Trapped with no hope, Ælud's last guards did not forget their oath. In desperation, they toppled a section of the palisade at the northwestern corner and dragged their broken king through the breach. By the time they reached the city walls, only three guards still followed at his back.
The rest of the militia were doomed. Hemmed in within the Viking camp, they huddled together in a ragged shield ring, arrows raining down upon them.
For half an hour they endured—until Vig's trebuchets finally arrived. A single stone crashed down into their ranks, shattering all will to resist.
"Offer them quarter," Vig ordered. He turned to a Viking who spoke Anglo-Saxon. "Tell them Ragnar swears the farmers will be spared."
Broken and defeated, more than 2,700 militiamen cast their weapons into the ditch and shuffled out through the narrow causeways, faces gaunt with sorrow, like trembling sheep.
The last two hundred resisted still—nobles, landowners, and their retainers. Vig had no patience for them. He signaled the archers and engines to cut them down.
Thus fell Northumbria's final field army. Victory gleamed just ahead.
The sky was bright, the air clear. Vig tilted his head back, staring at the drifting white clouds. He was about to recite a verse—when he caught sight of Erik's men drawing their swords, moving to slaughter the prisoners.
"Spare them!"
Vig lunged forward, his Dragon's Breath sword batting aside one blade. He alone stood between the prisoners and massacre.
Erik's laugh was sharp and cold. "Why not kill them? And you—will you raise steel against me, for the sake of these stunted Angles?"
Just then Ragnar arrived with his men. Smiling faintly, he stepped up to Erik.
"A promise is a promise. If we break it now, what will others say of me? The city is about to fall—shall we tear each other apart at such a moment?"
"Fine," Erik sneered. "Then tell me—what will you do with them?"
Ragnar shrugged, unconcerned. "Keep them penned. We've food enough. When York falls, we can ransom them to their kin—or sell them to slavers. Either way, they'll profit us."
The siege engines roared on. Each day more civilians fled across the Ouse. Some Vikings clamored to pursue, but Vig forbade it.
"The fewer within the walls, the easier the storming will be. Let them run."
And so, for two weeks, the army tightened its grip. Three sides closed, one side open, until York was nearly emptied of life.
At last, the garrison dwindled to a critical point. Ragnar gave the order.
At dawn, trebuchets hurled their opening salvos. But this time, ten towering siege engines rumbled forward—seven meters tall, bristling with ladders and shields.
The defenders watched in dread as the towers ground against the walls. Then with a thunderous crash, their ramps fell. Vikings in iron surged forth, overwhelming the last resistance with sheer weight of numbers.
Three months of siege ended that morning. The city the Romans had once built—the fortress of York—was lost.
When the red-and-gold banners atop the walls were hacked down, Vig felt a burden lift from his shoulders. He slumped beside a trebuchet, spent.
"Why sit here? The city's spoils will be gone before you stir."
Nils and his bowmen had shed their quivers for axes and shields, entering the city in the final wave. Spotting Vig basking in the sun, he urged him on.
"Go without me," Vig sighed. "I'm done. Let me be."
Weeks of toil had drained him—building siege engines, guarding the camp, managing supplies, keeping order among prisoners. Now, at just eighteen, his chest ached and breath faltered. Another month like this, and he would likely collapse.
"It was not easy. None of this was easy."
But the trial had forged him. He knew he could command now—not vast armies, but two or three thousand, enough for this fractured medieval world.
After a long nap in the sun, Vig yawned and strolled back to camp, where only the old, weak, and wounded remained, alongside the 2,700 captured militia.
He walked the storehouses, fetched mead and salted meat, and dined alone as the sun dipped low, ravens circling above, the Ouse glittering in shards of light. From time to time, he murmured words none around him understood.
Until a bowman of Nils came running, shattering his rare peace.
"What now?" Vig asked.
"The Northumbrian king tried to flee. Ivar gave chase. Only the prince escaped with a few men. Ivar himself slew the king—and has gifted the crown to Ragnar. Erik's men are furious. They stand face-to-face even now."
With York fallen and Ælud slain, Northumbria was finished. Its vast legacy lay open before them. Yet Ragnar's strength alone could not claim it. Conflict loomed.
Minutes later, Vig reached the city's central square. Every leader of note was there, grim and tense—except Ragnar and Erik.
"Where are they? How long have they talked?" Vig asked.
Ivar flicked his eyes toward York Minster. "A while. Erik's face looked dark when he went in. I doubt it'll end well."
Suddenly, the shatter of glass echoed from within. They rushed through the doors, only to find Ragnar and Erik unbloodied. Relief swept the men.
"Leave us," Ragnar said. The others withdrew. Only Vig lingered. Ragnar frowned. "Go. This is between us."
Vig shook his head. "You've been at this for long, smashing even the furnishings. What is it you cannot agree on?"
"What else?" Erik's laugh was sharp as steel. "A month ago, Ælud's men ambushed our fleet at the Humber. How did they know its course? Vig Hakonarson—you're clever. Tell me—was it a traitor in our midst who fed them word?"
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