The sea wind knifed across the dunes, carrying the stench of fish, pitch, and defeat. Longships rested on the shingle like stranded beasts, their dragonheads snarling toward the gray horizon. Above them, the Northmen's camp sprawled in a maze of tents and fires—restless, angry, alive with murmured arguments.
Sigvald stood alone at the water's edge. The waves lapped around his boots, darkening the leather. His jaw tightened as he watched the tide pull away, leaving thin trails of foam like scars on the sand.
He had come to England for glory.
Instead, he had tasted humiliation.
The skirmish in the marshes was meant to be a simple sweep—punish the locals, break their spirit, and mark a path for the Great Army. Instead, his men had returned battered, confused, whispering of traps and phantom soldiers who rose from the reeds.
And all of this under the command of a boy.
"He is no boy," Sigvald muttered to the sea. "Not one who thinks like that."
Behind him, heavy footsteps crunched over gravel. Bjorn Ketilsson, broad as an ox and twice as stubborn, joined him with a grunt. His beard was still matted with mud; his shield bore a fresh crack from the marsh.
"The men want answers," Bjorn said. "They've never seen tactics like that from farmers."
Sigvald didn't look at him. "They're not farmers anymore."
Bjorn spat. "Still Saxons. Still weak."
A muscle twitched in Sigvald's cheek. "Weak men don't collapse a flank and drown your best spearmen."
Bjorn bristled but said nothing. The truth stung too sharply.
Cutaway: Norse murmurs
By the central fire pit, warriors warmed their hands and spoke in low voices.
"Land cursed," said one.
"Not cursed," replied another. "Led. Someone there knew how we'd move."
"A jarl?"
A third man shook his head. "Jarls fight with pride. This one fought with patience."
Sigvald heard them from where he stood. Their fear angered him, but their observation sharpened him. He had fought jarls and kings—men of brute strength or honor-bound rules. But he had never fought someone who struck swiftly, vanished, and turned the very ground into an ally.
The sky darkened with a sweep of crows. Sigvald finally turned from the sea.
"Tomorrow," he said to Bjorn, "we sail inland."
Bjorn blinked. "Into the rivers?"
"Aye. The Ouse feeds half their land. We'll strike where they think themselves safe. Tear out the roots, not the branches."
Bjorn hesitated. "What of the boy-king?"
For a moment, the wind stilled.
Sigvald's eyes hardened. "Leave him to me."
Night fell heavy over the camp. Fires flickered in the wind as warriors repaired shields and sharpened axes. At the far edge, huddled by a half-burned driftwood stump, a young Norse scout stared into the flames. His hands shook.
He had been at the marsh. He had seen the Saxons seem to vanish behind reeds, watched comrades stumble into water where ground should have been firm.
He remembered a figure on the hill at dawn—a young man holding a banner in the rising light. Not swaggering, not boasting. Just watching with sharp, cold understanding.
The scout shivered.
"Not a boy," he whispered to himself. "A mind."
Inside his tent, Sigvald unrolled a crude map of East Anglia. The parchment was stained, edges torn, but the river lines were clear. He traced the Ouse with a scarred finger.
"They will run south," he murmured. "Gather strength, find allies. That is what men do when beaten."
His finger stopped.
"Unless they are not beaten."
He closed his eyes, replaying the battle—the marsh shifting underfoot, the shield wall forming at the last instant, the trap sprung with perfect timing. That was no accident. That was design.
"This one is dangerous," he said into the dimness. "More dangerous than his father ever was."
Bjorn ducked into the tent. "We leave at dawn. The men are ready."
Sigvald rose, fastening his cloak. "Good. Let the Saxons have their victory. Let them think themselves strong."
He pushed past the tent flaps and faced the moonlit sea.
"We will show them what strength truly is."
Before sleeping, he walked among the longships. Some carried fresh scars from the marsh fight. Warriors rested within them, curled under furs, their breaths white in the air.
Sigvald paused at the prow of his own ship, carved into the shape of a snarling wolf. He rested a hand on its head.
"My father burned villages along the Rhine," he murmured. "My brother fought kings in Francia. I'll not be outdone by a pale Saxon boy."
The sea wind whipped at his cloak.
"No," he whispered. "I'll carve my name into their churches."
Morning broke cold and pale. The longships slid into the river like predators. The oars bit water in perfect rhythm, twenty to a side. Sigvald stood at the prow, eyes fixed upriver.
Behind him, warriors murmured prayers to Odin and Thor—old gods hungering for sacrifice.
Ahead, somewhere beyond the misted banks, East Anglia trembled in its ashes.
And Sigvald smiled, cold and sharp.
"Let the boy-king watch," he said. "Let him prepare."
He lifted his axe.
"We're coming for him."