Viking Invasion-Chapter 99 – Rhodri

The defenders signaled their willingness to surrender. Rurik ordered the archers and crossbowmen to cease fire.

Before long, the flames guttered out, and a well-dressed man in his middle years emerged from the gate, requesting in Latin to speak with the commanding officer.

"I am Rhodri, King of Powys. And whom do I have the honor of addressing?"

Rurik replied in the same tongue,

"Rurik, Lord of Theinburg."

When he realized that this clean, youthful man before him was the infamous Serpent of the North, Rhodri’s expression twisted through disbelief and resignation. After a long silence, his hoarse voice broke it.

"So, it is you who command this host. Then I have no complaint in defeat. Tell me—what is it you want?"

"Welsh raiders have plundered villages within Mercia’s borders and wounded Halfdan himself. His Majesty took grave offense. He sent me to bring Wales to heel—until every noble bends the knee."

Sensing the greed and bloodlust in the eyes of the men around them, Rhodri hastened to make terms. 𝐟𝚛𝕖𝚎𝕨𝗲𝐛𝚗𝐨𝐯𝐞𝕝.𝐜𝗼𝗺

He offered: Powys would acknowledge Ragnar as overlord in name only, paying an annual tribute of twenty deerskins, without obligation to appear at Londinium’s court or to answer any military summons.

Rurik studied him for a long moment, until sweat began to bead upon the king’s brow. Then, suddenly, he smiled—a warm, deceptive smile.

"Agreed. A fair bargain. But you will take part in our next campaign—to persuade the remaining lords to surrender."

"Persuade them? They will not listen to me."

Seeing his reluctance, Rurik took a crossbow from a nearby soldier and began to demonstrate.

He planted the bow’s metal stirrup on the ground, set his left foot upon it, and drew the string upward with both hands until it locked into the catch.

Next, he fitted a bolt into the groove, the feathered tail resting snugly against the string’s notch.

Aiming at a handcart fifty meters away, he raised the stock slightly and said with a faint grin,

"Watch closely, Lord Rhodri."

He pressed the trigger. The bow’s limbs released their stored power in an instant, and the bolt flew straight and true, driving deep into the cart’s plank side.

The soldiers around them cheered. Rurik handed the crossbow to Rhodri and guided his hands through the motions.

At first, Rhodri failed to grasp the point of the demonstration—until he loosed his own shot and saw the quarrel bury itself in the turf not far away. Then comprehension struck him, and he asked in a quickened voice:

"How much does one of these cost? How long to make?"

"The carpenter fashions the stock and limbs, the smith forges the fittings," Rurik explained evenly. "Ten silver pennies and two weeks’ labor for a standard crossbow—perfect for mass production. A heavy crossbow costs forty to sixty pennies, a little more work."

"And once they’re made, in twenty days I can train a peasant with no experience into a capable crossbowman. How long does it take to raise one of your longbowmen? Five years? Ten?"

Rhodri’s face turned pale. Rurik handed the weapon back to his soldier and continued, voice cool and precise:

"Yesterday, your archers exchanged volleys with my heavy crossbowmen. You lost twenty men. I lost two dead and nine wounded—those struck in weak points. Tell me, which side made the better bargain?"

It was plain: the long-trained longbowman could not be replaced; the crossbowman could.

Rhodri gave a hollow laugh, unwilling to argue that point further. Instead, he raised one last objection.

"Granted. On the open field, our bowmen cannot match your armored crossbowmen. But we need not fight your way. We can vanish into the mountains and fight a long war. In those wild hills, your losses will mount quickly."

"No, my lord—you are wrong again." Rurik’s tone hardened.

If the Welsh withdrew into the highlands, he said, he would not pursue them blindly. Instead, he would build fortresses at the key passes. Then, when May came and the winter wheat ripened, he would send his men to harvest their crops—starving them into battle.

"Ragnar, as High King of Britain, has wealth and manpower enough to outlast you a dozen times over. In truth, he seeks nothing but to save face. And since you were the ones who began this war, the outcome you face is already merciful."

Struck speechless, Rhodri at last bowed to necessity. He swore fealty and agreed to march with the Norse host in the next campaign.

After three days’ rest, the army moved north to the mouth of the River Dee, then followed the coastline westward. Their destination: Llanfaes, capital of the Kingdom of Gwynedd.

The town lay in Wales’s far northwest. By then, King Hywel of Gwynedd had received news of the Norse invasion. He hastily gathered fifteen hundred militiamen, resolved to crush the heathen host at the shore.

At dawn, the sea wind carried the brine and damp of fog across the timber walls. King Hywel stood atop the western rampart, gazing out to sea.

The ebbing tide had left the flats streaked green and brown, like a mold-stained fleece; waves broke white against the rocks, and peasants with baskets stooped to gather clams among the pools.

Suddenly, his right eyelid began to twitch violently. As he rubbed it, he noticed dark shapes on the horizon.

At first, he thought them ravens—or gulls—but the shapes grew larger, until the outline of ships took form.

"Fifty... no—one hundred longships! Sound the bell! Muster the men!"

The fleet tore through the thinning mist. At the fore, a black banner marked with a serpent streamed from the mast, the carved prow lunging toward the shore.

The abbey’s bronze bell began to toll. The clam-gatherers froze, then fled toward Llanfaes, spilling their baskets across the sands.

Minutes later, the town’s eastern gate clanged shut, leaving only an empty, chaotic dockyard behind.

The captain of the guard approached.

"Your Majesty, shall we proceed with the plan—march out and meet them?"

Hywel swallowed hard, his throat working audibly. He uncorked a flask and sipped a little mead before answering, trembling.

"This is bad... That’s not Halfdan’s oak banner—it’s the black serpent. By the gods, it’s him. The Serpent of the North!"

Two months had passed since the battle on the Seine, yet Hywel had heard the stories from every merchant who crossed the Channel:

Some claimed the Serpent had wielded sorcery, calling up the river to drown thousands of Franks; others said he sacrificed six thousand prisoners to the gods of the sea.

From all these tales, Hywel had drawn one certain conclusion:

Rurik had defeated the grandson of Charlemagne and crushed a Frankish army of ten thousand.

He tucked away his flask and muttered to his attendants,

"I told them not to raid Mercia. But no—those fools wouldn’t listen. Now we all pay the price."

Before the Viking host even made landfall, Hywel resolved to send envoys under a white flag.

"Listen carefully," he instructed them. "Tell him this: I am willing to acknowledge Ragnar’s suzerainty in name, and pay a token tribute—salted herring and deerskins each year. But I will not come to court, nor fight in his wars. And keep those northern shamans out of my lands."