After a night on the Isle of Man, the fleet sailed west for most of a day, finally reaching a desolate stretch of Ireland's eastern coast.
There they anchored, assembling the shells and upper decks of the ten turtle ships, then turned south along the shoreline. By the time they reached the bay outside the River Liffey, the enemy fleet was already waiting.
According to the battle plan, Ivar commanded the ten turtle ships, tasked with close combat.
Vig commanded five catapult ships and fifteen regular longships—the catapults to bombard Sweyn's heavier vessels from afar, the longships to screen against enemy flankers.
"So this is Sweyn's fleet? Ivar was wrong. That's no mere thousand men."
Climbing the mast for a better view, Vig counted thirty-two ordinary warships and three massive vessels over thirty meters long and six wide—each capable of carrying a hundred men including rowers.
With shipbuilding as it was, even these giants were unfit for the open sea, but for rivers and coastal waters they were formidable.
The salty wind whipped Vig's face. He glanced at the wind vane atop the mast—west wind.
At the cry of the row-masters, the fleet strained forward against the breeze. Once within range, Vig yanked a red pennant from his belt and waved furiously.
Obeying the signal, the five catapult ships formed a line abreast, their weaker flanks presented to the enemy. Crews hauled down the ropes, raising the counterweights, then placed clay jars filled with fire oil into the slings, fuses already lit.
"Loose!"
The hammers fell, counterweights crashed down, and ten flaming jars shrieked across the sky toward Sweyn's flagship. Nine splashed harmlessly into the sea—but one struck a nearby longship.
Before the crew could react, flames raced through the hull. In moments the vessel was an inferno.
Panicked, forty men leapt into the freezing sea. The captain and three mailed warriors sank quickly under the weight of their armor; the rest flailed in the waves, screaming for rescue.
"What sorcery is this?"
Sweyn stared in shock at the strange machines aboard the dragon-bannered ships.
"Majesty," a shield-warrior gasped, "they say when Ragnar stormed Northumbria last year, a 'Chosen One' sorcerer built engines that hurled fireballs. They called them 'catapults.'"
"Catapults… stone-throwers, now flinging fire oil."
Realization steadied him. It was not magic, but engineering. Yet even as he regained composure, another volley arced through the sky—ten more black dots.
This time one jar splashed scarcely ten meters astern of his flagship.
Murmurs of dread swept the fleet. Sweyn knew morale was collapsing. Retreat was the instinct, but the west wind howled in their faces. To withdraw upriver meant fighting both wind and current—one jam at the river mouth, and they'd be trapped.
Fight or flee?
His mind reeled. He muttered the names of the gods, begging for guidance.
Before he could decide, shouts rang out. "Majesty! Look—their monster-ships are coming!"
The lead turtle ship, flying a gray wolf-head banner, closed to fifty meters of the foremost Liffey longships. Arrows rained down on its armored shell, but most stuck harmlessly in the wood.
From its upper deck, Vig's archers loosed from height, scything through exposed crews. The exchange was brutally one-sided.
Within five minutes, eight enemy ships were shattered, their survivors cowering uselessly in corners.
The battle lost, Sweyn gave the order to retreat. His rowers strained against the current, ships bunching together in chaos.
"Useless cowards!"
With turtle ships bearing down, Sweyn barked a desperate order: beach the fleet. Survival meant reaching Dyfflin's palisades.
One by one, his surviving vessels rammed ashore. The fleet was destroyed.
"Clear the wrecks from the river!"
At the Liffey's mouth, Ivar cursed. He had hoped to strike Dyfflin immediately, but twenty wrecked ships clogged the channel, blocking the advance.
When Vig's detachment arrived, he set his longships to drag the hulks aside with grappling lines. Only after hours of toil was the river passable.
At last they saw their prize.
Dyfflin stood on the south bank, beside a black pool from which it took its name.
The town was ringed by a five-meter palisade. At the parapets stood archers in black cloaks, and among them strode Sweyn himself, rallying his shaken men. In the two hours bought by retreat, he had thrown up a defense, foiling Ivar's blitz.
Scowling, Ivar camped his army on the north bank, pondering how to crack a town of two thousand souls.
"Just hurl fire jars and roast him like a pig," Halfdan chirped—earning his brother's glare.
"I came all this way for a heap of ashes?"
Vig arrived with his shield-men. "Bad news—the fire jars are gone."
Before sailing, Derwent and Tynemouth had scraped together pitch, resin, and fat, forging one hundred and fifteen jars. Barely enough for twelve volleys. Any longer, and the catapults would be reduced to tossing stones, with little effect.
"Still," Ivar muttered, "a sea victory is no loss." His eyes turned to the birch forests northwest. "I'll have the men cut timber for great trebuchets… though Odin knows how many months that will take."
Siege engines of that size would cost at least a month to build, and breaching Dyfflin's walls could take three more.
Worried for his wife left at Tynemouth, Vig stared across the thirty-meter river, searching for a quicker way to bring Dyfflin down.
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