quickly, Otto embraced his only surviving son, Rurik, securing his “gold.” In battle, he was a fierce warrior, leading men known as berserkers. Otto’s sword, “Destroyer,” could cut an enemy in half with a swing. His fighting prowess was unquestionable, but only in front of his wife and child did he show his tender side.

Otto picked up young Rurik, playfully tickling his face with his beard.

“Dad, don’t do that. It’s uncomfortable.”

“Really? I thought you were going to cry.”

“Why would I cry?” Rurik asked in a childish voice.

This question stumped Otto.

“Ah! Yes, why cry.” Otto sighed. “Son, you are indeed special, not like other children who cry over a pinch or a fall. But you, I’ve never heard you cry.”

“Hehe, because I am blessed by Odin!” Rurik said cutely.

“Yes, that makes you different,” Otto said, pinching his son’s cheek and speaking with a tone of instruction. “A great warrior cannot cry or fear pain. You must be brave to become a suitable leader.”

“I will. But can we really trust the elders’ words? Am I truly…”

“You certainly are,” Niya interjected. “Son, it’s your destiny.”

“Yes, at least everyone believes so. You are my son, and you must be a suitable leader. When you’re older, I’ll teach you how to be one.”