On June 14, Vig led his army south, formally entering the War of Succession for the British throne.
Three days later, his forces arrived outside York.
Ever since Ivar had fallen into decline, the governor of York, Magnus, had led his militia back to his own territory while dispatching envoys to Londinium to bargain for terms.
When he was young, Magnus had followed his father in trade and picked up some rudimentary bookkeeping skills. During his service in the Royal Guard, this rare talent—by Viking standards—caught Ragnar's attention, and Magnus was sent to govern York.
The position had its pros and cons. On the one hand, he wielded authority over the entire York region. On the other, he had missed Ragnar's campaigns in Denmark and Sweden and thus never earned a barony. To this day, he remained only a knight.
Hoping to advance further, Magnus had conscripted five hundred militiamen to join Ivar's army, addressing him as king. Now that Ivar was dead, Magnus intended to swear loyalty to Gunnar, with a single core demand: elevation to baron.
The problem was that Gunnar's reply had not yet arrived—while Vig of Tynemouth's army had.
Surrounded by his confidants, Magnus hurried up the North Wall, peering at the scattered riders moving across the open ground outside the city.
These horsemen wore light gray coats, iron swords at their waists. A few carried bows on their backs. None bore lances.
"Scouts?" Magnus muttered.
He ordered the city gates shut, ignoring the light cavalry darting back and forth.
"Mobilize all militia. Half to the North Wall. The rest to the east, south, and west."
"My lord, this is the army of the Northern Serpent," his aides said nervously, urging caution.
"Are you telling me how to do my job?" Magnus snapped, forcing obedience through authority.
With Ragnar and Ivar dead and Sigurd on the brink, Magnus believed he owed loyalty to no one. Vig or Gunnar—whoever offered more, that was who he would serve.
By noon, dust rose on the horizon. A long, four-column marching formation emerged into view.
After half a day's march, the soldiers' legs felt like lead. Their packs weighed on their shoulders, and the shirts beneath their gambesons were soaked through, ringed with white salt stains.
(The duke had gone mad, some muttered—forcing men to march in iron armor.)
The dirt road, trampled by countless hard-soled boots, threw up fine dust that clung to sweaty faces and necks.
The column marched in silence—broken only by rhythmic footsteps, the occasional clatter of iron plates, heavy breathing, and the marching tune played again and again by the band.
The melody was lively and bright. After months of training, nearly everyone could hum it.
To its steady rhythm, thousands of soldiers kept their heads down, eyes fixed on the heels ahead of them, conserving strength. Spears rested diagonally on shoulders, their tips flashing coldly in the sun. Officers moved along the flanks, maintaining formation.
Suddenly, urgent bugle calls sounded from the center. Messengers galloped back and forth. Like a whip crack, the massive column came to a halt.
Every soldier looked up toward York. The outlines of stone walls and watchtowers stood clear in the distance.
There was no panic.
Rough voices barked through the ranks:
"Halt! Drop packs! Offload gear! Move!"
Packs hit the ground with dull thuds—along with cooking pots and entrenching tools. The burden lifted instantly, but the tension spiked.
"Form ranks! Deploy!"
Junior officers strode through the lines like sheepdogs. One slow-moving soldier caught an elbow in the back.
"Move it, idiot!"
The marching column dissolved as troops flowed outward, forming an assault formation.
Thanks to relentless training, the transition from column to line was swift and loud. Before the dust had even settled, the weary snake of marchers was gone—replaced by a broad, dense, layered pike phalanx standing on the open ground north of York.
"First Infantry Regiment—advance!"
To the marching tune, the black mass crept forward and halted at the edge of bow range.
On the walls, Magnus's aides were drenched in cold sweat.
More and more black-clad soldiers filled their vision—until five thousand-man squares stood arrayed before the city. Light infantry were scattered out front (mandarin-duck formations to screen against skirmishers), with heavy cavalry and mountain infantry drawn up behind.
Once the deployment was complete, the entire corps sank into tense stillness. Only the banners snapped in the breeze.
Staring at the black serpent banner, the aides whispered in terror:
"My lord, forget the barony—survival comes first."
"Shut up!"
Having chosen his words, Magnus left the gate alone and walked toward the silent, dangerous army.
As he approached, light infantry at the front raised bows. Magnus hurriedly shouted:
"I am Magnus, Governor of York! I seek an audience with the Duke!"
A nearby squad moved in, roughly frisked him, and—finding no threat—let him pass.
Magnus headed toward the central black banner. As he passed a soldier, he instinctively brushed the man's black coat—and felt something hard beneath.
Iron?
His heart lurched. He reached out to others nearby—iron armor, all of them.
Staring at the sea of black-clad figures, Magnus froze until central guards urged him forward and escorted him to Vig.
"Governor Magnus?" Vig said.
Mounted on a gray horse, Vig looked down at the Viking official. His old mount, Graywind, had retired to pasture. This new horse—Graywind II—was one of its offspring: calm and powerful.
Magnus raised his head and reported York's available grain and militia.
"Ivar was incompetent. Gunnar is despicable. Neither deserves the crown. Your Majesty, I have long awaited your arrival."
Vig studied him for a long moment, then accepted his submission—with conditions.
Magnus would provide five hundred militiamen, assigned to menial and support duties.
With York secured without bloodshed, Vig continued south. Passing through Leeds and Sheffield, he met no resistance. The local garrisons provided supplies and told him their earl was stationed in Nottingham, eagerly awaiting the duke's arrival.
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