After fifty days of preparation, the Norsemen had built thirty trebuchets. From the 21st to the 31st of December, ten days of relentless bombardment left only half still functional.
At last, the eastern and southern walls of Tamworth were battered into ruins. Parapets crumbled, ramparts collapsed, and the largest breach was wide enough for thirty men to march abreast.
"Your Majesty," Gunnar murmured beside him, "the walls are nearly deserted. Should we order the assault?"
"Not yet," Ragnar replied. "Let's toy with them a little longer."
The spectacle had stirred his blood. Two days earlier, an entire stretch of wall had collapsed in thunderous ruin—stones crashing down, dust clouds rising. For a moment, Ragnar had felt as though the might of heaven and earth itself flowed through his hands.
Now he would not rush. Instead, he commanded that all jars of fire-oil be hurled, to leave Mercia's lords a memory they would never forget.
On the last night of 846 AD, the trebuchets flung flaming jars into the city. Red-orange fireballs arced through the black heavens, howling as they fell. They burst with a roar, splattering molten liquid across the streets. Tamworth choked on the stench of burning flesh; heat and smoke rolled through every quarter, suffocating the air itself.
All night Ragnar stood cloaked and silent. When dawn broke pale in the east and the new year was born, he spoke at last:
"Veni, Vidi, Vici." — I came, I saw, I conquered.
For the final assault, breakfast was lavish: fish soup, bread without ration, even a scrap of mutton for each man. Warriors ate heartily, the camp filled with laughter and the sound of men burping.
Half an hour later, nearly two thousand Vikings assembled in ranks, their mood light, joking with one another, as if a feast rather than a battle lay ahead.
"Valhalla!"
The cry rang out as they surged through the breaches. Without the wall to shield them, Mercian militia broke almost instantly. Losing barely a tenth of their men, they scattered. Some few retreated into the central fortress, but most of Tamworth fell swiftly into Norse hands.
Meanwhile, at the northwest camp—
Listening to the cheers from within the city, Vig turned to Ulf.
"As agreed, Nils and I will lead our men inside. You hold the camp with three hundred, and intercept any fugitives. Objections?"
"None. Go."
Because he had lost a wager at chess, Ulf could only watch bitterly as Vig and Nils marched into Tamworth through an empty breach. His household guards muttered under their breath, complaining at their lord's blunder.
"Silence!" Ulf barked, sending the loudest of them to scout, while the rest held the breach against escapees.
The morning sun shone clear, warm against the blue sky, lulling the men with a strange, lazy drowsiness. Ulf stretched, drank from his wineskin, and sighed to a shield-bearer:
"Mercia is a great realm, equal to Northumbria. Southward lie rich settlements waiting for us. After this war, I'll beg the king to grant me a better fief. I'll not return to Liverpool's misery."
The guard groaned, "Lord, you've said this a hundred times. His Majesty won't change lands so lightly. If he allows you, every noble will demand the same. Then what?"
Ulf fell silent. He was no favorite of Ragnar's. Compared to Vig and Ivar, who shone brightest, or even Gunnar, Nils, and Orm, he was middling at best.
He drank deeply, brooding. Most likely, Ragnar would keep the finest lands—Repton, Tamworth—for the crown. The next-best fiefs would go to his unlanded confidants: Gunnar, Nils, Orm.
And Ulf…?
His thought was broken by sudden shouting. Scrambling up a rise, he saw fierce combat at a breach in the west wall.
Barely forty enemies held the gap, yet they drove back more than seventy Vikings. At the rear, six horsemen in black cloaks urged the defense.
"Only forty men, yet they're holding us?!"
Realization struck: these were palace guards. Ulf rallied his men and rushed to aid. But by the time he reached the breach, the six black riders had burst out into the open.
"Stop them!"
In desperation, Ulf hurled his hand-axe. Others followed. A storm of iron bit into horseflesh; mounts shrieked, stumbling under the blows.
"They're armored—aim for the horses!" Ulf roared.
Archers loosed five quick volleys. Three more steeds collapsed, pitching riders into the snow. Vikings swarmed, hacking down the fallen.
When it ended, six cloaked riders lay stripped and broken, bodies hacked and looted. Their fine helms, mail, purses, and jeweled crosses were torn away. One warrior even snapped a man's finger to steal his emerald ring.
From a saddlebag, a sack spilled open—inside lay a crown of pure gold.
"Lord, I think… we killed Prince Burgred of Mercia!"
Ulf took the crown. Rubies glimmered blood-red under the sun, dazzling his eyes. His heart pounded wildly. Only after five minutes did he master himself, tucking the crown back into its sack.
"Bring the bodies. We go to the king."
For years the old Mercian king had been too frail to rule, ceding all power to his son. In Ulf's mind, slaying Burgred was as good as striking down the true ruler of Mercia.
With this deed, he could demand a new fief. By Odin, he would finally be free of Leonard's irksome shadow!
Dreaming of rich lands, Ulf and his guards carried the sack to Ragnar, who was pressing the siege of Tamworth's central fortress.
"Your Majesty! We've slain Burgred, and taken the crown of Mercia!"
Kneeling before Ragnar, Ulf raised the golden circlet with both hands. The warriors around them stared in shock. None had expected him, of all men, to seize the greatest prize.
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