After days of feasting, Erik grew instinctively wary of Ragnar's intentions. He announced that he would delay no longer—at dawn, he and his men would set out.
"In such a hurry?" Ragnar smiled indifferently and waved for more wine.
By the fourth day, Erik could barely rise from his bed. His head throbbed as though a thousand tiny blades churned inside his skull.
"Damn that wine… I should never have drunk so much."
Shuffling to the tent's flap, he squinted against the blinding midday sun and called for breakfast—no, it was already noon, lunch.
After eating, he discovered that not a single noble or chieftain answered his call to muster. All still lay in drunken slumber.
In the East, a commander could beat the war drum, and any tardy subordinate might be flogged—or beheaded. But here in Britain things were different. Erik and the other chieftains were equals in truth; their bands followed him on raid by choice, not fealty. If they deserted to Ragnar, he had no grounds to punish them.
"This cannot go on."
By afternoon, he went tent to tent, urging them to skip the night's banquet, to break camp at first light. He promised fortnight-long feasts in Oslo when they returned—enough wine and meat to glut their bellies.
The next morning, with baggage packed, some 1,300 Vikings marched homeward. After two months of raiding across a rich kingdom, their spirits soared. They sang Erik's praises as they tramped the muddy road.
"Thanks to Erik! May Odin bless you!"
"King Erik, greatest warrior of Norway!"
Riding his white horse, Erik basked in their reverence, though a pang of melancholy gnawed at him.
Such adoration never lasted. Back in Norway, the hoard would be divided, each man scattering home. They would forget his name—until the last coin was spent. Then they would come crawling again, begging their king to lead them to plunder.
"So I labor for these ingrates. If the next raid falls short, their devotion will sour into anger."
His fat body rocked with the horse's gait as he brooded. Perhaps constant raiding was no blessing. Better to consolidate in Norway, expand gradually, and one day rule it all.
But another question struck him—how to govern such vast lands? Oslo alone strained his strength. Swigging mead from a wineskin, he thought of the Franks' feudal order:
"Even if I unify Norway, I must grant power to loyal nobles, who rule over local gentry and landholders, down to peasants and thralls."
The more he pondered, the brighter his eyes grew. He had glimpsed a path for his dynasty to rule forever.
"I am destined to be monarch of Norway—of all the North. Hah! Back home, I will strike down Ragnar, then sweep aside the rest one by one."
Two days later, as they neared the Humber, anticipation turned restless. The men longed to reach the hidden fleet before nightfall.
Then—flocks of birds burst from the woods. Unease twisted Erik's gut. He sent scouts ahead.
"Arms! Prepare for battle!"
Screams followed soon after. A shield-wall formed, a thousand Vikings bracing together, staring at the treeline.
The screams did not cease. Instead, a column of black smoke curled skyward.
"They're burning our ships!" someone cried.
Panic swept the ranks. Without ships, there was no going home—only death in a hostile land.
"Seize the fleet!" Impetuous men broke away, the shield-wall shattering into fragments as bands rushed madly toward the smoke.
"Come back! Fools!" Erik groaned. Laden with heavy packs, they would reach the river exhausted, easy prey for Saxon blades.
"Your Majesty, what now?"
With scarcely a hundred at his side, Erik ordered them to cache their treasure in the brush and march light.
Half an hour later, they stumbled through briars to the riverbank—only to find the Humber aflame.
Longships burned like shoals of fire-fish, drifting downstream. A few brave vessels fled, sails blackened with smoke, but Saxon bowmen rained resin-soaked fire-arrows upon them. Flames spread along planks and rigging. Masts toppled. Ropes hissed like dying serpents in the water.
"It's over. All is lost."
Erik sat astride his horse, dazed, watching fire turn the clouds blood-red. In one stroke, over a hundred ships and two months' plunder were gone. His grand visions crumbled. Madness flickered in his eyes as he whispered fragments of doom:
"Surtur comes with fire… the enemies swarm Asgard… Jörmungandr's smoke and venom fill the skies…"
One by one, weary Vikings arrived, dropping to their knees before the burning river, despair written on their faces.
The Saxon host seized the moment to strike. Yet night was falling, and most Norsemen slipped away into the woods.
Prince Ælla watched them scatter. With only a thousand levies and wagons full of spoils, he could not pursue.
"Let them go. Their ships are ash. Britain will bury them."
A flush of savage joy colored his cheeks. Raising his hand toward York, he shouted:
"Withdraw, warriors! Back to the city with our prize!"
~~--------------------------
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