After resting one night in the nameless village, the host pressed on, reaching the northern outskirts of Repton by midday.
Rocking in his saddle, Ragnar listened to Pascas recount the deeds of King Offa, occasionally interjecting:
"So, by your telling, Offa ruled for nearly forty years (757–796), during which Mercia reached its zenith—forcing the other six kingdoms into vassalage, even treating with Charlemagne as an equal. Hm. Truly a great king."
A glint flickered in his eyes. He suddenly threw a sharper question that left Pascas fumbling:
"Yet why then did Mercia collapse so quickly after Offa's death? His heirs were beaten by Wessex, forced to pay them tribute."
"Your Majesty, that… is a serious and difficult question. Forgive me, I cannot answer at once."
Their talk was cut short by a rider galloping up, cloaked in thick wool.
"Your Majesty! Seven hundred Saxon troops approach from the southeast—their target is Repton's east gate!"
Ragnar reacted instinctively.
"Cut them off!"
He and his nobles spurred forward, cresting a low ridge. From there, they saw a wavering column snaking toward the town—poorly armed, disordered, hardly worth the name of an army.
"Vig, block the front. Gunnar, sweep their rear. The rest, follow me—"
But Vig broke in.
"Your Majesty, I have a better idea."
By now the Mercians too had spotted them. Seeing riders massing on the ridge, panic rippled down their ranks. Men broke and fled before a blow was struck.
"Hold them together!"
The Saxon commander snapped orders, dispatching his guards to rein in deserters. He sat tall in the saddle, eyes straining to gauge the enemy's numbers—
And froze.
A black tide surged over the ridgeline—no mere raiders, but over three thousand men, pouring forward like a storm.
Hopeless…
Outnumbered so utterly, his will to fight guttered out. He ordered retreat for the safety of the walls.
"Keep formation! Don't scatter! Bring the supply wagons!"
But few listened. Most only thought of reaching the gate before the Vikings.
"Lord, you must withdraw!"
His guards dragged his horse into the fleeing press. He looked back in anguish at the abandoned wagons—twenty in all, laden with armor, arrows, and rations. Soldiers had not even donned their gear before the rout. Forty mail hauberks, crates of provisions—all lost to the enemy.
"Damn you! That was my life's savings, you cowards!"
His curses fell on deaf ears. The rout streamed on. A thousand paces from the gate, a storm of arrows hissed out of the treeline. Iron heads slammed into the crowd, felling dozens in an instant.
"Vikings! Run for your lives!"
The Saxon force dissolved completely, scattering into ragged knots. Most swarmed toward the west gate, others bolted into the wilds southward.
The commander himself went white as bone, clutching the silver cross at his neck—the church's blessing against evil—whispering,
"Lord above, deliver me from wickedness. Let me survive this war…"
Repton's east gate.
The sentries had already sighted the Vikings. Once the villagers streamed inside, the gates were barred, archers bracing behind the parapets. Soon, the routed Saxons battered the gates, shouting to be let in.
The garrison despised these cowards, but four hundred strong arms were not to be wasted. With curses and mutters, six men heaved up the heavy beam barring the gate.
"Steady! Don't trample each other!"
As the gate cracked open, the mob surged like a flood, trampling the six unlucky doormen flat. Weapons, shoes, and bodies littered the ground.
"Shut the gate! The Norse are nearly here!"
The last fugitives stumbled inside. The officer barked orders, lowering the beam again. He strode down to confront the rabble.
"Where is your commander?"
Then—pain lanced his gut. He looked down in shock as a bloodied blade slid out, only to plunge in again.
"Now!"
Fifty Vikings, disguised among the refugees, drew steel and fell upon the guards. The fight was brutal, but three minutes was all they needed. By the time the main host stormed the gate, the battle was already won.
With the promise of mercy for those who yielded, most Mercians dropped their arms and gathered in silence to await their fate.
Ragnar and his nobles rode in soon after. He strode up the walls, gazing over the historic town.
In Mercia's early days, Repton had served as capital. Here stood the tall spire of St. Wystan's Church, visible for miles, said to house the stone coffins of kings past.
Ragnar laid a hand on the cold, rough parapet.
"All thanks to Vig's ruse—we've taken this royal seat with but twenty men lost. Well done. Another tale for your legend."
He clapped his right hand man's shoulder, then ordered the guards: the church and townsfolk were not to be touched.
"Your Majesty," said Gunnar, the captain of guards, "are you not letting the men plunder? That breaks with custom."
"Custom?" Ragnar's eyes hardened. "My word is custom."
Gunnar paled, bowing and hurrying off to enforce order.
Turning to the others, Ragnar explained,
"The age is changing. A king must act with dignity. After battle, we show restraint—soften the people's hatred."
From the moment he first saw Repton, he had resolved: this would be royal land, his own demesne. He would not be fool enough to let his men sack it.
~~--------------------------
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