After a night's rest beneath the rough thatch of their Norse hosts, and after stocking the ship with barrels of fresh water and sacks of dried meat and bread, Ívar bid his farewells. The immigrants who had offered them shelter were poor folk from across the sea, clinging to the coast of this foreign isle, but they gave freely of what little they had. In return, Ívar gave them iron nails, a tool of far more worth than coin in this land. With a parting clasp of hands, he returned to the deck, and the longship's sail bellied with the morning wind. Southward they rowed.
Two days they journeyed, hugging the line of the shore. The land to starboard grew low and wet, drowned in mist and reed. Where the tide receded, the earth exhaled a sour, peaty breath. One of the crew, a man with hands like knotted rope, crouched and scooped a fistful of the sodden soil. He crumbled it between thumb and forefinger, smearing the blackness across his palm.
"This turf will burn," he said, voice hoarse as the sea-wind. "A thousand hearths could be fed on it. Spread far and wide, it marks the fen. I say we stand north of York."
Ívar gave a brief nod. Even the earth here was a map to the seasoned raider. They drank from a narrow brook, filling their casks with cold, iron-tasting water, then turned the prow once more to the south. Dawn of the third day revealed a widening of waters: the great Humber, opening its mouth like a beast of the deep. Here was the mustering-place, where all their scattered kin were to gather.
But the sight that met them was not what had been promised.
Where they had expected a forest of masts, only half that number stood. Sixty-odd ships rocked on their anchors, their companions torn away by storm. On the shore lay the wounded: longships dragged into the mud, their keels split, their sails in tatters. Men with axes worked furiously, binding timbers, patching leaks with tar and tow.
"What befell?" Rurik demanded of a fisherman idling by the bank, line cast lazily into the river.
The man spat into the water. "The sea rose against us," he grumbled. "Storm scattered the fleet like leaves. Ragnar bade us wait here. Five days, we've lingered. I tell you, the damp creeps into our bones. We'll sprout mushrooms ere long."
Rurik frowned, but before he could reply a clamor rose from beyond the camp. Quarrelsome voices, sharp as clashing steel. He followed the sound to Ragnar's tent, where he found a circle of jarls bent over a rough-sketched map.
Ulf, broad-shouldered and grey-bearded, struck the table with his fist. "From captives' tongues I have wrung the truth. York yet bears walls of Rome itself—stone higher than two men. Shall we dash ourselves like waves upon such bastions? I say no. Strike first at Leeds, then march west to Mancunium, the Roman town they call Manchester. Let us pluck the fruit that hangs low before we reach for the bough."
Across from him, Lennard, young and unscarred, bristled. "You speak of fear, old wolf. We crossed storms and death to stand here. What, shall we now turn aside from glory? Let us strike at York itself, and write our names in saga. Else go home and till the soil!"
Ulf's lip curled. "Hot words from a hot head. You know nothing of war. Northumbria is no petty Kent, nor East Anglia's patch of earth. They can muster two, three thousand spears. Better we whittle their strength. Better we bring their towns to hunger before we fling ourselves against stone."
Ragnar, whose silence weighed heavier than all their words, let the storm rage until both sides had spent themselves. Only then did he speak, his voice even, yet edged with iron.
"Our stores are dwindled to a third. The men grow restless, their swords hungry for plunder. If we do not give them blood and gold, they will scatter like gulls to feast where they please. We strike first at weaker prey, glut ourselves, and sharpen our edge. Leeds shall fall before York."
So was the matter settled.
At the news, sixteen hundred warriors raised a cheer that rolled like thunder across the camp. Oars dipped into water by dawn, and the fleet surged upriver, dragon-prows cutting the current with relentless hunger.
The longship was the Norseman's deadliest blade. Even laden, it drew but a hand's breadth more than a meter of water, gliding over shallows where no other vessel could follow. They slipped along rivers like serpents, unseen until they struck, and were gone before alarm could spread.
So it was now. Peasants in their fields stood rooted, hoes forgotten in their hands, as the fleet slid past. Cattle lowed and scattered, herded not by men but by fear. Hunters on horseback, startled by the gleam of oars, fled to the woods. Only when the prows grounded near Leeds did true terror ignite.
Ívar wasted no moment. With a chosen band at his side, he vaulted ashore and sprinted across the open meadow. He meant to seize the town before its people could breathe the word raid.
Leeds' defenses were meager. A palisade of timber, three meters high, staked in double walls and filled between with earth and stone. Its skin was plastered with mud against the Viking's fire. A shallow ditch traced its front, more token than shield.
Ívar cared nothing for it. With mighty Óm braced beneath him, he sprang upward, seized the parapet, and swung himself atop it with the ease of a beast bred for trees. His cloak flared as he landed. Below, the town was chaos. Bells tolled from the monastery, a frantic clamor. Women shrieked, clutching their children; men dropped their tools and fled.
Ívar's sword flashed as he pointed. "The gatehouse—take it! Strike before their courage hardens!"
The raiders obeyed, storming toward the gate. If they seized it swiftly, the town was theirs. If not—if the defenders held, if they rallied—then this skirmish might swell into a siege of blood.
Rurik scaled the wall and beheld Ívar locked in savage struggle near the gate. A knot of defenders barred the way, their numbers small but their resolve fierce. Then, as if conjured from the earth, bowmen rose upon the parapet. Arrows whistled down in deadly rain.
"They are swift," Rurik muttered. "These folk have tasted raids before."
He raised his round shield and charged, scattering men like chaff, hurling one into the ditch, cutting another down in two strokes. He pressed on, sword wet, until only a single defender barred his way—a youth, pale and trembling, clutching a monstrous crossbow.
The boy's knees shook, eyes darting. Then he turned, and for a heartbeat his gaze met Rurik's across ten paces. With a cry that cracked with fear and faith alike, he shouted: "Spawn of heathen darkness!"
The bowstring sang.
The bolt flew like a spear, iron tip gleaming. Rurik hurled himself aside, leaping from the wall. Behind him a scream tore the air.
He rolled as he landed, earth biting into his palms. When he turned, he saw the corpse of his comrade crash to the ground. The man's eyes were wide, his chest transfixed, the bolt jutting clean from his back. He had worn lamellar armor, stout as any on the field, yet the iron had pierced him as though through linen.
Rurik's face hardened. A fearsome weapon, he thought. Too slow to load, too rare to arm many. Else no shield-wall could stand.
He stooped to seize his shield again, but pain lanced through his ankle. He stumbled, nearly fell. Pulling up his trousers, he saw the joint swelling, red and hot to the touch.
He laughed bitterly. Of all wounds, to be undone by my own foot!
Helpless, he watched as Ívar, eyes wild, hacked through the last defenders. With a roar he crashed into the gatehouse, his men behind him. Timbers splintered. With a groan and a thunderous crack, the gates burst wide.
The tide of the Northmen poured in, a flood of steel and fury. Leeds was drowned in their storm.
The town was theirs.