Viking Invasion-Chapter 68 — Fire Rain

Fifty days of toil and preparation had brought the work to its end. Thirty great trebuchets now stood along the frozen plains before Tamworth. From the twenty-first to the last day of December, their thunder rolled without rest across the white earth. By month’s end, only half of the engines remained functional—yet their ruinous labor had achieved its purpose.

The eastern and southern walls of Tamworth lay shattered and pitted, the battlements collapsed, and the ramparts themselves broken open into gaping breaches—wide enough, in places, for thirty warriors to march abreast into the city’s heart.

"Your Majesty," murmured Gunnar, stepping close to Ragnar’s side. "The walls are almost deserted. Shall I sound the horn for the assault?"

Ragnar’s lips curved in a faint, knowing smile. "Not yet. Let them wait a little longer. Let them learn what it means to provoke the wrath of the North."

He stood upon the snowy rise, eyes fixed on the city’s wounded silhouette. For days he had watched the trebuchets unleash their dreadful rhythm—stones shrieking through the sky, crashing into mortar and oak, the earth trembling as though beneath the tread of gods. The sight had stirred something primal within him: the illusion that the power of heaven and earth had gathered in his hands alone.

And now, for the finale, he gave the order to cast the jars of burning oil—to paint the close of the year in flame, and leave the heart of Mercia seared with a memory that would outlast generations.

On the final night of the year 846, as darkness swept across the snowbound plains, the engines hurled their terrible gifts. Flaming orbs tore through the sky, streaking in long arcs of orange and crimson. They fell upon the city with a chorus of shattering glass and bursting flame. The jars broke open; the burning oil fanned outward like a living thing, splashing across rooftops, market stalls, and wooden towers. The air filled with the stench of pitch and flesh, the heat mingling with the icy wind until the whole of Tamworth shimmered beneath a pall of fire.

All through the night Ragnar watched in silence. The flames reflected in his eyes, the thick fur of his cloak rimed with frost. Around him, men stood wordless, their faces lit by the infernal glow, listening to the distant howls that rose and fell with the crackling of timber. Only when the black sky began to pale into silver did Ragnar stir, his breath a pale mist in the cold.

"Veni, vidi, vici," he said softly—"I came, I saw, I conquered."

At dawn, when the last embers still smoldered in the ruined streets, the army ate well for the first time in many weeks. Fish broth steamed in iron pots; coarse bread and a sliver of mutton for each man. The smell of warm fat and smoke drifted through the camps, mingling with laughter and the contented clatter of wooden bowls. For half an hour the host feasted as though it were a festival, and when at last the horns sounded, they rose in easy spirits, slapping one another’s shoulders and tightening their belts.

"Valhalla!"

The cry rolled like thunder over the plain. Two thousand warriors advanced through the snow, their mail and axes glinting beneath the newborn sun. They poured through the breaches in a torrent of bronze and steel. With no walls to shield them, the Mercian defenders broke almost at once. Within moments, panic took hold; their line dissolved into chaos. One in ten fell before the axes of the Northmen; the rest fled into the winding alleys or sought refuge within Tamworth Castle. By midmorning, nearly all of the city lay in Viking hands.

In the northwestern camp, the sounds of triumph echoed faintly over the fields.

Rurik and Nils had led their contingents into the city. The duty of guarding the encampment fell to Ulf, who remained behind with three hundred men. He stood watching the pale smoke rise above the distant rooftops, then turned to his second.

"As we agreed," he said. "They’ll take the lead. We hold the camp and deal with any fugitives. If any stragglers make it this far, cut them down."

His subordinates murmured assent, though not without resentment. Among them, a few muttered about their commander’s bad luck at dice—the trivial wager that had kept him from glory. Ulf heard the whispers, his jaw tightening.

"Enough!" he barked. "If you have time to gossip, you have time to watch the walls. You—yes, you—take three men and scout the roads. The rest, hold your positions."

