Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 158: The Enemy in Denmark

Given the sudden defection of their commander right before battle, Oleg assumed control of the Royal Guard in his capacity as the deputy commander. He immediately ordered the fleet to cross the sea and head for Gothenburg.

Unexpectedly, even a portion of the Royal Guard and the sailors had a change of heart.

"My lord, Halfdan Whiteshirt's command skills are abysmal. He couldn't even defeat the Welsh mountain bandits when we had them outnumbered, let alone conquer Sweden. Comparing the two, I think General Niels has a much higher chance of victory. We might as well take a thrilling gamble with him in Denmark."

"That is right! You have fought for years and are still only a Baron with barely over two thousand acres of arable land. Your future is bleak. If you help the General conquer Denmark, you are bound to earn an Earl title at the very least."

Ignoring his subordinates' clamor, Oleg silenced them with a single reason. "You draw the King's pay and wear His Majesty's iron armor. If you openly defy orders, do you not fear the inevitable punishment?"

The stern face of King Ragnar surfaced in their minds, and the soldiers of the Royal Guard fell silent. However, a group of sailors remained adamant about breaking away.

"I have nothing to do with any King! I was only hired by the captain. Here, I'm handing this pay right back to him. I quit!"

One of the sailors fished ten stinking Silver Pennies out from his boot, shoved them into the captain's hands, and immediately jumped into the shallows, wading out to join Niels's forces.

Following his lead, over two hundred sailors returned their wages one after another. Some who had already spent all their money before setting sail simply stripped off their clothes, threw them at the captain, and went completely naked to join Niels.

Witnessing the sailors flocking to his banner, Niels wiped the corner of his eye. His voice choked with emotion as he declared, "Thank you all for your profound trust! I swear to the gods that I will never mistreat my old brothers from this day forward. If I break this vow, may the gods strike me down!"Fifty personal guards, fifteen hundred militiamen, five hundred Raiders, and over two hundred sailors—this was the entirety of his military force.

As for equipment, Niels had managed to amass a hundred sets of iron armor over recent years. Before departing, he used five manors in northern Nottingham as collateral to lease another fifty sets from Leonard, bringing his total to one hundred and fifty suits of armor.

Calculating his available chips, Niels pondered inwardly:

'There is no unified kingdom in Denmark, and the strength of the various settlements is highly uneven. On the Jutland Peninsula, the most powerful factions are Aalborg, Aarhus, and Schleswig. I need to strike from north to south before the enemy can react. I just hope Erik Jr. did not deceive me.'

After finishing their midday meal, Niels led his troops upriver along the banks. Before sunset, they arrived at their first target: Aalborg. Vast fields of oats had been cultivated in the surrounding area. Judging from the robust growth of the crops, it was a fertile land perfectly suited for farming.

A wooden fort stood on the southern bank of the river. Its walls were roughly thirteen feet high, completely lacking any defensive trenches or arrow towers on the outside. Years of relentless rain had carved deep brown grooves into the timber, and dark green moss thrived in the crevices. Sensing the approach of a massive crowd of strangers, two ravens fluttered up from a grassy nest atop the wall, leaving a few pitch-black tail feathers drifting in midair.

"Attack!"

Judging by the wooden fort's footprint, it housed no more than two hundred households. Enjoying an absolute advantage in numbers, Niels could not be bothered to employ any complex strategies. He simply led his host straight toward the eastern wall.

At a distance of a hundred yards, the defenders on the wall fired a volley of feathered arrows. Niels curled his lip in disdain. He advanced a short distance with his fifty iron-clad personal guards, all armed with bows and arrows, and engaged in a fierce shootout with the garrison.

Since his youth, Niels had realized that he was not as tall or robust as Ivar the Boneless or Bjorn Ironside. Among the Vikings, he belonged to the shorter side. Consequently, he had forged a different path, dedicating himself entirely to the art of archery. Fortunately, his outstanding eyesight and long arms allowed him to develop an exceptionally rare and deadly marksmanship.

"Brothers, let us open the eyes of these country bumpkins."

Niels let out a sharp, piercing whistle. Drawing his bow, he nocked an arrow and locked his gaze on a specific crenellation. The moment a defender leaned out, the bowstring twanged. The feathered shaft drove flawlessly into the guard's throat. The iron arrowhead burst through the back of his neck, the white goose fletching at the tail still quivering slightly from the impact.

"As expected of our lord, what a flawless shot." "Boss, save a couple for the rest of us!"

Ignoring the flattery of his guards, Niels smoothly drew two more shafts from the deerskin quiver on his back in quick succession. The first nailed another peering defender right in the windpipe, while the second flew off the string to skewer an archer attempting to fill the gap on the left. The two men fell backward almost simultaneously, spraying a bloody mist across the mossy timber.

In less than a minute, Niels and his guards had unleashed six volleys, thoroughly suppressing the defenders behind the battlements until they dared not return fire. The rest of the army surged toward the wooden fort. At the very front, twenty men hoisted a massive log together, rhythmically battering the eastern gate.

After over a dozen heavy impacts, the wooden crossbar on the inside snapped with a loud crack. As the heavy doors swung open, Niels's troops hurled a devastating volley of throwing axes before roaring a war cry and charging directly into the shield wall waiting behind the gate.

"Angles?"

One of the defenders, a veteran who had raided Britain many times, recognized a heavy trace of the Angles' accent in the attackers' battle cries. "What is going on here? Are the Angles turning the tables and raiding the Vikings?"

Soon, the two-thousand-strong army flooded into the cramped settlement. They slaughtered the chieftain and his inner circle, but just as they were preparing to loot the civilian homes, Niels barked a harsh order, halting them in their tracks.

"Idiots! This is your fiefdom. Who would be stupid enough to pillage their own territory!"

Hearing that the General intended to grant Aalborg as a fief to someone, the mid-level officers exchanged glances, silently calculating their own worth in their commander's eyes.

Stepping into the lord's longhouse, Niels ripped a linen shirt off a nearby corpse and used it to vigorously wipe down a greasy dining table. He then unrolled a messy, hand-drawn map on parchment.

"Look closely. This is Skagen at the northernmost tip, and this is Aalborg, where we currently stand. Moving south, there is Randers, Aarhus..."

"...all the way to the southernmost tip of the Jutland Peninsula—Schleswig. I only claim the Schleswig region for myself. All the rest will be given to you as fiefs, provided you follow my orders, refrain from indiscriminate killing, and never break rank!"

Having successfully won their hearts with promises of land, Niels then ordered his trusted aides to inventory the storehouses. They requisitioned draft horses and oxen from the locals, hastily cobbling together a makeshift supply convoy.

The following day, he left fifty soldiers behind to garrison the settlement and tend to the wounded. The rest of the host continued their march south. To prevent any uprisings in Aalborg, Niels conscripted over a hundred surviving adult men, forcing them to serve as auxiliary troops.

Marching for an entire day, Niels passed through three separate villages. The locals did not dare resist the two-thousand-strong expeditionary force and surrendered without a fight.

Determined to establish his prestige, Niels refused to let his soldiers run wild with plunder. He simply requisitioned a portion of their grain and livestock, press-ganged the village chieftains and able-bodied men, and continued the southward advance, arriving at Randers by noon on the third day.

"Attack!"

Following the same familiar routine, Niels led his archery-trained guards to suppress the defenders' counterattacks, while the rest of his men surged forward carrying battering rams and long ladders.

Compared to Britain, the technological level in Denmark was far more primitive. There were no stone structures left behind from the Roman era. At best, they only had low, cramped wooden forts with utterly abysmal defensive capabilities. In less than half an hour, the expeditionary force successfully conquered Randers.