Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 225: Victory Close at Hand

Once the discussions subsided, Wigg offered an explanation.

"Much of Gunnar's supplies were incinerated by our fleet. Coupled with the recent riots in Londinium, he has barely any provisions left. He made one final attempt to defeat me yesterday and failed, leaving him with no choice but to retreat. If he delays any longer, those mercenaries and ragtag troops of his will mutiny. I have already won this war; there is no need to risk a pursuit."

At noon, two severely understrength ranger companies went out to scout. They pushed steadily southward and discovered a campsite fifteen miles away, bearing the unmistakable signs of the Frankish army infantry's bivouac from the previous night.

Pressing further south, the rangers encountered heavy interception from Frankish scouts. A lucky few managed to slip past the blockade and continue their southward trek, eventually spotting the main bulk of the Frankish army's heavy infantry. They were indeed retreating south.

To be safe, Wigg waited until the morning of the third day. He sent the prisoners and the wounded back to a town in the rear, replenished his supplies, and only then began his march toward Londinium.

With his cavalry at a distinct disadvantage, he could only adopt relatively conservative tactics. This awkward predicament was reminiscent of the ancient Song Dynasty. The Song army had repeatedly repelled their enemies using heavy infantry and skilled crossbowmen, yet they could never expand upon their victories. A rash pursuit often led to ambushes, turning initial triumphs into ultimate defeats.

On August eighteenth, Wigg led his forces to the northern borders of Cambridge, a mere eighty kilometers from Londinium.

That evening, as he penned his battlefield journal under the bright glow of candlelight, he suddenly heard faint voices murmuring outside his tent.

"His Majesty is busy. You dare disturb him for such a trivial matter?"

"That old man doesn't seem to be lying. I swear it on my honor!"Wigg furrowed his brow. He walked over, lifted the tent flap, and looked at his flustered guards. "Is something the matter?"

The focal point of the guards' argument was an elderly man who claimed to be the Prime Minister of the Cabinet and the Earl of Suffolk, demanding entry into the camp.

Gorm's face flashed through Wigg's mind. "Let him in."

Five minutes later, a foul-smelling Gorm shuffled into the tent. He was draped in a tattered cloak and leaned heavily on a wooden stick with his right hand. His very first words were a desperate plea for food.

Leif quickly procured two pieces of hardtack, a wedge of cheese, half a smoked meat sausage, and a bowl of clean water. Gorm grabbed the hardtack and bit down, nearly chipping his front teeth.

"Gods above, what is this thing?"

He abandoned the dry, rock-hard food, opting instead to wolf down the cheese and smoked meat sausage. After finally regaining a shred of his strength, he explained his recent ordeals to Wigg.

"It's chaos, absolute chaos. The citizens of Londinium have sacked the entire city. I managed to flee during the turmoil, but I never expected the outside world to be even worse. Swarms of peasants have turned into bandits, ruthlessly slaughtering passing travelers at will. My few remaining guards either died or fled. I was swept up by a band of brigands and dragged into Cambridge, only to run headlong into the Frankish army's cavalry..."

Wigg had no time to entertain an old man's wandering misadventures. He cut straight to the chase, asking for news about Aslaug and Princess Enya.

"Them?" Gorm let out a long, heavy sigh. "When I escaped Londinium, the royal palace was already besieged by the mob. Later, while I was mixed up with those bandits, I heard rumors that the palace had fallen and Aslaug had been tortured to death by the rioters. I suspect they were lying, though. Aslaug might still be alive."

Reaching this point in the conversation, Gorm suggested that Wigg accelerate his march to rescue Aslaug and Princess Enya. He proposed that Wigg's eldest son, Fridleif, should marry the princess, allowing Wigg himself to take the position of Regent.

To his surprise, the suggestion was outright rejected. "Titles and formal legitimacy have their uses, but they are not worth risking my entire army over. Aslaug's survival is irrelevant. From ancient times to the present, countless emperors have died by the sword. What does a mere Queen Mother of Britain matter in the grand scheme of things?"

Beyond the military aspect, Wigg also had political considerations.

First, in recent years, Ragnar's royal family had accumulated far too much debt, owing vast sums to nobles, merchants, monasteries, and temples. From Britain to Northern Europe, the Crown's creditors were everywhere. According to rumors, the scale of this debt had reached a terrifying forty thousand pounds!

