Viking Invasion-Chapter 86 — The Serpent’s Eye

October came with the gray breath of early frost, and Rurik found a brief window amid his duties to travel south to the city of York.

This year, because the realm’s great lords had campaigned at the king’s side, the crown had excused them from tribute; attendance at court was ceremony enough.

The royal banquet was held in the long hall of the old Roman fortress, its arches draped with woven banners of crimson and gold. Queen Sola sat on King Ragnar’s right, her beauty remote and brittle, saying nothing through the feast, her lips stained dark with wine. On his left sat Aslaug, heavy with child yet radiant, conversing animatedly with the assembled nobles, her laughter ringing like silver bells against the cold stone vault.

Ivar ignored the queen’s fleeting, glacial glances and leaned toward Rurik in low conversation. "There’s talk of moving the royal seat to Lunden—what say you to that?"

Rurik’s brows rose slightly. "Let me guess. It’s the clerks who first proposed it—Pascal, Godwin, and their like?" He cast a glance down the long board where the Anglian officials sat in their neat robes, and after a moment’s reflection, he gave his answer.

"There are three sound reasons for such a move.

"First—Lunden was once the very heart of Roman Britain: its seat of government, its fortress, its marketplace. The old roads the Romans built still hold—linking York, Chester, and Winchester. Their bones endure even after centuries of decay.

"Second—the Thames. A broad, gracious river, fit for barges and trade. By its inland routes one may reach Oxford and the midlands; by its mouth, the North Sea and the continent beyond. From there, English wool may flow to Flanders, and gold return in its place.

"Third—the court’s presence in the south would steady our hold on the newly conquered shires. From there, the king could overawe Wessex, Mercia, and East Anglia in one stroke."

He concluded simply, "Between York, Tamworth, and Lunden, the last is best suited for a capital."

Ivar gave a snort. "Almost word for word what Godwin said. But if Father truly moves south, he’ll be nearer to West Francia—and that will gnaw at him like a wolf. He won’t sit idle; he’ll strike first, hard enough to make that bald-headed Charles too frightened to lift a sword."

His voice roughened with weariness. "This year Wessex, next year West Francia. Always another war. By Odin’s blood, will there ever be an end? I cannot even settle the business in Dublin while he chases new glory."

Rurik gave a dry laugh. "You’re not alone. I’ve my own troubles in the northwest—bandits in the hills, raiders on the coast. May the coming campaign burn quick and clean, and not turn into another endless quagmire."

Elsewhere in the hall, other lords—Nils, Om, Gunnar—sat in small knots, newly ennobled and heavy with responsibilities of their own. None were eager to march abroad again.

The idle barons, however—Leonard and his kind—whose estates ran themselves and whose coffers ran thin, were all in favor of a foreign war. A few more campaigns meant plunder, and plunder meant comfort.

Thus the court that night divided in a strange way: Ragnar’s most trusted men were weary and reluctant; his least trusted courtiers were zealous and loud. The Anglian bureaucrats, who would never bear arms, hovered prudently in between.

But none dared oppose Ragnar himself. His will was iron; his fame, the pillar of the realm. In the end, each voice bent to his.

When Rurik returned north to Tyne Fortress, he summoned his steward, Mitcham, a cautious man with ink-stained fingers and a keen nose for rumor.

"Find me some reliable traders," Rurik told him, "and send them north with the next convoy to Edinburgh. Tell them to listen—Picts, Gaels, any whisper of alliance between them."

Mitcham hesitated. "My lord, there’s no need for unease. The north has never stood as one. Their lords feud as much as they breathe; the blood debts between them run older than their songs. Only when the next generation rises—when old hatreds fade—might such a union ever hold."

Rurik’s smile was thin. "Sound counsel. But I never trust to the folly of my enemies. Go. Buy what information you must; the cost is no concern."

When the steward had gone, Rurik turned his mind toward the king’s coming campaign. West Francia was famed for its mailed horsemen, and he meant to be ready. He raised eight hundred men from among the Viking settlers of his lands: two hundred axe-and-shield infantry, two hundred archers and crossbowmen, and four hundred spearmen.

Each spearman bore a round shield and a spear two and a half meters long—short enough to wield one-handed, yet stout enough to turn a charging horse. Rurik had considered longer pikes, but the balance would fail in close fight; he settled for strength and agility instead.

Through the winter months he drilled them in formation—how to brace a spear-wall against cavalry, how to close ranks under arrow-fire, how to pivot when the order came.

In February of 848, while snow still rimmed the ditches and the rivers lay half-frozen, a royal courier arrived at Tyne, mud-splattered and pale with cold.

"My lord Rurik," he gasped, "Chancellor Pascal has taken ill. His Majesty commands you to Lunden to oversee the preparations for the campaign."

Rurik stood by the hearth, the warmth gilding his mail in amber light. He handed his infant son to Helga. "Tell me—ships or weapons?"

"Both, my lord."

He nodded. "Rest yourself tonight. I’ll depart at dawn."

The next morning he kissed wife and child farewell, gathered his eight hundred men, and set out. When they crossed the river, he turned once on the deck to look back. Tyne Fortress rose half-finished upon its low hill, scaffolds webbing the new stone walls. "When we return," he thought, "it will be home."

Four days later they reached York. Rurik entered the city to pay his respects at court.

Then—darkness.

"What—?"

He blinked hard, dismounted, rubbed at his eyes. The world had dimmed to a ghostly gray. Overhead, the sun was being devoured—its bright face swallowed by a shadow like ink spilled across parchment.

An eclipse.

Panic rippled through the marketplace. People pressed together, crying out; horses reared and screamed; dogs broke their tethers and spun in wild circles. A shaman clambered to a rooftop and began to chant, calling on Odin to drive away the beast that swallowed the sun.

For three minutes, day became dusk. Then, as suddenly, the light returned. Rurik looked back at his shieldmen, pale and trembling, and motioned them to follow.

Within the royal hall he found the air taut with apprehension. A guard told him quietly, "My lord, the queen is in labor. His Majesty sees no one."

"I’ll wait."

Time dragged. Then—faint and clear—two cries, one after the other, thin as wind through reeds. Whispering maids darted through the corridors.

A son and a daughter, they said. Ragnar named them Sigurd and Enya.

And the boy’s eyes—strange eyes, a deep green so dark they seemed almost black, the pupils narrow as a serpent’s slit.

Word spread through the palace like fire through dry grass. The Serpent’s Eye, they called him. Coupled with the omen of the eclipse, whispers rose that he was touched by the great Midgard Serpent itself, born beneath a devoured sun.

Rurik stood unmoved through it all, his face unreadable. He waited until evening before Ragnar at last summoned him.

The king was flushed with exhilaration, his voice unsteady with joy. "Another son, Rurik! Tell me, how shall we mark the day?"

Rurik bowed. "Hold a feast for the people, my lord. Let the whole city share your joy."

Ragnar laughed aloud. "Aye—a feast it shall be. Wine for the lords, ale for the commons. Let the bells ring till dawn!" He clapped Rurik’s shoulder with a strength born of triumph, then turned back to the chamber where his newborn children slept.

Rurik watched him go, the echoes of the king’s laughter fading down the hall.

Outside, the night was clear again—the serpent-shadow gone from the sky, leaving only the pale winter stars burning cold above the towers of York.