Repton had fallen in less than an hour, and Ragnar was in high spirits. From the city walls he gazed across the endless fields beyond, listening to Pascas recount the line of Mercian kings—a lesson that soon had most Viking nobles half-asleep.
The droning history was broken by commotion from within the town. Leonard, Ulf, and others stirred to life, eyes turning toward St. Wystan's Church.
Moments later, a band of burly, rough-handed warriors stormed in, demanding an answer from Ragnar himself.
"Your Majesty, you may be highest among us and entitled to the greatest spoils—but that does not give you the right to hoard the treasure!"
"What treasure?" Ragnar asked in surprise, then quickly realized—they meant the royal tombs of Mercia.
"That place is sacred. To disturb the sleep of kings invites curses. Be patient. Once Tamworth falls, the royal vault will hold wealth enough for all."
But rumors had already raced through the army: the tomb of Offa, the mightiest of Anglo-Saxon kings, lay here. Some swore his coffin was cast in solid gold. Others claimed his grave was paved with silver coins, like a gleaming sea.
"No! To seize plunder after victory—that is the Viking way!"
The clamor swelled. Soon a thousand men gathered near the wall, desire boiling over, until one drew his sword.
Steel flashed, and the nobles on the ramparts blanched. Pascas cried out instinctively:
"Guards! Hang him!"
Armored household guards surged in, surrounding the defiant giant. He was massive, a bear-hide draped across his shoulders, eyes burning with scorn, showing no fear even as spears pressed against him.
"Ragnar! You are blinded by greed. You are no hero! I challenge you!"
"Majesty, let me deal with him," Vig said, hand on the hilt of Dragon's Breath. But Ragnar stilled him with a firm hand.
"No need. I am not so old that I cannot lift my own sword."
He shrugged off his black cloak, tossing it to Pascas, and drew the gleaming Damascus blade he had named Kingship.
Before a thousand watching eyes, Ragnar strode into the open, accepted a shield, and leveled his sword at the bear-cloaked challenger.
"Make it quick. I have work to do."
The berserker lunged, sword sweeping down. Ragnar sidestepped, leapt back, evading the follow-up slash.
He studied the man's footwork—brute strength only, no skill. Ragnar slipped into his blind angle and struck, cutting his waist, then drove another thrust. The shield came up to block—but Kingship punched through the wood, grazing his brow.
Blood streamed down, blinding the berserker. He flailed his shield, but Ragnar's sword tore it apart piece by piece. With a roar, the man cast it aside, gripping his blade in both hands.
Ragnar mirrored him, discarding his shield. He raised Kingship high, the classic guard of the "overhead stance."
For half a minute they circled. Then the berserker broke, stomping forward with a bellow, sword hewing down.
Ragnar had already read him. He stepped in—just the right distance—twisted his hilt, and caught the blade in the crossguard. Metal shrieked. The berserker stumbled forward. Ragnar flicked his wrist, and Kingship struck like a viper, plunging through his chest.
The fight was over.
"Who else?"
Ragnar ripped the blade free. The berserker toppled. Blood dripped from Kingship as Ragnar paced the circle, eyes sweeping over the hushed crowd. None dared meet his gaze.
"Who else would try me?"
No answer. Ragnar tossed the sword to a guard and strode away.
At dawn, leaving five hundred men to hold Repton, the host advanced. Following an old Roman road, they reached Mercia's royal capital by afternoon: Tamworth.
In Offa's reign, Tamworth had been Mercia's heart. At its center, atop a hill, stood the fortress of Tamworth—once Offa's hall of rule.
Beyond the walls, the Tame and Anker rivers met. The flat lands were rich for farming. A tall watermill loomed by the bank, larger than any north of the Tyne.
"A prosperous town," Ragnar mused from a nearby hill, estimating over three thousand souls within.
Three years ago, when Ragnar's throne was still unsteady, he had been forced to grant Mancunium to Leonard—an error that had raised a rival nearly equal to the crown. He would not repeat it. Minor towns might be parceled out, but not Tamworth. Strong walls, trade routes, fertile land—this was a prize the king would keep for himself.
Resolute, he turned to strategy. Three villages dotted the outskirts. Ragnar proposed dividing the army to occupy each, sealing every road.
"Vig, you hold the northwest."
"As you command, Majesty."
With his four hundred men, Vig was reinforced by Ulf's three hundred.
They marched into an abandoned village. Vig had the wells tested for poison, then set the men to digging trenches.
Three days' labor carved the ditches. Ulf assumed siege engines would follow—but Vig instead ordered palisades.
After scouting, Ulf reported the allies' efforts: "The king's main camp east, two thousand strong, build engines. Leonard's camp on the south bank too. Are you not overcautious?"
"Our northwest camp is weakest—seven hundred men, only sixty in armor. Defense must be our first concern."
The main assault would clearly fall on the east. Vig's task was to cut off the northwest approaches and support the main attack. Fortifications came first—against sorties from the walls—then engines.
"Ragnar gave me this front because I am cautious," Vig explained. "The eastern camp hasn't interfered—that shows he approves."
By November the skies turned gray. Thin snow drifted daily. The Norse labored on, felling trees in the frozen woods, hauling timber to raise walls and machines.
Then, after days of watching, Mercian reinforcements finally dared to sally forth.
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