Having witnessed the might of the stone-throwers, Pascas swallowed his terror and stammered out his plea to the Viking chieftains:
"Both sides have won and lost. Further bloodshed is meaningless. Why not march south into Mercia instead?"
Ivar and Bjorn exchanged glances, their eyes glinting. Then, with a bark of laughter, they beat the earl bloody and cast him out.
"Tell your king," they roared, "if he wants us gone, he'll pay five thousand pounds of silver!"
The next day, Vig oversaw the heaving of four trebuchets into position, barely two hundred meters from York's eastern wall.
"Load!"
At his command, brawny crews cranked the winches, raising counterweights ten meters high, wood groaning with each turn. Elsewhere, loaders wrestled cracked fifty-kilo stones into leather slings, designed to shatter into razor fragments on impact.
"One ready!"
"Four ready!"
"Release!"
The hammer dropped, and two tons of weight slammed earthward. The long arm snapped upward, hurling its burden skyward. The air shrieked.
A breath later, three gray blossoms erupted against York's east wall. One stone struck a crenel, crushing an archer in silence beneath splinters. Two slammed into the masonry, and another sailed over, crashing deep within the city—where women screamed in terror.
"Again."
From dawn till dusk the bombardment continued. At night, the great machines were dragged back under guard, only to resume at first light.
Then came fire. A carpenter proposed the use of resin, pitch, and kindling bound into blazing balls. At Vig's nod, one was hurled. It traced a red arc through the heavens, like some infernal rain summoned by demons.
Moments later, black smoke rose from within York. The effect was devastating. Two machines were devoted to fire thereafter.
By midday, the city choked with smoke. Narrow streets funneled the flames with dreadful speed. King Ælud himself was forced to send half his soldiers to fight the fires.
"The pagans wield sorcery taught by their false gods," he muttered, calling bishops to chant exorcisms to calm the panicked citizenry.
That evening, with the city weary and scorched, Ælud dined with his nobles. Most clamored for open battle.
"We have four thousand men—more than the Northmen!"
"Strike now, or there will be no wheat sown in September. We face famine next year!"
"At least destroy those engines. Already one-fifth of York burns. Another week, and nothing will remain."
Worn down, Ælud relented. At dawn, they would march.
Morning broke. Ælud led 3,500 men from the gates. No sooner had they arrayed than the trebuchets spoke. Stones crashed down. Militiamen panicked, trampling two hundred of their own as they fled back into the city.
Rallying survivors, Ælud led them out the north gate, circling to strike the Viking camp from its weaker side.
It worked. The engines, ponderous and slow, lumbered uselessly while Northumbria's shield-wall advanced.
"Forward!" Ælud cried, sword raised.
As Pascas had reported, the northern camp held only storehouses and livestock pens. Arrows fell from Viking bows, but inflicted little harm. Reaching the palisade, militiamen hurled grapnels, yoked them to horses, and tore gaps wide open.
Flooding inside, three thousand surged through. Ælud followed with his sixty armored guards. Just as told, they found barns, granaries, and sheepfolds. Vikings fell back, abandoning stores, clutching sacks of silver as they fled south.
"Treasure!"
Coins spilled from fleeing sacks, glittering in the sun. Militiamen forgot all discipline. They broke ranks, rushing to plunder.
For these men—farmers armed with rusty axes, unpaid, forced to serve by duty alone—the lure of silver was irresistible. Hunger and poverty shouted louder than loyalty.
"Call them back!" Ælud shouted. His guards raced to restrain the looters. A few obeyed grudgingly—only to be cut down by arrows. The survivors reported in horror:
"Sire, outside the walls! A Viking shield-wall—thousands strong!"
The king reeled. This was his own trick, the very ambush he had once sprung at Mancunium.
"They… they've learned from me."
Vikings surged at the camp's southern edge, hemming the Northumbrians within. Ælud ordered a push south, desperate to break through.
They ran a hundred paces—then screams erupted. The vanguard vanished into the earth. A pit, four meters wide and two deep, bristling with sharpened stakes, blocked the way. Only narrow causeways led east, west, and south.
Across the ditch, Viking archers lined the bank, bows drawn.
As Ælud stared at the killing ground, despair crushed him.
From this day forth, he knew—the fate of Northumbria was sealed.
~~--------------------------
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