Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 220: Surprise Attack

Driven by the sea breeze, the fleet sailed steadily south along the coastline. Thanks to the favorable tailwind, it took them a mere three days to reach the mouth of the River Thames.

As the scale of the Frankish army continued to swell, the number of vessels traveling back and forth between Londinium and Calais multiplied. Joren happened to stumble upon a medium-sized transport fleet consisting of five knarr ships and ten longships. Without hesitation, he used signal flags to order his fleet to attack.

"Get closer before you fire! Conserve our stone projectiles!"

The flagship, the Grey Parrot II, charged at the transport fleet first. The enemy had never expected to face a naval ambush and immediately fell into a frantic panic.

At a distance of a hundred meters, the ballista mounted on the bow of the Grey Parrot II took aim at a knarr ship. The hammer fell, instantly releasing the pent-up energy of the torsion spring. A heavy stone projectile howled through the air as it hurtled toward the enemy vessel.

With a deafening crash, the stone projectile smashed into the ship's hull. Splinters of wood exploded outward like a volley of arrows. The nearest crew member had his chest pierced by the flying debris, dying on the spot, while two others suffered deep gashes to their thighs, collapsing onto the deck in agonizing howls.

"Hurry, reload!" Joren roared with exhilaration. Unable to hold back, he shoved a crewman aside and took control of the winch himself. The heavy ratchet let out a harsh clacking sound that set one's teeth on edge as it hauled the thick bowstring connected to the ballista arms back inch by inch.

Afterward, Joren hoisted another stone projectile and loaded it into the crossbow groove. Aiming directly at the aft deck of the same knarr ship, he ruthlessly struck the ballista's release mechanism with a wooden mallet.

Snap!

The second projectile.The third projectile.

Finally, the fifth stone projectile shattered the enemy ship's square stern rudder, stripping it of its ability to steer. Seeing this, Joren shifted his target, bombarding a longship a short distance away.

As the distance continued to close, the crew of the Grey Parrot II drew their bows and crossbows, raining arrows down upon the enemies on the adjacent ships. To maximize their overwhelming firepower, Joren ordered the ship to turn its broadside toward the enemy, allowing both ballistas to fire simultaneously. The six square-rigged ships trailing behind quickly followed suit.

Over ten minutes later, the roaring of the ballistas gradually subsided. Ten oar-driven longships had been sunk to the bottom of the sea, while the five knarr ships were left battered and scarred. Though they still floated on the surface, the Vikings soon ignited them with fire pots, transforming them into five drifting infernos.

Looking at the shattered planks and the corpses of sailors bobbing along the rolling waves, Joren was astounded by how easily this victory had come.

"His Majesty was right. The times have changed," he muttered.

Suddenly, his gaze swept across the weather vane perched high upon the mast. It was pointing perfectly to an east wind. A bold idea flashed through his mind, and he immediately summoned the other seven captains.

"This is a rare opportunity. Follow me to attack Londinium. The gods are watching us!"

Three hours later, the fleet sailed upstream along the River Thames, and the silhouette of Londinium gradually sharpened in the distance.

Looking from afar, vast quantities of supplies that had not yet been stored away were piled openly on the Londinium docks—an absolute perfect target for a fire attack.

"Send the signal! Switch to fire pots and prioritize bombarding the storehouses on the shore!"

At this moment, the Frankish army was completely oblivious to the impending danger. Joren ordered the flagship to risk advancing to a distance of roughly two hundred meters. He took aim at the storehouses and brought the hammer down heavily.

Snap!

The seven ships launched their fire pots in succession. After several rounds of bombardment, a small section of the docks was engulfed in flames. Only then did the Frankish army realize what was happening, rushing to operate the coastal trebuchets to strike back at the enemy vessels.

Before long, a heavy stone projectile crashed into the water not far from the flagship, sending a massive spray of water crashing down over the heads of the sailors on deck.

For the sake of safety, Joren ordered the ships to turn around and sail a short distance downstream. He did not care about accurately hitting individual targets; as long as they lobbed the fire pots in the general direction of the docks, the flames would spread on their own.

Five minutes passed, and the fleet had hurled nearly a hundred fire pots. A small fraction of the Frankish army finally reacted, rowing their longships frantically toward the fleet in an attempt to initiate boarding combat.

Staring at the unbroken sea of fire consuming the docks, Joren announced with a hint of regret, "Retreat!"

