Having seen the power of the catapults, Pascal forced down his fear and addressed the pirate chieftains.
"Each side has already won and lost in turn. To fight on is meaningless. Why not march south into Mercia?"
Ivar and Björn exchanged glances, eyes glinting. Then, with scornful laughter, they accused him of mocking them. He was beaten bloody and thrown back toward York.
"Tell your master," they shouted after him, "if he wants us gone, let him prepare at least five thousand pounds of silver!"
The next day, under Rurik's command, the Northmen rolled four massive catapults into position, two hundred meters from York's eastern wall.
"Load!"
At the cry, brawny warriors worked the winches. The creaking of wooden axles carried far across the battlefield as the counterweight — nearly two tons of stone — was hauled ten meters high. On the other side, loaders shoved a fifty-kilogram boulder into a leather sling. Its surface was covered with fractures, to ensure it would shatter into lethal shards on impact.
"One ready!"
"Four ready!"
Rurik gave the signal. The great hammer fell. With a thunderous crash the counterweight dropped, the long arm snapped upward, and the boulder tore free. Air shrieked as the missile hurtled skyward.
A heartbeat later, three plumes of dust burst along York's east wall. One stone struck a crenel directly, smashing the archer behind it before he could cry out. Two others smashed into the masonry; a fourth sailed beyond, crashing into the city and drawing a chorus of women's screams.
"Again."
The bombardment began at dawn and lasted until dusk. That night the machines were dragged back to camp, only to trundle forward again the next morning and resume their monotonous, dreadful rhythm.
A carpenter suggested fire. With leave granted, he mixed pitch, resin, and kindling into a great ball, set it alight, and hurled it aloft. The blazing sphere traced a red arc across the sky, like some infernal rain summoned by a demon of Hell.
Half a minute later, a pillar of black smoke rose from within the walls. The effect was judged excellent, and two machines were assigned solely to fire-casting.
By noon, black smoke coiled over every quarter of York. The city's narrow streets carried the flames swiftly from house to house, forcing Ælred to dispatch half his soldiers to fight the fires.
"The pagans have learned wicked sorcery from their heathen gods," muttered frightened townsfolk.
To calm the panic, Ælred summoned the bishop, who performed an exorcism amid chanting priests. Only then was the city's spirit held together.
That evening, when the barrage ceased, Ælred returned exhausted to the palace. At supper with his nobles, most clamored for a sally.
"Within the walls we have four thousand militia — far more than the Northmen outside."
"Aye. Slay them quickly! My fields lie untended. If the sowing of winter wheat is delayed past September, next year famine will be upon us."
"Even if we cannot win outright, at least destroy their machines. Today two of every ten houses burned. If this continues, all York will be ash."
Beset by their cries, Ælred yielded: they would march out on the morrow.
He knew their fears were not groundless. With most troops gathered in York, the rest of the realm lay exposed. Raiding bands plundered unchecked. The war could not be dragged out much longer.
At dawn Ælred led 3,500 men beyond the walls. Before they had formed ranks, the catapults roared. Stones crashed among them. Militia, stricken with terror, broke ranks and surged back toward the gates, trampling over two hundred to death.
Rallying his men, Ælred led a second column out of York's northern gate. His plan: circle around and strike the Viking camp from behind, where their engines could not be brought to bear.
It worked at first. The huge machines, ponderous as aging boars, could not turn in time. By the moment the Northumbrians locked their shield-wall, the four catapults were still creeping and groaning like crippled beasts.
"Advance!" Ælred raised his sword.
According to Pascal's report, the camp's northern quarter was weakly held, filled with storehouses and cattle pens. It was the best place to break through.
The shield-wall pressed forward. Viking arrows fell, but inflicted little loss. Reaching the palisade, the Northumbrians cast iron hooks over the timbers and harnessed them to horses. Straining beasts tore wide gaps in the wall.
Through the breaches poured nearly three thousand men. Ælred, with but sixty armored guards, followed hard behind. He found the northern camp much as Pascal had said: granaries, sheds, and pens crowded with sheep.
Vikings with axes and round shields were falling back before the militia, abandoning the storehouses and fleeing south with hastily packed bags.
"Silver!" men shouted.
Coins spilled from the fleeing Northmen's sacks, glittering as they struck the ground. Eyes lit with greed. In an instant the militia broke formation, surging toward the hoards. They clawed and scrabbled at bags, ransacked storehouses, each man intent only on loot.
For peasants, service to the king was a duty, not a wage. They brought their own rusted axes and battered shields to war, received no pay, and lived in poverty. Faced with such treasure, the hunger of years overwhelmed discipline. They thought of nothing but plunder.
"This is ruin — recall them, at once!" Ælred cried.
He sent guards to summon the nobles and gentry, urging them to draw their men back through the breaches. A few sullen groups began to withdraw — and were cut down at once by a sudden hail of arrows.
The survivors peered from behind shields. Outside the palisade, a Viking shield-wall was massing, over a thousand strong.
"Sire," the guards gasped, "we are trapped. The enemy waits in ambush."
Ælred reeled in his saddle. The sight was his own tactic at Manchun turned against him.
"They have learned my stratagem…"
All around the camp, hidden forces rose. Vikings pressed from every side. Ælred ordered a desperate push southward.
They had run scarcely a hundred paces when the vanguard screamed and vanished into the earth. The rest halted in horror. Before them yawned a trench four meters wide and two deep, bristling with stakes. Only a few narrow causeways led east, west, and south — all covered by archers.
Looking across the ditch at the waiting bowmen, Ælred felt a cold certainty settle upon him. From this day forth, Northumbria's fate was sealed.