After several days of endless feasting, Erik's suspicions deepened. Ragnar, he felt, must be scheming something. He announced bluntly that he would delay no longer — they would set out at dawn.
"So soon?" Ragnar asked with feigned indifference, waving for more wine to be brought.
On the fourth morning, Erik dragged himself out of bed with great difficulty. His head throbbed as though a thousand tiny blades were carving at his skull.
"That wine packs a heavier punch than I expected," he muttered. "I should never have drunk so much."
He stumbled to the entrance of his tent and lifted the flap. A lance of sunlight stabbed his eyes, forcing them shut. He called out for breakfast — or rather, lunch, as the hour was already late.
When he had eaten, he learned that the other nobles and war-leaders were still deep in slumber. None answered his summons.
Back in the East, if the commander beat the war drum and his men failed to appear at the appointed hour, the guilty would face flogging — or even execution. But this was Britain. Here, Erik shared no strict bonds of lord and vassal with the other leaders. They followed him merely for plunder, and stood as equals. Even if they defected to Ragnar's camp, Erik had no rightful cause to punish them.
"This cannot go on."
By afternoon he was trudging from tent to tent, urging them to forgo that night's banquet. "We leave for the North at first light," he told them. "Once we're home, I'll host a fortnight of feasts in Oslo — enough to glut even you lot."
At last, the next morning, with their gear packed, more than thirteen hundred Vikings began the journey home. They had openly sacked a great kingdom and spent two months plundering its fertile southern lands. Spirits were high, and they hailed Erik's wisdom and daring with fervent praise.
"Thank you, Erik — may Odin bless you!"
"King Erik, you are the greatest warrior in all Norway!"
Mounted on a white horse, Erik listened to their cheers with mingled pride and melancholy.
Such reverence, he knew, would not last. Once they returned home and divided the loot, each man would disappear into his own hall and hearth. Only when the last silver coin was spent would they remember his name again — and beg their mighty king to lead them to sea once more.
"So, in the end, I'm working for these wretches," he mused. "If our next raid yields less than they hope, their worship will sour into disappointment — and disappointment into resentment."
His bulky frame rocked gently with the horse's gait as he considered that raiding was not without its perils. He ought to devote his energies to Norway itself — expanding his holdings and swallowing his neighbours piecemeal until he ruled the entire land.
Then a sobering thought struck him: his energy was limited, and even governing the Oslo region was taxing enough. How could he hope to manage a realm so vast?
Swigging from a leather wineskin, he found his mind wandering to the Frankish system of feudal division.
"Even if I unite Norway," he murmured, "I must delegate power — entrust portions of it to loyal nobles who swear fealty, who in turn will rule through landed gentry, down through the layers of freemen, peasants, and slaves."
The more he pondered it, the brighter his eyes grew. He had glimpsed a way to ensure his dynasty's dominion for generations to come.
"It seems I am destined to become the ruler of Norway — of all the North! Ha! Once I'm back, I'll move against Ragnar, my greatest threat, then pick off the lesser rivals one by one."
Two days later, by afternoon, their column drew near the hidden ships at the mouth of the Humber River. The men, eager to reach the safety of their fleet before nightfall, grew increasingly restless.
Then, suddenly, a great flock of birds burst from the distant treeline. Erik felt a chill of foreboding and sent a dozen swift-footed hunters ahead to scout.
"Everyone — draw weapons! Prepare for battle!"
Moments later, screams echoed from the woods — grim confirmation of his fears. The Vikings quickly drew together, forming a tight ring of shields, eyes scanning the forest's edge.
The cries did not cease. They grew louder — and then a column of black smoke rose into the sky.
"They're burning our ships!" someone shouted.
Panic ripped through the ranks. Without their ships, they were stranded — trapped in a hostile land.
"Take them back!" cried the more hot-blooded among them. The shield wall shattered as men broke into small bands, charging desperately toward the billowing smoke.
"Stop! Come back!" Erik roared, nearly in tears. The fools were still laden with heavy packs — even if they reached the ships, they would be exhausted and unable to fight the Anglo-Saxon soldiers.
"What now, my king?" one of his remaining guards asked.
Only a little over a hundred men still stood by him. Erik ordered them to stash their loot in the roadside brush and press on lightly armed.
After half an hour's hard push through the undergrowth, enduring the sting of branches, Erik reached the riverbank — and froze. The river was choked with burning ships, drifting like fiery fish downstream. A handful of longships had dared to flee, but Anglo-Saxon archers would not let them escape.
At their commander's order, a storm of fire arrows — their shafts steeped in pine resin — rained down like meteors. Each impact set fresh flames crawling across the hulls. Great sails burned to tatters; rigging ropes dangled limply into the water, writhing like dying serpents.
"It's over. It's all over…"
Erik sat motionless on his horse, watching as pillars of fire painted the clouds a deep, hellish red. In a single stroke, the fleet at the Humber was gone — more than a hundred warships reduced to ashes, two months of plunder snatched away. Just hours ago he had been dreaming of empire; now he stood broken, his mind fraying, muttering fragments of the old tales:
"Surtr, the fire giant, has come… and with him the enemies of Asgard. Jörmungandr's smoke and venom choke the world…"
As he whispered of Ragnarök, the scattered Vikings — still clutching their burdens — stumbled onto the shore. They took one look at the inferno and collapsed to their knees in despair.
The Anglo-Saxons seized their chance and attacked. But darkness was falling, and most of the Vikings melted into the woods before they could be caught.
Watching their silhouettes vanish into the trees, Prince Ælla let out a heavy sigh. He had only a thousand levied militiamen, and had to guard the captured supplies — there was no way to mount a pursuit.
"Let them go," he said at last. "With their ships gone, they will die here soon enough."
A strange flush crept across his face as he pictured the Vikings' fate. Then he raised his arm toward the north.
"Withdraw, warriors! We march for York."