After this ambush, the Frankish army would inevitably improve their defensive measures—such as stringing up a river-blocking iron chain and constructing a massive number of trebuchets. Any future attacks would only become increasingly difficult.

During their retreat, the ballistas on the aft decks continued to fire, bombarding the numerous ships tailing them. The crew joined in with their bows and crossbows, focusing their volleys on the faster oar-driven longships until the enemy finally gave up the pursuit.

With the battle concluded, the exhausted crew collapsed onto the deck, pulling out their water skins and chugging clean water. Joren took an inventory of the supplies in the hold. They had a hundred fire pots left, two hundred stone projectiles, and an abundant stock of arrows. "We have enough for one more fight."

He gathered the captains and announced that their next target was Calais, located on the southern coast of The Channel.

Bolstered by this victory, the captains and crew were riding a wave of high morale, showing not a single trace of resistance to the Baron's battle plans. They steered their ships toward Dover, which was currently under siege by the Frankish army. In addition to the land blockade, five knarr ships were anchored far out in the waters south of the port, severing all contact between the town and the outside world.

"Quick, do not let them escape!"

Joren ordered the attack. The seven square-rigged ships rapidly closed the distance, using their ballistas to bombard the smaller knarr ships. Realizing they were outmatched, the Frankish forces had no choice but to steer their vessels onto a nearby beach and scatter in a panic, abandoning the five knarr ships stranded in the shallows.

Having dealt with the blockading fleet, Joren lowered a small boat and had his crew row into the port of Dover to request permission to rest and regroup.

"Approved! Of course it is approved!"

Ulf gladly hosted Joren and the seven captains, inviting them to enjoy dinner at Candletower.

Ever since Ulf refused to surrender, the Frankish army had conscripted villagers from the surrounding areas to dig trenches outside the town and construct a siege camp, enforcing the strictest of blockade measures.

Fortunately, Dover had plenty of supplies and could hold out for another two or three months. The only drawback was that this confined lifestyle had become terribly mundane.

During the banquet, Ulf inquired about news from the outside world. Upon hearing of the defeat and death of Ivar the Boneless, the wine goblet slipped from his grasp and clattered to the floor.

"What the Frankish army outside the walls claimed was true?" he asked in disbelief.

Joren quickly offered reassurance. "Please do not worry. His Majesty has secured the allegiance of the Welsh people, expanding our total military strength to thirteen thousand men. We lack nothing in terms of grain or military equipment. It is more than enough to defeat Gunnar and Ethelbald."

"I hope so," Ulf sighed.

Ulf was growing old. His stamina and ambitions were fading by the day, and he held absolutely no interest in the throne of Britain. Whether it was Wigg or Ivar, it made little difference to him.

After dinner, Joren and his crew enjoyed a peaceful night's sleep. They weighed anchor and set sail the following morning, but unexpectedly, the weather took a drastic turn. A torrential downpour descended, and fierce winds whipped up towering waves across The Channel, forcing the fleet to retreat to the port for shelter.

On the morning of the fourth day, the skies cleared up. Joren led his fleet straight for Calais.

Serving as the logistical base for the Frankish army's northern expedition across the sea, Calais housed over two hundred anchored ships. Supplies were piled as high as mountains, and an endless expanse of military tents sprawled across the town's outskirts.

"Charge straight through!" Joren ordered.

Ignoring the incoming fire from the port's trebuchets, the fleet reached a distance of two hundred meters from the docks. They hurled their fire pots at top speed, successfully igniting a massive blaze along the waterfront. During the assault, two square-rigged ships were struck by the trebuchets; one had its foremast snapped in half, while the other suffered a gaping hole in its broadside, allowing the surging seawater to rapidly flood in.

"Abandon ship! She cannot be saved!"

As the hull began to list dangerously, the captain ordered all hands to abandon ship. Before fleeing, he made sure to set fire to the two ballistas mounted on the bow and stern.

Soon, the surviving crew members were fished out of the water by allied small boats and distributed among the remaining six ships.

Watching the vessel slowly sink beneath the waves, Joren lamented, "The ship, the ballistas, and all the supplies loaded in the hold... More than two hundred pounds of silver, gone just like that. Naval warfare is a truly expensive endeavor."

Having achieved their strategic objective, the fleet returned to Dover once again. Through these raids, Joren estimated they had incinerated at least half of the enemy's supplies across both locations. The enemy's days were numbered.