After wading across a small stream, the Viking army made camp on the grassy ground along its northern bank.
The soldiers of the core regints followed regulations to the letter. They thodically dug trenches, piling the excavated earth into low embanknts, then driving in wooden stakes to form a temporary palisade. (During marches, the baggage wagons were responsible for carrying these stakes.)
Once the trench was finished, soldiers scattered iron caltrops outside it and hung small warning bells along the inner edge as an early-warning asure.
With the outer defenses completed, dusk gradually settled in, and the n hurried to pitch their tents.
Each squad shared a single leather tent, with a central aisle and sleeping rolls arranged on both sides. Thanks to standardized components, setting up a tent took no more than fifteen minutes.
After pitching camp, each squad leader went to the company quartermaster to collect a full day's rations:
Three pounds of wheat flour per soldier (here using the Anglo-pound; three pounds is roughly one kilogram). The flour was used to make hardtack—an old Roman legion recipe the Duchess had found in a parchnt manuscript. It tasted terrible, only marginally better than the old hard bread, and was a constant source of complaints.
In addition to the staple, squad leaders also received portions of cured at, hard sheep's-milk cheese, and onions. Since there had been fighting during the day, smoked sausages and so light beer were specially issued to boost morale.
At first, Vig had intended to imitate Roman military tradition by adopting a vinegar drink known as posca as the army's standard beverage. This idea was t with fierce resistance. The soldiers had grown up drinking cheap, decent beer before enlistnt—there was no reason for them to tolerate sothing sour, harsh, and inferior.
Urged on by the quartermaster, squad leaders filled in their nas and ranks on the supply forms, then hoisted the rations back to their tents. Bonfires were already burning in the open areas ahead of the tents, and the soldiers skillfully baked hardtack while grumbling about how dry and tough it was.
After distributing the light beer, the squad leader sat cross-legged by the fire, cradling his own cup and sighing.
"Be grateful. This afternoon, a company in the neighboring regint botched a formation change. Their entire unit is stuck eating barley tonight."
Traditionally, poorly performing soldiers were issued barley as punishnt. Hearing that their comrades had gotten into trouble, the n imdiately perked up, crowding around the squad leader to demand more details.
The Central Command Tent
After the tactical eting, the commanders stayed for their customary shared al. Their food was noticeably better: fresh at, honey bread, smoked sausages, and a ration of wine.
Halfway through, Utgard grew inspired and pulled out his bagpipes, playing a tune from his holand. When he finished, Little Pascal plucked the strings of his lyre and began singing a passage from Beowulf:
The harp was struck, the song was sung,
The tale told by Hrothgar's poet.
He sang of the world's beginning, of mankind's creation,
Of the shining plains ringed by water,
The grass brushing the cheek, the fragrant trees,
And the bright, pale circle of the moon—
A ti before ancient feuds and wars,
When harmony alone filled the world.
Seated on a folding stool, Vig listened to the banter and laughter, silently finishing his al. He waved off Leif's attempt to refill his wine.
When the gathering ended, he personally assigned the night watch and solemnly warned the officers in the tent:
"Supplies are running short. Gunnar has no choice but to withdraw. Tonight is his last chance—and our final test. You must hold against this attack."
In the second half of the night, Vig woke groggily from the heat. He poured so water to wash his face, lifted the tent flap, and climbed the hastily built watchtower.
The entire camp lay silent. Along the palisade, a sentry stood every few dozen ters. Suddenly, several dark shapes flickered along the northern wall. Shouts erupted, and countless torches flared outside the camp as the enemy surged forward like a tide.
"So, they finally ca."
After waiting a mont, ssengers from various units arrived one after another. Vig ordered them to assemble their troops and defend their assigned sectors, strictly forbidding any unauthorized counterattacks.
Before long, the enemy breached a short section of the northern palisade—only to be t with blanket fire from crossbows and bows. Forced to advance behind raised shields, their montum slowed drastically.
After so ti, the northern defenders gradually regained the initiative, steadily forcing the attackers back out of the camp.
Just then, thunderous shouts erupted from the western wall. The noise was overwhelming. Countless fire arrows streaked out of the darkness like a rain of fla, igniting dozens of tents in monts.
Leif spoke urgently, "Uncle, this is their main force! Should we send reinforcents?"
Vig shot him a sharp look. "Make the feint look real, make the real look false. What's the panic?"
The camp periter was held by Vig's five core infantry regints. He trusted these carefully trained troops to hold for at least an hour.
Continuing to observe, he noticed that the fighting on the western side was not particularly intense. The enemy was mainly launching arrow barrages and sending small assault teams to seize sections of the palisade, using them as footholds to skirmish with the Vikings.
Before long, the attackers exhausted their supply of fire arrows, and the fighting on the west gradually subsided. anwhile, the northern assault suddenly intensified. Frankish heavy infantry pushed forward under heavy casualties, capturing large portions of the Third Infantry Regint's camp area.
"Now's the ti."
Vig dispatched the mountain infantry battalion to reinforce the Third Regint's front, helping them stabilize the line.
He then turned his gaze to the Highland rcenaries waiting nearby. More than thirty percent of them wore hastily repaired iron armor, and every man was itching for battle.
They had already proven their bravery. Their weakness was poor discipline. Worried they might disrupt his own formations, Vig stroked his chin for a long mont, then ordered them to circle around and attack the enemy from the rear, operating independently.
"Your Majesty, wait for good news."
Their leader, Douglas, let out an excited, almost feral shout and led the mass of rcenaries charging off.
With two waves of reinforcents committed, the Third Infantry Regint finally stabilized the situation. At this point, faint fighting noises also appeared on the eastern side of the camp, accompanied by the whinnying of many horses.
"Hah—what is Gunnar trying to do? Scare with horses?"
In darkness, charging horses could easily break their legs; night cavalry combat was virtually impossible. Gunnar was clearly just trying to draw Vig's forces away.
After more than ten minutes, the northern assault failed to break through. The enemy gradually lted back into the darkness, leaving behind a devastated camp periter.
The Next Morning
Vig convened a eting and assigned units to clear the battlefield. Little Pascal asked about the next move. Vig lifted a bowl of salted oatal porridge and replied casually:
"Barring surprises, the Frankish army is retreating. What do you think?"
He scanned the faces in the tent. Sparrowhawk and Thorgil looked thoughtful. Leif seed eager to speak but held back. The rest shared much the sa reaction—nearly all of them were calling for pursuit.
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