By late July, the army's training was complete.
Drawing on all the intelligence gathered, Vig laid out his campaign plan before the assembled officers:
"Gentlemen, we'll march to Worcester, then follow the River Severn upstream. Our supplies will move by ship, and our destination is the capital of the Kingdom of Powys—Mathrafal."
His reputation after so many successful campaigns silenced any objections. The army marched northwest for two days until they reached the eastern bank of the Severn, near the town of Worcester.
The area was still under Æthelwulf's jurisdiction. Following royal orders, the locals had built or requisitioned fifty longships.
"Only fifty? I ordered a hundred!"
Vig's tone was sharp. Æthelwulf, standing beside him, watched in silence. The local lord, though technically his vassal, had long been lazy and disobedient—so a scolding from Vig was well deserved.
Vig gave the man two weeks to make up the shortfall in ships and supplies, then continued marching along the river. Before long, the army came upon the Offa's Dyke.
Stretching endlessly from north to south, the earthen rampart rose about 2.5 meters high, with a 2-meter-deep trench on the western (Welsh) side. Any Welsh raiders trying to climb it would face an ascent of nearly 4.5 meters under fire.
Æthelwulf's tone swelled with pride as he explained:
"It runs from the mouth of the Dee River in the north to the mouth of the Severn in the south—one hundred and fifty miles. To build it, King Offa conscripted prisoners, peasants from his vassal states, even Welsh tribes themselves. It took twenty years to complete."
"Impressive," Vig said as he sketched the sight during lunch. "A true monument to human determination. A shame, though—fortifications are useless without garrisons. Every watchtower we've passed lies in ruins. All of King Offa's efforts, wasted."
That careless remark struck a nerve. Æthelwulf went silent for the rest of the journey, speaking barely a word until August 1st, when the army met its first ambush.
The attack came from the western bank—a hundred Welsh longbowmen stepped out of the treeline, forming a loose skirmish line across the open field, firing on the marching column on the east bank.
"Heavy crossbowmen, on the boats! Return fire! The rest—raise shields and keep moving!"
At over 150 meters, ordinary crossbows lost effectiveness. Vig had a hundred armored crossbowmen board the ships to duel the longbowmen across the river.
The Welsh quickly focused their aim on these men. Wave after wave of arrows hissed down, clattering against iron helms and pauldrons, the metallic din like rain on a tin roof.
After enduring several volleys, the crossbowmen finished reloading and fired. They crouched low, winding again, firing every half-minute with deadly precision.
Ten minutes later, on the western bank—
Each longbowman carried two quivers, thirty arrows each. Maintaining a steady rate of six arrows per minute, they had emptied both quivers within ten minutes. Their commander counted the losses: twenty longbowmen dead, while the enemy's fire had not slackened at all.
"These damned Norse brutes don't play fair—they're wearing iron and trading volleys with us! Withdraw! I'm not dying here!"
Grabbing their fallen comrades' bodies, the surviving Welsh melted back into the forest.
The skirmish over, Vig ordered the men to make camp. Fearing a night raid, he and Æthelwulf took turns on watch, surviving the tense night without incident.
At dawn on August 2nd, after breakfast, the Norse marched two hours further upstream and finally reached their goal.
Across the river lay broad farmlands, the terrain rising beyond into low hills. On one such slope stood a timber fortress.
Rubbing his tired eyes, Vig pointed it out to Æthelwulf.
"Mathrafal Castle—the royal seat of Powys. We've arrived."
On the far bank, eight hundred Welsh militia had gathered—three hundred longbowmen among them—ready to prevent the Norse from crossing.
After a few minutes of volley fire, Vig's five hundred archers and eight hundred crossbowmen gained total superiority. Their dense barrage forced the Welsh back from the riverbank.
"Proceed as planned. All units, embark in order!"
Under the cover of missile fire, two hundred armored huscarls crossed first, forming a shield wall to absorb the arrows raining down.
By 2 p.m., most of the army was across. Vig led three thousand men forward to attack, leaving Æthelwulf and a thousand to guard the ships.
It was high summer—the unharvested fields were full of short weeds, the ground soft beneath the men's boots. Sweat streamed beneath their helmets as they trudged toward the fortress under the blazing sun.
Seeing the sea of armored soldiers, the Welsh militia lost their nerve and retreated behind the five-meter-high palisade, hoping the walls would hold against the pagan horde.
At three hundred meters, Vig ordered his flanks forward to disperse small enemy detachments nearby. Then, a thousand archers and crossbowmen advanced to within a hundred meters of the fort, suppressing the defenders' longbowmen on the ramparts.
When the enemy's return fire finally slackened, one hundred Norsemen rolled forward twenty-five wooden carts, four men to a cart.
The defenders watched, puzzled, as the carts wobbled closer—until the Norsemen began hurling clay jars at the walls.
With a chorus of sharp cracks, the jars shattered, releasing the unmistakable stench of tar and resin. The defenders realized, too late, that the Vikings meant to burn the palisade.
At the king's desperate command, Welsh archers leaned over the battlements to shoot—but the Norse crossbows cut them down. Within minutes, dozens of longbowmen lay dead, and the attackers had thrown every jar they carried.
Then came a final volley—fire arrows arcing through the sky. Flames raced across the oil-soaked walls.
The pitch and resin had originally been prepared for the Siege of Paris, but after peace was signed, the Vikings had taken it home—and now used it to devastating effect at Mathrafal.
Under the scorching heat, the outer clay coating of the wall began to crumble, exposing the bare logs beneath. The defenders, panicking, rushed forward with buckets of water, only to be picked off by arrows.
Outside, Vig—sleep-deprived and half-dazed by the sun—rubbed his temple and murmured:
"Use the rest of the oil. If the wall still stands, start cutting timber for siege towers and trebuchets."
Realizing the defenders had nothing new to throw at them, he sat cross-legged in the grass, resting his head in his hand, drifting toward sleep—until Jorunn shook him awake.
"My lord! They've surrendered! There's a man with a crown waving his arms like mad!"
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