Chapter 2
The Great Heathen Army
Ivar's men disembarked on the shores of Norfolk and marched inlands. The ground was flat but gloomy, marshy, and their boots sank into the mire of the Fens as they made their way to the motte of Norwich.
The brackish water infiltrated the army as it laid siege to Eadmund's hold. Ivar held his men steady, testing the defenses of a makeshift palisade. In all truth, this was no defense. The village fell quickly, and the Saxons fled as fast as they could.
Áli informed Ivar that across the Fens near Cambridge, Saxon warriors were gathering.
"Who's gathering? How many men?"
"Perhaps a couple thousand. Out of the four Saxon kingdoms, only East Anglia and Mercia are represented. Wessex has stayed further south, and Northumbria has its own problems with Halfdan."
Ivar nodded and turned to his son. "Remember this, Barid. Sometimes waiting to take a greater prize pays off. If we had gone north to take our piece of Northumbria, we would have to compete with your uncle, and the Saxon forces would only have one target and band together. Instead, they are now scattered and disorganized. Easy prey."
As Ivar's army marched on the Mercian forces, a messenger displaying Halfdan's raven arrived. "I come with a gift from your brother!"
"Oh? What could he be offering?"
"The sternum from Ælla."
Ivar laughed with joy. "So, does this mean he's taken his piece of Northumbria?"
"No, not yet. Ælla's son Ælfgar promises to continue to press against him."
"That's a good son. Let him press. It means there will be no reinforcement for these Saxons."
The Great Heathen Army had no rest, however. As soon as they celebrated their victory against Mercia, word came that Wessex had run around them to the south, to arrive back at Norwich in an attempt to take it back. They marched back, and fought hard.
Wessex could only field a fraction of the forces of the Great Heathen Army, but Ivar recognized that advances were hard, harder than normal.
"Áli, does the King of Wessex fight so carefully and strategically?"
"No, my chief, that is his brother, Alfred."
Alfred had chosen well. His troops were well-matched against Ivar. He carefully deployed them. However, despite the losses the Vikings sustained, they could not, would not overwhelm their superiority in numbers.
Over the next year, Halfdan stayed north, and Ivar stayed south. The armies of East Anglia were broken, but Mercia and Wessex banded together to stop Ivar, leaving Ælfgar to fend off his own apocalypse.
The battle deciding the fate of East Anglia was in April of 868. Mercia and Wessex were fast approaching, and Suffolk was falling into Ivar's hands.
Ivar looked across the plains at the Wessex army. He pointed out a banner. "That's a Saxon royal banner, isn't it? That means they're led by King Æthelred, correct? We should be able to defeat them easily!"
Eiríkr shook his head. "Æthelred died in a hunting accident last month. That is the banner of the king, yes. King Alfred."
Ivar's nostrils flared. "So, the Saxon genius returns. I like his spirit. But we do not want him to lead the charge. We are going to have to face the combined armies of Mercia and Wessex, no matter what. So get the men gathered. We march on the Mercian position, make Alfred come to us."
Mercia was disorganized, half the men abandoning the position immediately and running north towards another foe. It left Wessex to support mere dregs against a fully mobilized Viking horde. And so, Odin smiled that day.
With East Anglia in Viking hands, Ivar sailed north and landed in Lothian, focused on taking his share of Northumbria. Halfdan's main settlement to the south had been taken, so war continued to wage between Ælfgar and Halfdan. Ivar carfully avoided the Jórvík armies and laid siege to the lands of Lothian, pausing only when word of another Viking arrived.
Ivar joined Hæsteinn in Lindsey to celebrate his success. The self-styled Count of Montaigu welcomed Ivar's band and they celebrated long hours into the night. Ivar was considering stumbling back to his quarters when he spied a single woman laughing with the depth of a fjord's echo.
Ivar looked across the hall at the woman. "My men keep telling me it's unseemly to have no concubines."
Hæsteinn followed his gaze and laughed. "Haha, she's stayed her welcome here, all right, but she's a thicket. All bramble, no berry. She's turned down suitor after suitor, even though she can keep them running in circles. Wicked tongue on that one. She'll flyte you to death if you get on her bad side."
Ivar grinned. "You know I like a challenge."
"You've got my blessing, boy, but you'll need far more from Freyja than from me. Believe me, I've tried."
Ivar, swaggering in the method mead gives you, approached Halla. He opened his mouth to speak but was immediately interrupted.
"You're the one they call Boneless, aren't you?" Halla struck, with a glance below the belt.
Ivar sputtered for a moment and responded, "Not for that bone."
"Oh? Well, you can have one of mine," she replied, handing him the remains of her pig shank. She smiled and walked away.
Ivar stood silently as she headed off. Hæsteinn guffawed in the background. She turned to look at Ivar. He gathered his wits about him and stripped some sinew off the shank with his teeth.
Now that's a challenge, Ivar thought.
He left Lindsey keeping that feeling of challenge alive as he routed Ælfgar's forces, winning his war. Winning all of his wars.
In the halls of Scone, Máel-Muire, the Mormaer of Atholl, wiped his brow as he approached his liege. He had waited for the sun to set to deliver this news, as was requested of him whenever the news involved one Ivar the Boneless.
"Your majesty, all of Lothian has been stripped from Northumbria, and is now in Ivar's hands."
King Causantín steepled his fingers upon his lip and sighed carefully. "These heathens never see enough Christian blood, do they?"
"I should say not, your majesty."
"This is the last conquest that the eel had proclaimed, is it not?"
"It was. He is dismissing his armies, letting them go home, enjoy their plunder. There are rumors they plan some sort of pagan festival."
Causantín grinned. "Oh? Festival? Is that what they call it? Do they have prisoners?"
"Earl Sæxræd of Cumbraland, and other commoners."
The king smirked and made the sign of the cross. "May God have mercy on his soul. Do you remember the Blood Eagle of Ælla?"
Máel-Muire inhaled a snort and nodded with a swallow.
"Do expect another one from Halfdan's brother."
The mormaer cast his arms wide. "Is there naught we can do?"
"The Heathen Army is great, but remember that Ivar is just one man. Less than a whole man, in fact. The head of these Vikings is slippery, but still only one." Causantín rose from his throne and headed into the dark night-filled hall. "Thank you, Máel-Muire, you are dismissed."
The King of Alba strode into the darkness, a man perfectly accustomed to the night. He deftly stepped over the slumped form of an old woman. He whispered into the night air, "Caíntigern."
The old woman stood. "Your majesty."
"I trust the foreign herbs reached you safely?"
"They have indeed. And the goldsmith has created the token in the blasphemous form you requested."
"Then give it here. A worm celebrates his victories, and as the land's king, it is my duty to show him praise. I trust he will appreciate his... what's the Saxon word? His gift."
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