“Were are we?” asked Grim, peering out into the foggy bay.
“It could really be anywhere south of Iceland,” shrugged Bard. “Scotland, Ireland, the Orkneys, Madagascar…”
Helgi narrowed his eyes. “Just how bad a sailor are you?”
“Well, at least this is land,” pointed out Bard. “Let’s drop anchor, and wait for the fog to break.”
No sooner said than done, and soon the fog lifted, revealing thirteen viking ships sailing towards them at full speed.
“Oh, shit,” said Bard.
“Should we surrender?” suggested Olaf.
“Or we could defend ourselves,” growled Grim.
“If we surrender, they’ll take the cargo but might let us live,” pointed out Bard. He turned, watching the ships drawing nearer. Around him, the merchants closed in with their calculators, ready for the first and hardest round of surrender negotiations.
“What if we offer them half the cargo, but tell them we’ll fight if they want more? Carrot, stick.”
“Half is a bit steep. What if we offer them the wool, but keep the leather?”
“That’s my wool!” cried Olaf. “Offer them your stupid leather!”
“You guys?” said Helgi. “The enemy ships are getting really close…”
“Okay, tell them they can have 13.5% of the profits from the last trip.” Bard gesticulated wildly. “16% of the wool-”
“Fifteen.”
“Fifteen percent, whatever! And a quarter of the whale oil, I know where we can get more real cheap-”
“Name yer leader!” boomed a voice from the lead viking ship.
“Bard!” cried Bard, just as Olaf called out “Olaf!”
“Bard and Olaf. Ne’er heard o’ ye,” said the Viking. “Nice tae mak yer acquaintance. A’m Grjotgard, ‘n’ this is mah brother Snaekolf. Oor da is Moldan o’ Duncansby, kinsman tae King Melkof.”
“Charmed,” said Bard, gathering himself. “Wait, isn’t the current King of Scotland Kenneth II, the Kinslayer?”
Snaekolf looked at his brother in dismay. “Noo keek whit ye’v let slip, ye eejit!”
“Tis nae lik’ thay care, they’re Icelanders,” muttered Grjotgard. “Surrender or die, ye lot!”
“We choose to defend ourselves!” called out Hogni.
“A’ richt,” said Grjotgard amiably, picking up his helmet. “Gi’ us a minute.”
“What the Hel!” cried the merchants. “We were going to surrender! We’re not warriors!” One of them leaned over the gunwale. “Hey, Mr. Pirate!”
“Aye?”
“We-” said the merchant, just as Grim bawled out: “Scurvy sea-dogs! Landlubbers!”
“We’ll shaw ye who’s a landlubber,” said Snaekolf placidly, buckling up his greaves.
“Wait!” protested the sailor. “We want to-”
“Show you what Icelanders are made of!” bellowed Grim.
Bard pulled the merchantman off the gunwale. “Are you a man? Are you an Icelander? Pick up your weapons and form a shield wall, boys. We chose to fight, we’d better stick with it!”
Saxo Dramaticus 