Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 215: Black Armor

On June fourteenth, Wigg led his army south, officially plunging into the British War of Succession.

Three days later, his forces arrived outside the city of York.

Ever since Ivar's campaign began to falter, Magnus, the Sheriff of Yorkshire, had fled back to his jurisdiction with his militia, simultaneously dispatching envoys to Londinium to negotiate terms.

In his youth, Magnus had followed his father in trade, picking up some rudimentary accounting skills. During his service period in the Royal Guard, this rare talent—at least by Viking standards—caught Ragnar's eye, resulting in his appointment as the Sheriff of Yorkshire.

For him, the position was a double-edged sword. The advantage lay in managing the affairs of the entire York region, granting him significant authority and status. The disadvantage, however, was equally apparent; Magnus had missed out on Ragnar's wars of conquest in Denmark and Sweden. As a result, he failed to be enfeoffed as a Baron and remained nothing more than a Knight.

To climb the ranks, he had conscripted five hundred militiamen and joined Ivar's army, referring to him as His Majesty. Now that Ivar had succumbed to illness, Magnus planned to pledge his allegiance to Gunnar, his core demand being the title of Baron.

The problem was that Gunnar's reply had yet to arrive, and Wigg of Teyne's army had shown up first.

Surrounded by his trusted aides, Magnus hurriedly scaled the North City Wall, gazing out at the scattered riders in the open fields beyond the city.

These riders wore light gray coats with iron swords hung at their waists. A small number had bows and arrows slung across their backs, but none were equipped with lances.

"Scouts?"Magnus ordered the city gates shut, ignoring the light cavalry darting back and forth. "Assemble all the militia. Half will defend the north wall, while the rest will secure the east, south, and west walls."

"My lord, this is the army of the North's Serpent!" His aides were gripped by fear, urging their superior not to make any hasty decisions.

"Are you telling me how to do my job?" Magnus snapped, using his authority to force them into submission.

With Ragnar and Ivar dead, and Sigurd at death's door, Magnus felt he owed true allegiance to no one. Whether it was Wigg or Gunnar, he would swear loyalty to whoever offered the highest price.

At noon, dust plumed on the distant horizon, and a massive column marching four abreast appeared in Magnus's line of sight.

After a half-day's march, the soldiers' legs felt like lead. Personal packs weighed heavily on their shoulders, and the shirts beneath their brigandine armor were thoroughly soaked with sweat, leaving behind rings of white salt stains. 'Who knows what madness possessed the Duke to make us march in full iron armor,' the men grumbled internally. The dirt road, trampled by countless hard-soled military boots, kicked up fine dust that clung to their sweaty faces and necks.

Throughout the march, the ranks maintained a strict silence. The only sounds were the rhythmic thud of footsteps, the occasional clack of iron plates bumping together, heavy breathing, and the marching tune played on a loop by the military band.

The tune was lively and melodious. After several months of intensive training, almost everyone could hum it by heart.

Accompanied by the endless music, thousands of soldiers kept their heads down, their eyes glued to the heels of the men in front of them, conserving every ounce of strength. Spears rested diagonally across their shoulders, the tips gleaming with a cold light beneath the sun. Military officers were dispersed along both flanks of the column, responsible for maintaining the marching formation.

Suddenly, the urgent blare of a war horn echoed from the center of the army, followed immediately by a swarm of messenger riders galloping back and forth. As if struck by a whip, the massive column ground to a halt. Every soldier raised his head to gaze at York in the near distance, the silhouettes of its stone city walls and watchtowers starkly visible.

There was no panic. Instead, the gruff roars of military officers instantly detonated across every company:

"Halt! Drop your packs! Drop your gear! Move!"

The soldiers moved with lightning speed, their actions almost instinctual. With a collective thud, every marching pack was tossed to the side of the road, along with their pots, pans, and entrenching tools. Their physical burdens vanished in an instant, but the atmosphere grew suddenly taut.

"Form ranks! Spread out! Move!" Junior officers strode through the lines, herding the men like sheepdogs. One soldier who was a beat too slow caught a firm nudge in the back from an officer's elbow. "Get moving, you idiot!"

The soldiers were no longer a single marching column. They rapidly fanned out to the sides, unfurling into an offensive formation.

Thanks to endless drills, the transition from a marching column to a battle line was swift and thunderous. Before the dust could even settle, the exhausted serpent of a marching column had vanished. In its place stood a broad, dense, and sharply layered pike phalanx, towering over the open clearing north of York.

"First Infantry Regiment, forward march!"

To the steady rhythm of the marching tune, the black square—transformed from a thin black line—slowly advanced toward the stone city walls, coming to a halt just at the very edge of bow and arrow range.

Up on the wall, Magnus's aides broke into a cold sweat. They watched as more and more black-clad soldiers poured into view, eventually forming five massive phalanxes of a thousand men each before the city. Scattered light infantry were deployed ahead of the main blocks, acting as skirmishers to drive off enemy light infantry, while formations of heavy cavalry and mountain infantry took up the rear. Once the deployment was complete, the entire legion sank into a tense, suffocating silence, the only sound the snapping of banners in the breeze.

Staring at the black serpent banner below, the aides trembled with dread. "My lord, forget about that damned Baron title. Our lives are more important."

"Shut up!"

Magnus carefully weighed his words before stepping out of the city gates, going alone to face this silent and deadly army.

Seeing him approach, the light infantry at the front of the phalanx nocked bows and arrows, terrifying Magnus into shouting, "I am the Sheriff of Yorkshire! I request an audience with His Grace!"

At his shout, the nearest squad of light infantry closed in, roughly searching him. Only after confirming he posed no threat did they let him pass.

Magnus walked toward the black banner marking the center army behind the phalanxes. Passing by a soldier, he subconsciously brushed his hand against the man's black coat, only for his fingers to meet a rigid, unyielding surface.

'Iron armor?'

Magnus panicked. He reached out to touch the black coats of the surrounding soldiers, discovering they were all lined with iron armor. Staring at the endless sea of black figures, he froze in place, utterly paralyzed, until the central guards came to hurry him along, half-dragging him to Wigg.

"Lord Sheriff?"

Wigg sat atop a gray horse, looking down from his vantage point at the Viking civilian official. His original steed, Greywind, had grown old and was now living out its retirement at the military stud farm. Wigg had selected a docile yet sturdy mount from its offspring, naming it Greywind the Second.

Hearing the Duke's prompt, Magnus raised his head, reporting the exact amount of grain and the number of militiamen Yorkshire could provide.

"...Ivar was incompetent, and Gunnar is utterly despicable. Neither has the right to proclaim himself king. Your Majesty, I have been eagerly awaiting your arrival."

Staring at the man for a long moment, Wigg reluctantly accepted his fealty, ordering him to lead his five hundred militiamen into the legion to handle the grunt work and manual labor.

Having won control of Yorkshire without shedding blood, Wigg continued his march south, passing through Leeds and Sheffield along the way. The garrisons in both towns offered zero resistance. While providing grain, the defenders also informed Wigg that their Earl was stationed in Nottingham, eagerly awaiting the Duke's swift arrival to join forces.