Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 190: The Seemingly Peaceful Wilderness

With the city defenses severely damaged, the Vikings pushed fifteen massive and unwieldy siege towers, slowly approaching the North City Wall of Rennes.

To deal with such contraptions, the only solution the defenders could come up with was firing flaming arrows. Their archers rushed up to the completely exposed walls, attempting to shoot down and destroy the steadily encroaching towers.

Enduring the relentless barrage from the Viking archers and crossbowmen, the defenders managed to burn down five siege towers. The cost, however, was staggering: more than half of their two hundred archers were either killed or injured. The survivors lost all morale, utterly unwilling to return to the walls and continue fighting.

A few minutes later, the wooden drawbridges of the siege towers crashed down heavily. A massive swarm of armored soldiers surged across the planks onto the walls. Relying on their sheer numerical advantage, they slaughtered the defenders, seized the city gates, and allowed the main army to pour freely into the city.

After the battle ended, Wigg ordered his men to bring forward representatives of the local residents, demanding to know the whereabouts of the nobles in the Brittany Region.

"You are looking for those lords?" one of them replied. "They were terrified out of their wits by the Franks. Some were captured, some surrendered, and only a tiny handful of lords retreated into the deep mountains to seek refuge."

Wigg signaled a subordinate to bring out a tray of silver coins. "Lead the way. I have business with them."

Looking at their numerous suspicious faces, Wigg explained, "King Ragnar has no intention of occupying Breizh. He only wishes to return it to its original owners. Tell them to hurry over here. It is first come, first served."

At noon the following day, a noble in his forties rushed over to find Wigg. He introduced himself as Salomon of the House of Poher, claiming unquestionable rights over the entire Brittany Region.

After spending a long time boasting about his family's long and storied history, Salomon finally got to the point, asking what the Vikings demanded in return."Attack the Franks, and provide supplies for my army," Wigg stated simply.

Salomon looked troubled. "I am willing to rally the people to resist the Franks, and I can also sell you grain at a low price, but I cannot join your army. Furthermore, I certainly will not submit to Ragnar. Please forgive my bluntness, but in the eyes of the people, the Franks are invaders, and you Vikings are no better. You are nothing but a pack of plundering heathens."

Wigg did not take offense. He allowed Salomon to take away the captured shields and iron swords to build an army and attack the Frankish garrisons inland. "Prove your worth, and then I will consider handing Rennes over to you."

As Salomon departed, Ulf and the other nobles hurriedly asked about the contents of their conversation. Since they did not understand Latin, they could only guess based on the expressions of the two men.

"We have a deal," Wigg told them. "Salomon is willing to attack the Frankish garrisons. Once the deed is done, I will hand over the city of Rennes. If he dies, we can simply find another noble to fill the vacancy."

"That is it?" Ulf's eyes widened in disbelief. "He is not even willing to help us fight?"

Wigg patiently explained to his colleagues, "The Franks and the locals share the same religion but have different cultures. We Vikings, on the other hand, share neither religion nor culture with them. The people's aversion to us is far greater. Even if we forced them to join us, at best, we would end up with a bunch of useless gluttons."

In an army, quality is prized far above sheer numbers.

This was a conclusion he had drawn after years of warfare. Leaving the Breton soldiers in their homeland to resist the Franks would yield much better results.

Over the following week, the situation in Breizh grew rapidly tense as the locals launched widespread attacks on the garrisons in various settlements. Confirming that the conflict between the two sides had intensified, Wigg left five hundred men to garrison Rennes and led the remaining troops south.

Three days later, they neared the Mouth of the Loire River. The terrain here was flat, with the river expanding to hundreds of meters in width, filled with vast stretches of lush, grass-filled swamps.

Wigg dispatched scouts to survey the surrounding area, and they soon found a dilapidated town. Over a decade ago, a band of Viking pirates had breached Nantes, extensively plundering the surrounding region. This caused the town to rapidly decline, leaving them without even the funds to repair their damaged wooden palisades.

Seeing the arrival of a massive army, the local residents fled, leaving behind a settlement filled with broken walls, ruins, and overgrown weeds.

"What a desolate sight," Ulf sighed. His tone carried a trace of disappointment; looking at this wretched place, he feared they would not be able to scavenge much of value.

Gathering the few available boats, Wigg ordered three hundred men to remain in Nantes to repair the damaged palisades, while the main force crossed the Loire River, driving deeper into the heartland of West Francia.

As time passed, Pascal Jr. grew increasingly anxious. Staring at the lush forests on the eastern side of the road, he could not shake the feeling that a massive force of ambushers lay hidden within.

He clamped his legs around his horse's belly, spurring his mount forward until he reached Wigg's side. "Lord Duke, do you truly intend to attack Bordeaux?"

Wigg replied listlessly, "It is His Majesty's command. What choice do I have? Besides, the southern region produces excellent wine and is rich in resources. It is the perfect place for our brothers to make a fortune."

Ulf chimed in from the left side. "The Duke is right. Recently, we have been raiding the estates of local barons and knights. We have looted over three hundred warhorses, and the amount of wine, grain, and wool is uncountable. Bullying these rural nobles is far better than fighting a bloody battle against the main Frankish army of Charles the Bald. Kid, count your blessings that you are riding with us."

Hearing Ulf's grumbling, Pascal Jr. fell silent. He turned his head to watch the First Infantry Regiment as they marched.

The soldiers marched silently in columns four abreast. Flanking the column were junior officers responsible for maintaining formation. At the very front was the company commander bearing a standard. Tied to the tip of the spear was a small black triangular flag, upon which a string of strange characters was written: "1-8".

Pascal Jr. had asked those around him and learned that these strange characters were numbers brought over from the East, signifying the Eighth Company of the First Infantry Regiment.

Following behind each company were six supply wagons, loaded with buckets, black bread for lunch, iron shovels, and the soldiers' iron armor.

Having fought in numerous battles, the First Infantry Regiment boasted an eighty percent armor rate. The iron armors were of assorted styles and generally weighed over twelve and a half kilograms. To avoid heatstroke, the soldiers only wore thin linen shirts while marching.

It was the height of summer, and the blazing sun beat down relentlessly. Beads of sweat rolled down the soldiers' necks, completely soaking their linen shirts. Occasionally, someone would uncap a waterskin and take a massive gulp, tightly sealing the cork afterward without uttering a single word.

In stark contrast, the military discipline in the center of the formation was a chaotic mess. The two thousand soldiers marched in a disorganized formation, with some chatting and laughing loudly. Rather than stopping them, the officers actually joined in on the idle banter, making the group look more like a flock of rural peasants heading to a country market.

'Do these bastards have no sense of shame whatsoever?'

Pascal Jr. felt deeply dissatisfied. However, his personality was conservative and restrained. At only eighteen years old, he could not bring himself to openly scold the low-ranking soldiers. Instead, he kept a stiff face, marching silently until high noon.

Choosing a dense elm grove, the army paused to rest. Guided by the scouts, the various companies of the First Infantry Regiment proceeded to the riverbank in an orderly fashion to fetch water, before returning to their original spots to gnaw on their black bread.

After a two-hour break, the troops resumed their march. It was not until the sun sank below the horizon that Wigg selected a gentle slope to set up camp. Soldiers swung their iron shovels, driving sharpened wooden stakes deep into the dirt to form a standard rectangular defensive fortification. Bonfires were lit to boil salted meat porridge, bringing an end to a long, exhausting day of marching.