If he allowed his eldest son to marry Ynja, openly inheriting Ragnar's legacy, it meant they would also inherit his massive debts. That entailed at least four thousand pounds in interest alone every year, with the vast majority of it subject to compound interest. That crown was simply too heavy to bear. It was far better to just start afresh.

Second, the soldiers and military officers were eagerly anticipating their commander's ascension to the throne, not him settling for Prime Minister or Regent.

Over the past few months, his direct command had displayed an astonishing will to fight. Led by junior officers, the soldiers dared to actively charge cavalry formations with leveled spears. Beyond their superb equipment and training, the most fundamental driving force was ambition.

The common foot soldier wanted spoils and land. The junior officers yearned for a grant of nobility to become knights. The knights wished to be elevated to barons. Barons like Joren and Butcherbird hungered to become great nobles. Floki the Raven Speaker wanted to spread Northern European polytheism, while civilian officials like Mitcham chased after greater authority. Everyone was striving for advancement, eagerly waiting for the Duke to proclaim himself king and lavish them with rewards.

If their commander were to shrink back now, propping up Ynja or Halfdan Whiteshirt to take the throne, the very next second, a soldier might draw an iron sword and say something along the lines of, "Why does Your Majesty abandon us? Do you look down on your brothers?" It would be a tearful plea on the surface, but a thinly veiled threat in reality.

"My lord, the truth is, I have no choice in the matter."

Having said his piece, Wigg stood up and stepped outside the tent, taking a deep breath of the crisp, cool air. Looking up, the Milky Way stretched across the night sky like a flowing river of luminous mist. Countless stars blazed with dazzling brilliance, and the vast, boundless universe seemed to envelop him. In a momentary daze, an emotion blending profound insignificance with tranquil peace quietly washed over his heart.

Thinking about it carefully, this was perfectly normal. Everyone's loyalty came with an underlying purpose. Since he had accepted their devotion, it was only right that he pay the full price for it.

Back in ancient times, the great general Han Xin had briefly served under Xiang Yu, only to defect because the warlord merely treated his subordinates as brothers in name while fiercely hoarding his rewards. He suffered from 'womanly benevolence'—he was polite and affectionate, yet when it came time to grant a noble title to those who had earned it, he would play with the official seals until the corners were worn smooth, unable to bear parting with them.

If their demands were not met, the soldiers and officers would inevitably harbor deep resentment and seek out a more generous new master.

In short, having reached this point, even if Wigg didn't want to proclaim himself king, his entire army would hoist him onto the throne anyway. Fortunately, the Second West Francia War and the ensuing civil war had severely thinned the ranks of the barons, knights, and gentry, leaving more than enough empty estates to settle this pack of hungry wolves.

"Pass down my orders. We will march as usual for the next two days. No one is to take any rash actions."

Meanwhile, Gunnar led his cavalry units back to Londinium. The city was a desolate ruin, littered with the corpses of the fallen. A heavy stench of blood and a bizarre, acrid scent of charred flesh permeated the air.

"Where is that idiot O'Neill? Tell him to get his ass out here and see me!"

Cursing under his breath, Gunnar spurred his horse toward the royal palace, desperate to find Aslaug and Princess Enya.

By daybreak, his men discovered a rotting, mangled corpse in a courtyard near the royal palace; the sight was absolutely gruesome. Gunnar viciously interrogated the captured rioters, and they all unanimously claimed that the body belonged to the Queen Mother. As for Princess Enya, no one had caught even a glimpse of her.

"How does a perfectly healthy person just vanish into thin air?!"

Thrown into a blind rage, Gunnar ordered his soldiers to search every inch of the city. Not only did they fail to find Ynja, but Gorm, Paffis, and the others had completely disappeared as well. Even the wealthy merchants of the city had packed up and fled.

With things having deteriorated to this state, the civilian officials and wealthy merchants knew full well that the Frankish army's defeat was inevitable. The only logical move was to grab whatever riches they could and make a run for it. Consequently, they all scurried away faster than frightened rabbits, terrified of being caught by the Frankish forces.

After a grueling, sleepless night, Gunnar was utterly physically and mentally exhausted. He realized with a sickening twist in his gut that after half a year of ceaseless campaigning and pouring in nearly ten years' worth of life savings, he had gained absolutely nothing.

Looking at his subordinates who were futilely trying to console him, he impatiently waved them off. Left alone, he sank into deep thought, trying to figure out how to salvage a dignified exit from this disaster.