The defenders signaled their willingness to surrender. Vig ordered the crossbowmen to cease fire.
When the flames finally died down, a well-dressed middle-aged man stepped out from the gate and, in Latin, requested to speak with the commander.
"I am Rhodri, King of Powys. May I ask who I am addressing?"
Vig answered in the same language, calm and clear:
"Vig, Lord of Tyne Town."
The king's expression twisted into something complicated when he realized this clean, young man before him was none other than the infamous Serpent of the North. After a long silence, he rasped out:
"If it was you commanding the army, then I have no complaint. Tell me—what do you want?"
"The Welsh bandits raided villages in Mercia and even wounded Halfdan. His Majesty took it as an insult and ordered me to invade Wales until every noble here submits."
Surrounded by Norse warriors radiating naked greed and menace, Rhodri steadied his breath and offered terms:
Powys would swear nominal fealty to Ragnar, pay an annual tribute of twenty deerskins, but Rhodri himself would not be required to attend court in Lundenwic, nor to answer any call to arms.
Vig stared at him for a long time—so long that sweat began to bead on Rhodri's brow—then suddenly smiled, bright and disarming.
"Agreed. But on one condition: you will accompany us in the next campaign and help persuade the other Welsh lords to surrender."
"Persuade them? They won't listen to me."
To that hesitation, Vig made no reply. Instead, he took a crossbow from a soldier and began to demonstrate.
He pressed the stirrup against the ground, hooked his left foot through the ring, and pulled the string up into its latch. Then he set a bolt into the groove, its feathered tail snug against the string's notch.
"Watch carefully, Lord Rhodri."
He aimed at a handcart fifty meters away, raised the stock slightly, and squeezed the trigger. The metal limbs snapped forward with a sharp twang, driving the bolt straight into the cart's wooden flank.
The soldiers cheered. Vig handed the weapon to Rhodri and guided his hands through the steps.
At first, the Welsh king didn't understand. Then, when he fired and watched the bolt punch into the grass ahead, comprehension—and dread—crossed his face.
"How much does this weapon cost? How long to make one?"
"A carpenter shapes the stock and limbs; a blacksmith forges the metal parts. Together, the cost is about ten silver pennies, finished in two weeks—perfect for mass production. Heavy crossbows are trickier: forty to sixty pennies apiece."
"And to train a man? Twenty days. In less than a month, I can make a peasant into a competent crossbowman. How long to train one of your longbowmen? Five years? Ten?"
Ignoring Rhodri's paling face, Vig handed the weapon back to his men.
"Yesterday your longbowmen exchanged volleys with my armored crossbowmen. You lost twenty. I lost eleven hit in weak spots—nine wounded, two dead. Tell me, which side got the better bargain?"
Rhodri could only give a bitter, crooked smile. Ten-year veterans dying at the hands of soldiers trained in twenty days—there was no argument to make.
At last, he murmured one final objection:
"I'll admit it—in formation, longbowmen can't beat your armored crossbowmen. But we don't have to fight you head-on. We can vanish into the mountains, strike and fade. In our terrain, your losses will soar."
"You're mistaken again, my lord."
Vig's tone was almost gentle as he delivered his finishing blow.
"If the Welsh flee into the hills, I won't chase them. I'll build fortresses at key points and wait. When May comes and the winter wheat ripens, I'll send men to harvest your crops and starve you out. Then you'll fight—on my terms."
He leaned closer, voice low and calm.
"Ragnar, as High King of Britain, commands far more men and resources than you can imagine. This isn't about conquest—it's about saving face. And since you started this conflict, you should count yourself lucky to be alive."
Rhodri had no reply. At last, he bowed his head and swore fealty, agreeing to follow the Norse host in their next campaign.
After three days' rest, the army marched north to the mouth of the River Dee, then followed the coast westward, bound for the capital of Gwynedd—Llanfaes.
Perched on the northwestern edge of Wales, the town's ruler, King Hywel, had already heard of the Viking advance. In haste, he gathered 1,500 militia and vowed to crush the invaders.
At dawn, sea fog rolled in on the salt wind. Hywel climbed the western wall of his timber fort and scanned the shore. The ebb tide had left behind stretches of muddy sand like a moth-eaten wool blanket. Waves crashed against rocks, sending up bursts of white foam. Peasants waded through the shallows with baskets, gathering clams.
Suddenly, his right eyelid began twitching violently. As he rubbed it, he caught sight of black dots on the horizon.
At first, he thought they were ravens—or gulls. Then the dots grew, sprouting masts and sails.
"Fifty ships… no—a hundred Viking longships! Sound the bells! Muster the troops!"
The fleet tore through the fog, the foremost ships flying black serpent banners, their carved dragon-prows lunging toward the beach.
The monastery bell began to toll. The clam diggers froze in horror, dropped their baskets, and fled back toward Llanfaes, shells spilling and crunching underfoot.
Minutes later, the town's eastern gate slammed shut, leaving the harbor deserted.
"Your Majesty," said the captain of the guard, "shall we ride out and fight as planned?"
Gulp.
Hywel swallowed hard and took a nervous sip from his mead flask.
"This is bad. That's not Halfdan's oak banner—it's the black serpent. Gods help us, it's the Serpent of the North himself!"
More than two months had passed since the battle on the Seine, but tales of it still drifted from merchants' lips: some said the Serpent used magic to summon the river and drown thousands of Franks; others swore he sacrificed six thousand prisoners to his gods by casting them into the sea.
Piecing together the rumors, Hywel reached one grim conclusion:
Vig had defeated Charlemagne's grandson and shattered an army of tens of thousands.
Tucking the flask away, Hywel muttered bitterly to his guards:
"I told them Ragnar was not a man to provoke. I warned them not to raid Mercia. But those fools wouldn't listen—and now we'll all pay the price."
Before the Vikings even landed, Hywel decided to send envoys.
"Listen carefully," he instructed. "Tell them I will swear fealty in name only, pay annual tribute—some salted herring and deerskins—but I will not appear before the king, nor join his wars. And make it clear—no damned Norse shamans are to step foot in my lands!"
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