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."
