Ch 68: Rain Of Fire

After fifty days of preparation, the Vikings built a total of thirty siege engines. From the 21st to the 31st, after ten days of bombardment, only half of the siege engines remained operational.

Ultimately, Tamworth’s east and south walls were battered beyond repair, the battlements crumbled, the walls collapsed, and the widest gap could accommodate thirty warriors passing side by side.

Gunnar approached and asked, “Your Majesty, there are not many garrison troops visible on the city walls. Should we order an attack?”

“No rush, let’s play with them a little longer.”

Witnessing such terrifying power, Ragnar’s heart surged. Especially the spectacular scene of a whole section of the city wall collapsing two days ago; the violent roar, the crumbling stones, the pervasive dust, gave him a wonderful illusion of the mighty power of heaven and earth concentrated in himself.

Now, he was not in a hurry to enter the city, but ordered the throwing of all the oil jars, leaving an unforgettable impression on the core of Mercia.

On the last day of AD 846, the siege engines hurled burning oil jars. Night fell, orange-red fireballs tore through the dark sky, whistling as they fell into Tamworth. The jars burst, hot liquid splashed everywhere, and the city was filled with a pungent smell of burning. The floating dust and hot air currents in the air were suffocating.

Throughout the night, Ragnar, clad in a thick great cloak, stood silently until the sky turned light grey, and at the arrival of the new year, he spoke:

“Veni, Vidi, Vici.”（I came, I saw, I conquered）

With the general assault imminent, the morning meal was exceptionally abundant; fish soup and bread were plentiful, and each warrior also received a small piece of mutton. For a time, the East City Camp was filled with the sounds of soldiers gulping down their food.

Half an hour later, nearly two thousand Vikings, belching, mustered and lined up. Their expressions were relaxed, occasionally joking with their comrades, showing no tension of an impending battle.

“Valhalla!”

Shouting their slogan, the Vikings flooded into the city through the breach. Without the city walls as a barrier, Tamworth’s militia were routed, suffering only 10% casualties before scattering. A small number of remaining troops fled into Tamworth Castle in the city center, while most of the city district fell under Viking control.

Meanwhile, at the Northwest Camp.

Listening to the cheers from within the city, Vig instructed Ulf, “As we discussed beforehand, Niels and I will lead the troops into the city, and you will take three hundred men to guard the camp and intercept any fleeing groups of scattered soldiers. Any other questions?”

“No, go ahead.”

Because he had lost a game of chess to the other two, Ulf could only watch helplessly as Vig and Niels entered Tamworth through the deserted breach. His direct subordinates murmured in low voices, complaining that their boss was useless and had made a mistake at such a critical moment.

“Shut your mouths!”

Ulf silenced his subordinates, sending the most noisy ones to scout various locations, while the others guarded the breach to prevent the enemy from breaking out in the chaos.

Listening to the shouts of killing from within the city, the Viking warriors split into four groups to block the West Gate, North Gate, and two breaches. The sky was blue, the clouds thin, and the warm sunlight slanted down, giving a lazy, languid feeling.

Stretching, Ulf leaned against a large stone, took out his wineskin and took a small sip, then exhaled a puff of white mist, comforting the shield-bearer beside him,

“Mercia is a large country on the same level as Northumbria, and there are many settlements in the south waiting for us to conquer. After the battle, I will try to ask Your Majesty to exchange fiefdoms, so as not to return to Liverpool to live a hard life again.”

A shield-bearer responded listlessly, “Sir, you have said these words countless times. I don’t think His Majesty will easily transfer fiefdoms. If you are allowed to do this, what will happen if the other nobles also clamor to change fiefdoms?”

Ulf was stumped. He had never been Ragnar’s confidant, and his abilities were far inferior to Vig and Ivar, the two most prominent young men, and even less than Gunnar, Niels, and Orm, the officers of the Royal Guard.

After taking a large gulp of wine, he considered the most likely scenario:

After the war ends, Ragnar will prioritize turning the best territories into directly ruled royal land, such as Repton and Tamworth, while giving slightly less important territories to Gunnar, Niels, and Orm, his three unknighted retainers.

As for himself…

While sighing, Ulf heard a flurry of shouts of killing. Climbing to a high point, he saw fierce fighting occurring at a breach in the west city wall.

This enemy force numbered less than forty, their fighting skills were superb, and the six riders at the rear of the troop were clad in black robes, their identities unclear.

“Less than forty people, yet they are steadily suppressing over seventy Viking warriors?”

Ulf realized that this was Mercia’s Royal Guard. He led his men to reinforce them, and when they arrived at the breach, the six riders in black robes had already rushed out of the city!

“Stop them!”

In a hurry, Ulf drew the short axe from his waist and threw it. Those around him did the same. Dozens of iron axes spun, striking the mounts’ abdomens and hindquarters, causing a series of high-pitched screams.

“The riders are wearing iron armor, aim for their horses!”

Under Ulf’s orders, more than twenty archers rapidly fired five volleys of arrows, successfully killing the three remaining warhorses. The riders attempted to resist, but were killed by the Vikings who swarmed them.

After a scramble, the Vikings divided the loot: the six riders’ iron armor, helmets, weapons, high-end clothing, money pouches, and silver crucifixes. To remove a ruby gold ring, they even broke someone’s finger.

In the end, six corpses in thin clothing, mangled and bloody, were left in the snow. Someone found a sack from a saddle, containing a crown forged from pure gold.

“Sir, we seem to have killed Mercia’s Crown Prince, Burgred?”

Ulf took the crown from the warrior. Under the sunlight, the rubies inlaid in the crown reflected a bright, eerie light, dazzling and mesmerizing.

“It seems so,” his expression was ambiguous, his voice hoarse, his heart beating rapidly in his chest. He took five full minutes to curb his greed before stuffing the crown back into the sack.

“Carry the body, let’s go find His Majesty.”

In recent years, the Old King had been too weak to handle government affairs, and all power had been transferred to Crown Prince Burgred. In Ulf’s view, killing the Crown Prince was equivalent to killing Mercia’s actual ruler.

With this great achievement, he had ample reason to request a change of fiefdom after the war. By Odin, he could finally get away from that annoying Leonard!

Pondering the advantages and disadvantages of various fiefdoms in Mercia, Ulf, led by a shield-bearer, found Ragnar, who was besieging Tamworth Castle in the town center.

“Your Majesty, we killed Burgred and captured Mercia’s crown!”

Ulf struggled to get to Ragnar’s side, knelt on one knee, and presented the crown to him with both hands. The expressions of those around them were complicated; they hadn’t expected this man to achieve the first victory.