In early April, after settling affairs in the north, Vig marched into Oxfordshire with twenty-five hundred men and a train of siege engines.
"You're finally here," Ragnar greeted him.
In the days prior, he had scoured the countryside with raiding parties, capturing nearly six hundred prisoners, but no trace of King Æthelwulf.
Leaving three hundred to garrison Oxford, Ragnar led the rest south toward Winchester. On the road they ran into Ivar, retreating with a herd of captured horses—and a thousand Saxon militiamen hot on his heels.
After scattering the pursuers, Ragnar demanded, "What happened?"
Panting, Ivar sat on the ground. "Æthelwulf lives. He's back in Winchester, rallying defenses. When he heard the stud farm was attacked, he rushed reinforcements. Hah—good thing I ran fast."
With Ivar's band added, the Viking host swelled back to four thousand. They marched on, halting at Winchester's northern outskirts.
The city sat with the River Itchen guarding its east and south. As siege commander, Vig circled the walls on horseback before fixing the attack on the western and northern fronts.
Siege camps were raised. Wood was felled, wagons groaned with timber, and war sank into its most monotonous phase. By mid-May, the allied levies of the remaining four Anglo-Saxon kingdoms had arrived.
When scouts brought word of their numbers, Ivar stirred from his idleness. "Two thousand peasants dare face us? They march to their deaths!"
Vig, tied up with siege matters, could only watch as Ivar and Gunnar marched east to intercept the rabble.
Gunnar now commanded two hundred horsemen, drilled for six weeks straight. While Ivar drew Saxon eyes to the front, Gunnar led his riders around to a hillside on their flank. From above he loosed a thundering charge.
The Anglo-Saxons had no answer for cavalry on the wing. Their kings paid in blood. The rulers of Sussex and Essex fell in the melee; the Kentish king, mortally wounded, would not survive the week. Only the fleet-footed monarch of East Anglia escaped with his life.
In half a day, the southeast of Britain lay broken.
Ivar piled the captured weapons, armor, and banners beneath Winchester's walls, a grim trophy that sapped the defenders' will.
Watching the mounted Norse parade before the gates, Ragnar murmured to his companions:
"The age has shifted. Cavalry will decide battles henceforth. Perhaps we too must adopt Frankish ways—raise knights from our warriors, grant them estates, let them train in peace and answer the call in war."
Resolved, Ragnar summoned captured Frankish knights and pressed them for every detail of their order—their lands, their dues, their training, their heirs. While he buried himself in the study of Frankish feudal custom, the day-to-day grind of siege fell to Vig. Ivar and Gunnar swept the countryside, slaughtering every small relief force before it could reach the city.
By June, ten victories in a row had crushed any lingering thought of Saxon rescue.
And yet, the host's spirit sagged. Half a year of fighting left men hollow. Desertions grew daily. When Vig sought Ragnar's counsel, the king only said, "Handle it as you see fit."
So Vig became the villain. He broke Gunnar's cavalry into twenty detachments, each tasked with hunting deserters. Only then did the rot slow.
One day, a rider came to Vig's tent. "My lord, we found something strange. You should see it."
Closing his ledger, Vig followed and found horsemen gathered around a hole, muttering.
"A nobleman's treasure vault, I wager."
"No, no—it reeks of spirits. A troll's lair, more like."
From the darkness crawled a tall, reeking man with cropped white hair, grinning as he shouted to his mates:
"I crawled for ages through that tunnel, struck the earth with my axe, and look what I found!"
He held aloft a golden ring. The men jeered, demanding a feast at his expense.
"Quiet!" Vig barked, beckoning the man closer and ignoring his stench. "This tunnel—stone-lined? Does it run into the city?"
"I think so," the man scratched at his rashy skin. He explained he had stumbled on the hole while patrolling, thinking deserters hid within. Choking down the stink, he had crawled inside, and by chance unearthed the ring.
"What's your name?"
"White-Haired Oleg."
Vig stretched, a rare smile on his lips. "Then the gods favor you, White-Hair. Come—let us present this to the king."
Northwest of camp, Ragnar hunted with his lover Aslaug. Vig galloped up, breathless.
"Sire, I've found a way into the city."
Ragnar dismissed the woman and tossed his bow to a guard. "Tell me."
Pointing at Oleg, Vig said, "This man discovered a forgotten Roman sewer leading beneath Winchester. The Saxons let it choke and rot for centuries. They've likely forgotten it exists. We can clear it, send a strike force inside, and seize the gates."
"Good. Do it. A month at most—if this drags longer, the desertions will consume us."
With royal leave, Vig built a sub-camp over the tunnel, shrouded by a massive tent to hide their work.
For twenty days, men labored night and day until the passage was clear. Two hundred handpicked warriors crept through the stone shaft.
To mask the attempt, the northern camp unleashed every engine—stones howled into the walls, siege towers lumbered forward, drawing the archers' fury.
At last, Oleg eased open the sewer's end. Fortune favored them—it emerged not into the market, but an abandoned villa.
As time passed, all two hundred gathered. Leaving a guard at the courtyard, Oleg led the rest at a sprint toward the western gate.
They cut down a hundred defenders in a bloody clash, then heaved the great beam from its brackets.
In that instant, Gunnar's riders thundered in. Hundreds of paces vanished in moments as they crashed through the gate, hacking into the stunned garrison.
The three minutes bought in blood were enough. Rank upon rank of Viking infantry poured inside, overwhelming the Saxons with sheer weight until the counterattack collapsed.
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