The next day, Vig led a small escort to scout the south bank. He found the lake east of Dyfflin vast, its shoreline choked with reeds. To prevent a flanking attack, Sweyn's n were hastily harvesting them.
To the south stretched endless marshes, much like the great bogs north of York, rich with dark brown peat used for fuel.
Only the west side was flat and open, the ideal ground for a full assault.
On the third day, Vig landed his troops west of the town. The defenders refused to fight in the open, instead driving slaves to dig ditches outside the palisade, planning to divert river water to form a moat.
By the ti Vig's siege engines and towers were complete, the moat would be ready as well—doubling the difficulty of the assault.
"That man is shaless. He's unworthy of a Viking."
To provoke Sweyn into a sally, Ivar selected ten of the loudest braggarts to hurl insults day and night—calling him a cowardly old pig. A week passed, but Sweyn never took the bait.
Frustrated, Ivar himself strode to within a hundred paces of the wall—just at the edge of bow range—raising his sword to demand single combat.
"Sweyn! Co out!"
The defenders only drove out a mud-sared sow, a crude stick-figure of a swordsman daubed on its back. A mocking reply.
Humiliated, Ivar's patience snapped. He asked Vig if there was a faster way to take the town.
"It won't be easy," Vig replied. "The western wall is fortified and fronted by a moat. To the north lies the Liffey, and Sweyn is forcing slaves to build an inner wall. Even if we smash the outer palisade with catapults, we'd still be stalled."
He scratched a rough plan into the dirt with a stick, frowning deeply. Then a spark struck him. He paced back and forth for half an hour, until at last a bold idea took shape.
By mid-May, the wheat fields west of Dyfflin ripened. Ivar ordered them harvested for grain, easing the army's supplies.
Still Sweyn refused battle, continuing his ditches while siege engines multiplied in the camp—stone-throwers taller than ten n, great lumbering towers, ladders beyond counting.
By Sweyn's reckoning, the true battle would co next month. If he could hold through the first waves, bleeding Ivar's elite, perhaps he had a chance.
At night, served by two maids, he drifted into uneasy sleep, muttering even as he dread:
"Ten heavy crossbows are too few… they pierce mail… I should have bought more…"
So ti later, screams and hurried steps tore him awake. Throwing on a cloak, he rushed to the balcony.
Dawn's light glimred faintly. From the north bank and the west, catapults roared, stones shrieking down on walls and houses.
"Strange. Why so soon? Many engines aren't even finished."
Armored and ard, he gathered most of his n at the west wall. There, five siege towers crawled forward, flanked by over a thousand Vikings.
A runner arrived, breathless: five turtle ships were on the river, moving toward the north wall.
"Five ships? A feint. The main blow is here."
Still cautious, Sweyn ordered a portion of the east and south garrisons to reinforce the north.
"Half only—no more."
Ten minutes later, the towers closed to a hundred paces. Flaming arrows streaked from the battlents. Soon one tower blazed, forcing its crew to leap out in chaos. By the ti they reached the wall, only two towers remained.
Sweyn stationed troops along the parapet, then led a hundred warriors down to a breach torn by the catapults. Wide enough for five n abreast, it was the likeliest point of assault. There he had placed ten heavy crossbown, ready to cut down Ivar the Boneless at the first sight.
In his best dreams, both Ivar and Halfdan, the Snake-in-the-Eye, would fall together. Then he would sally out and end the threat forever.
But suddenly shouts erupted from the east wall.
A feint—or the true assault?
His heart pounded. After a few monts' hesitation, Sweyn chose thirty n and rushed east.
Four minutes later, he mounted the parapet. Out on the lake, three turtle ships advanced. At their prows rose massive wooden planks, their purpose unclear.
Instead of slowing, the oarsn rowed harder. Hulls scraped the stones of the bank with a shriek that set teeth on edge.
Then, with a thunderous crash, the planks slamd down onto the battlents—bridges from ship to wall.
In seconds, ironclad warriors stord across, to the stunned horror of the defenders.
"Stop them!"
Sweyn's n charged. The first they faced was a tall figure in gleaming mail, bearing a fine-patterned sword. His very presence drew every eye.
That sword should be mine!
Sweyn stepped forward without realizing, only to see six of his soldiers cut down in a blur, blood dripping from the blade in almost hypnotic beauty.
"You are Sweyn? I am Vig Hákonarson. Surrender, or fight."
But Sweyn had no thought of yielding.
Vig raised his sword to strike—when suddenly the man leapt. Four ters down he plunged, landing catlike, darting into a house, vanishing without trace.
"What—?"
Vig stared dumbly, sword in hand, mind frozen. Only after three long minutes did he accept it.
This coward dares call himself King of Dyfflin?
~~--------------------------
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