The morning light grew stronger, spreading warmth across the snow. The shouts from the city had faded into a dull roar. Ulf leaned against a boulder, uncorked his wineskin, and took a slow swallow. The mead burned pleasantly down his throat, leaving a trace of sweetness and heat. He exhaled a cloud of white vapor and spoke to the nearest shieldman.

"Mercia was once a kingdom to rival Northumbria," he said, almost wistfully. "And south of here lie still richer lands, waiting to be claimed. When this is done, I’ll petition His Majesty for a new holding. No more of that cold, muddy corner in Liverpool. A man should grow old somewhere worth defending."

The shieldman gave a weary smile. "You’ve said that many times, my lord. But will the king truly grant it? If he lets one lord change his fief, the rest will demand the same. He’ll have no peace."

Ulf frowned, silent for a moment. He knew the man was right. Ragnar’s favor was reserved for his inner circle—Rurik, Ivar, Gunnar, Nils, and Omm—the bright young captains who had earned renown in every campaign. Ulf, blunt and aging, was no match for their brilliance.

He drank again, and the bitterness in the taste reminded him of his own obscurity. What would become of him when the war ended? Ragnar would claim the royal towns—Repton, Tamworth—as crown lands; his closest companions would receive the next best holdings. And Ulf—Ulf would return to his frozen fields by the sea.

He sighed, shaking his head, when a sudden outcry split the air. From the west came the clash of steel, the desperate rhythm of a skirmish.

Ulf scrambled up the rampart and saw a small band forcing its way through a breach—fewer than forty men, but their formation was tight, their strikes clean and merciless. At their rear rode six horsemen, cloaked in black.

"Only forty?" Ulf muttered, incredulous. "And they’re cutting through seventy of ours?"

Realization struck him. "The king’s guards," he breathed. "The Mercian royal household troops."

"Reinforcements! To the breach!" he shouted, racing downhill. His men followed, shields clattering. When they reached the gap, the six horsemen had already burst through the line, galloping for the open fields.

"Stop them!"

He hurled his axe with all his strength; it spun end over end, burying itself in the flank of a horse. Around him, his men mimicked the act—axes flew in a deadly rain. The screams of dying horses pierced the cold air.

"The riders wear iron! Aim for their mounts!"

Bows twanged. Five volleys of arrows hissed through the air. Three horses went down in the snow, tumbling their riders into the mud. The remaining few tried to fight on foot but were swallowed by the tide of Northmen.

When the tumult ceased, the victors swarmed around the fallen. Armor, swords, rings, and purses vanished under grasping hands. Someone pried a jeweled cross from a dead man’s neck; another snapped a finger to claim a ring of emerald and gold.

And then—a cry of astonishment. A man dragged a bloodstained sack from a saddlebag, opened it, and lifted out a golden crown.

"My lord," he said breathlessly, "we’ve slain Prince Burgred of Mercia!"

Ulf stared at the crown. It gleamed with a light of its own, rubies blazing like captured fire. His pulse hammered in his throat.

"So it seems," he murmured. His voice was hoarse, his grin uncertain. For several minutes he stood motionless, struggling between awe and greed. At last he forced himself to wrap the crown in its sack again.

"Bring the bodies," he ordered. "We’ll take them to the king."

The thought steadied him. The old Mercian king was said to be frail, his authority long since yielded to his son. To slay the prince was to strike down the true ruler of Mercia itself.

And such a deed—such a triumph—might earn him what no dice or favor ever had: a better land, a place of sun and stone far from the damp misery of Liverpool.

He laughed under his breath. "By Odin’s will," he whispered, "I’m done with that cursed coast."

Guided by his guards, Ulf marched toward the city’s heart, the sack heavy in his hands.

They found Ragnar before the smoking keep of Tamworth Castle, directing the assault. Ulf pushed through the ranks, dropped to one knee, and held out the crown.

"Your Majesty," he cried, his voice breaking with triumph, "we have slain Burgred of Mercia—and taken his crown!"

A hush fell. The warriors turned, their eyes bright with disbelief. For a heartbeat, no one spoke. Then Ragnar took the crown, the gold catching the pale winter sun, and all understood that Mercia had fallen.