Viking Invasion-Chapter 62 – The Gathering of Hosts

"I actually forgot that old tradition."

Rurik struck his brow with an open palm, as though knocking memory back into place. Then, in a brisk, soldierly tone, he recited the forces he brought to the king’s host. "Forty shield-bearers, a hundred bowmen, and three hundred warriors of the fjord. As for provisions—aside from what my men carry on their backs—there are twenty thousand arrows for the army’s quivers."

The clerk made his marks, and when the record was done, Rurik departed the command tent. He ordered his men to choose a clean field for their encampment, and himself rode on toward the town, accompanied by a handful of his sworn companions.

Sheffield, now serving as the forward base for the expedition, bore the marks of its new purpose. The town had been consumed by its own army—shops shuttered tight, doors barred, and townsfolk hurrying through the streets with heads bowed, as though in flight from pestilence. Every pedestrian veered away from the warriors’ path, unwilling even to brush against the shadow of their cloaks.

Rurik, astride his grey stallion, felt their chill stares like sleet against his cheek as he made his way to the grandest building at the town’s heart.

"The townsfolk have been harassed, the nearby villages plundered by foraging bands," he murmured darkly. "Worse yet, during the army’s stay, the local lord must host the war council. Gods, the years of toil it cost to raise these walls—now ruined in a single season. Hmph. Fortunate that I did not choose a southern fief, or I’d be eating dust by now."

At the manor gates he gave his name and title. A slave ushered him through the echoing corridors into the hall, where he found Ragnar seated on the high chair, his broad shoulders swathed in wolfskins, his voice thunderous with anger as he berated a messenger.

"Ivar still hasn’t settled that wretched business? What in Hel’s name is he doing in Ireland?" Ragnar’s hand slammed against the arm of his chair. "Enough! We wait no longer. The royal house of Mercia must already know our army is gathering. Delay further, and the winds may turn against us."

He dismissed Ivar’s envoy with a curt gesture, then looked up and spotted Rurik. The fire in his eyes cooled somewhat. "How many have you brought this time?"

"Four hundred and forty."

Ragnar’s expression softened; he beckoned Rurik closer, bidding him sit. Counting Rurik’s contingent, the host now numbered five thousand three hundred men—the largest army Ragnar had ever commanded. The thought stirred something fierce within him. He rose from his seat, cup in hand, the mead foaming gold beneath the torchlight.

"Men speak of Offa," he declared, voice swelling through the rafters, "that during his reign, Mercia was the mightiest realm in all Britain—so mighty he exchanged letters with Charlemagne himself! A king of such power must have amassed a treasure beyond reckoning. When we take Tamworth, I claim only his crown. All else—gold, silver, and spoils—shall be yours!"

The hall erupted. Nobles lifted their cups and shouted in eager tumult; captains muttered of rich estates to be won; lesser warriors struck their shields with their knives in lust for glory. The promise of Offa’s treasure flared in every heart like mead set alight. Amid the din, the feast began.

The first dish to appear was a whole roasted stag, glazed in honey and pepper, dusted with cinnamon and thyme, impaled upon a spear and borne into the hall by two strapping servants.

Thanks to the exotic spices Bjorn had brought back from the Mediterranean, the venison’s scent filled the air with sweetness and smoke. Rurik, not given to gluttony, could not resist a second slice.

Next came a roasted swan, gleaming white beneath its layer of fat, carried in on a vast silver tray. Truth be told, the taste was rather plain; its worth lay chiefly in the splendor of display.

Then followed roast pork, beef stewed with turnips, smoked salmon, eel pie, and honeyed apples gleaming like amber jewels.

Rurik surveyed the laden table, and his mind, ever practical, began tallying costs. "Since Ragnar came to Sheffield, he’s held banquets every night for a week... How much must that have cost?" His eyes shifted toward the lord and lady of Sheffield seated beside the king. Though they smiled, the strain in their faces betrayed them. Rurik reckoned the expense of the feasts alone must have exceeded ten pounds of silver—no small ruin for a provincial fief.

