Hemmed in on every side, Ælred seemed doomed. Yet his household guards, though few remained, had not forgotten their oaths. With desperate strength they toppled a section of palisade at the camp's northwest corner and dragged their weary lord through. When they reached the shadow of York's stone wall, only three battered retainers still clung to his side.
Within the camp, the rest of the Northumbrian host was trapped. The militia, disheartened and leaderless, closed ranks in a great ring of shields, hoping to outlast the rain of Viking arrows.
The stand was pitifully brief. After half an hour, the ponderous siege engines lumbered forward. At Rurik's command, a stone the weight of an ox slammed down upon the shield-ring. The crash shattered both timber and resolve.
"Send a herald," Rurik ordered, gesturing to a Norseman fluent in the Saxon tongue. "Tell them: Ragnar swears that the lives of common folk shall be spared."
The outcome was foregone. More than 2,700 militia cast down their spears and axes, stumbling out along the narrow causeways, their faces pale and slack, like sheep driven to the shambles.
Only two hundred held fast. They were nobles, landed gentry, and their sworn companions—men too proud to yield. Rurik gave no further word. Arrows and stones descended until the last of them was strewn upon the bloodied ground.
Thus perished Northumbria's final field army. Victory's dawn shone at last.
The sky was bright and cloudless. Rurik raised his face to the sun, the verses of some half-remembered poem rising in his mind. Yet before he could speak, a cry broke out. Erik's men had drawn swords, intending to slaughter the prisoners where they knelt.
"They must not be killed!"
Rurik thrust himself forward, his Dragon-Breath blade striking sparks as it turned aside another's steel. He stood alone before the cowering captives.
Erik laughed, though anger sharpened the sound. "Why not? And for these Saxon dwarfs you dare bare steel against me?"
At that moment Ragnar arrived with his retinue. Smiling faintly, he faced Erik.
"A promise was given, and promises bind. If we break faith now, what will men say of me? The city is ours for the taking—shall we begin quarrelling at the very gates?"
Erik spat. "Very well. Keep them alive. And what do you intend with so many mouths to feed?"
Ragnar's eyes glittered with amusement. "We have food enough. Later we may ransom them, or sell them to the traders. Even thralls bring silver."
It was a victory of legend. Rurik pressed the engines forward, renewing the bombardment of York's walls. Each day, more townsfolk fled across the River Ouse, their thin lines of carts and children trailing westward like shadows. Many Northmen clamored to hunt them down, but Rurik forbade it.
"The fewer who remain within, the weaker the city. Let them go. When the time comes for storming, resistance will crumble."
So it was. For half a month the city dwindled. On the walls the watch grew sparse. At last the moment came.
At dawn, the catapults thundered as ever. Yet this day a new terror appeared: ten siege-towers, seven meters high, rolling ponderously toward York.
Ten minutes more, and they loomed against the walls. Before the defenders' stricken eyes, the wooden shutters fell, and armored Vikings surged forth. In sheer weight of numbers they overthrew the last resistance.
After three long months, the Roman city was broken.
From the fields, Rurik saw the red-and-gold banners hacked down from the ramparts. The sight lifted a crushing weight from his chest. He slumped by a catapult, drained of strength.
Niels, leading archers turned axemen, came last into the city. Seeing Rurik motionless in the sun, he called:
"Still sitting here? The best treasures are already being seized!"
Rurik only shook his head, voice weary. "Go, take your share. I need no more. Let me rest."
For weeks he had borne the burden of engines, defenses, supplies, prisoners. The toil had left him faint and short of breath, his young body near collapse. He was but eighteen, yet already old with labor.
"It has been hard—hard beyond words," he whispered.
And yet, in leading a host of discordant warbands to conquer York, he had tempered himself. No longer a boy, he felt the stirrings of command within him. Not yet a general of great hosts, but a captain fit for two or three thousand men—a power enough in this lean age.
That afternoon he slept long in the sun. Rising at dusk, he wandered the near-empty camp: a hundred sick and crippled, and nearly three thousand anxious captives. He drank a little mead, chewed salted meat, and gazed at the river glittering under the sinking sun, while ravens wheeled above like black omens.
Then came the interruption. One of Niels's bowmen ran breathless to him.
"What now?" Rurik asked, almost dreading the answer.
"The Northumbrian king broke from the city. Ivar pursued and struck him down. The prince escaped with but a few men. Ivar himself slew the king—and now has sent the crown to Ragnar. Erik's men are furious. They stand at the edge of blows."
The news struck like thunder. York had fallen, the king was dead, and Northumbria's realm lay in ruins. Yet such a prize was too vast for Ragnar's faction alone. Quarrels would soon rise like storm-clouds.
Within minutes Rurik reached the city's heart. Nobles and warleaders crowded the square, faces tight with suspicion. Only Ragnar and Erik were absent.
"Where are they?" Rurik demanded.
Ivar jerked his chin toward the great Minster. "Inside. Speaking a long while. Erik looks dark as thunder. I doubt Ragnar can soothe him."
Suddenly, a crash of shattering glass rang from within. The gathering surged toward the doors. They burst inside, blades half drawn—yet found no blood spilled. Ragnar and Erik glared across the nave, tempers strained but checked.
"Leave us," Ragnar commanded. The others filed out. Rurik alone remained. Ragnar frowned.
"This is between us. Go."
But Rurik shook his head. "You have spoken long, even shattered the bishop's windows. What cause divides you?"
Erik laughed bitterly. "What cause? A month past, Ælred's men struck our fleet at the Humber. How did he know where to find us? Tell me, Rurik Stone—do you not suspect a traitor walks among us, feeding our secrets to the Saxon king?"
And with that, the shadow of suspicion fell upon them all.