And that, he thought grimly, did not include the greater, hidden drain: the cost of feeding the army encamped beyond the walls, their requisition of the townspeople’s grain, livestock, and winter clothing—tribute taken without coin, the kind that left scars on the land.

The laughter of the hall was suddenly pierced by the crash of the doors. A palace guard burst in, breathless, his helmet askew. "My lord king! Over a hundred soldiers have fallen to brawling—the camp is near riot!"

Ragnar’s voice cut through the noise like an axe-blow. "What cause?"

The guard swallowed. "They were quarreling over a harlot, sire. The men of Lord Rurik and Lord Ulf came to blows. The fight drew a crowd—and then... all joined in."

Rurik froze mid-bite, the half-eaten venison slipping from his hand. My men?

His jaw tightened. Rising without a word, he strode from the hall. Ulf followed, muttering oaths, and together they mounted their horses.

The night wind shrieked over the plain as they rode hard toward the encampment.

"Damn those whelps," Ulf growled, hunching against the cold. "They’ve spoiled our supper for the sake of a brothel-wench!"

"They’re long overdue for discipline," Rurik replied curtly. "Not half a day since they pitched their tents, and already they find time to shame me. Perhaps I’ve been too lenient."

Old camaraderie between them smoothed the exchange. When they reached the camp, they chose not to drag the matter into scandal. The ringleaders were flogged under the eye of the shield-bearers; the offending woman was expelled from the grounds before dawn. Order returned, of a kind.

As they rode back toward town, Ulf asked, "I heard you’re building yourself a stone castle. What’s the cost of such folly?"

Rurik’s face was half-hidden in the hood of his cloak. "The inner wall and keep will total over three hundred pounds of silver. Fortunately, there are Roman ruins nearby—their stones will cut that nearly in half, down to a hundred and fifty."

"So dear?" Ulf’s voice echoed across the dark field. "That’s near Liverpool’s entire revenue for three years! No, by the gods, that cursed place is too poor. When this war’s done, I’ll petition for a new fief. Somewhere worth the blood I’ve shed."

"Petition? Will Ragnar grant it?" Rurik asked.

Ulf’s mouth hardened. "He’ll have little choice. Once Mercia falls, he’ll need us lords to govern the land. He cannot rule all of Britain with his own hands. I’ll win him victories enough to make refusal impossible—and if that fails, a generous gift to the queen will loosen the rest. One way or another, I’ll trade that swamp for something better."

Rurik listened in silence, bemused. Liverpool... poor? He could scarcely imagine it. That harbor, destined centuries hence to grow into Britain’s second city, seemed far from the wretched backwater Ulf described.

The other man noticed his expression and barked a laugh. "You doubt me? That place lies far from any trade road, choked with marshes. To save money, I’ve eaten nothing but eels for months. I even tried building a little market, coaxing merchants and craftsmen to settle there—but Manchester crushed it before it could draw breath."

Ulf’s tone darkened. "They buy our wool and timber, make cloth and tools, and sell them back to us at thrice the price. Then they mock me for not knowing how to govern a fief!"

Rage had driven him to build longships of his own and levy tolls on every vessel passing through the mouth of the Mersey. But Lord Lennard of Manchester had gone straight to York with his complaint. Persuaded by the queen, Ragnar declared the toll illegal and struck it down.

And with that, Ulf’s hopes of reviving his trade perished. All that remained to him was fishing and pasture—humble, joyless labors for a man of his spirit.

"I understand your plight," Rurik said at last, glancing sidelong at him. "The west can sustain but one true town, and Manchester holds it. Your failure is not of wit or will, but of geography itself. Yes... you ought to seek another fief."

The two rode on beneath the whitening stars, the sound of their horses’ hooves echoing off the frozen ground—a rhythm like the slow heartbeat of a world gathering for war.