Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 263: Large-Scale Conscription

That afternoon, once the wooden bridge was fully constructed, Butcherbird did not press the march. Instead, he ordered his forces to set up camp according to standard procedure.

Through rigorous long-term training, the standing army had perfected a detailed protocol for constructing field camps. With every unit cooperating in an orderly fashion, a temporary camp was erected in no time.

After dinner, Butcherbird assigned the military officers for the night watch and returned to his tent to rest.

Deep into the night, dozens of indistinct silhouettes appeared outside the camp. They carefully pressed their bodies flat against the ground, using the brief moments when the sentries turned their heads to creep toward the palisade. Eventually, as the distance narrowed, the man leading the group quickly rolled into the trench. A moment later, his body was pierced and bloodied by the caltrops hidden within, and he could not help but let out a bloodcurdling scream.

"Enemies!"

Realizing a small group of enemies had infiltrated, the sentry on the palisade blew his warning whistle. His nearby comrades raised their light crossbows, aimed at the dark figures, and pulled the triggers. Sentries in the remaining sectors also grabbed their light crossbows, firing at every suspicious object outside the camp as if they had an endless supply of ammunition.

And indeed, they did.

Ever since the iron smelting furnaces were improved, Britain's pig iron production had been increasing year after year. Combined with the full-capacity operations of the military equipment arsenals in Teyne and Londinium, the standing army could use bows and crossbows to their hearts' content. Their level of extravagance far surpassed that of any army in Western Europe or Northern Europe.

Throughout the second half of the night, the sentry units fired an accumulated total of over twenty thousand crossbow bolts. At dawn the next day, as visibility gradually improved, the sentries discovered about a hundred corpses lying outside the camp, all concentrated on the northwestern side.

After two hours of busy work dismantling the tents and the temporary fence, the standing army resumed their march toward Athlone.At ten o'clock in the morning, the scout cavalry that had been probing the path ahead returned with a report, stating that Athlone was under siege by a rebel army numbering over four thousand. Butcherbird was not impatient; he maintained a normal marching pace and arrived at the designated position by two o'clock in the afternoon.

A massive river flowing from north to south appeared in their line of sight. It was the River Shannon, spanning across the middle of Ireland. The standing army's destination for this expedition, Athlone, was situated on its eastern bank. It was the largest settlement in the vicinity and the most suitable crossing point for heading west.

Butcherbird rode his horse to a high vantage point to observe the chaotic siege camp outside the town. The vast majority of the rebel army were dressed in rags, but there were a few decently attired members among them, likely traitorous minor nobles or local gentry.

"What is the name of the rebel leader?"

A baron under Imon replied, "Svein. The rebel leaders are usually called by that name."

Many years ago, when Wigg assisted Ivar the Boneless in breaching Dyfflin, the lord, Svein, managed to escape. He subsequently sought refuge among the Irish tribes and repeatedly instigated wars to form encirclement networks.

During a certain battle, Svein was trampled by cavalry. In his dying moments, he urged a tribal chieftain to inherit his name, intending for "Svein" to become an eternal curse haunting Ivar the Boneless and his successors.

After hearing the tale of "Svein," Butcherbird dismissed it without a second thought.

"Across the entirety of Britain, the region with the most frequent rebellions is Ireland. The reason lies not with Svein, but with Ivar the Boneless and nobles like you who engage in reckless misconduct. Don't look at me with those eyes; those were His Majesty's exact words."

At that moment, two infantry regiments deployed into a broad horizontal formation. Butcherbird cut the idle chatter short and ordered the troops to launch their attack.

The rebel army was primarily composed of light infantry, lacking both cavalry and heavy infantry. Butcherbird opted for the most classic of tactics—the spearmen would slowly advance to pin down the enemy's main force, while the cavalry would be dispatched to strike at their flanks and rear.

At a distance of one hundred and twenty paces, the four hundred longbowmen who had been concentrated together halted in their tracks. Their commander fired a brightly colored feathered arrow into the sky, letting it fall far into the enemy formation.

He ordered the entire unit to unleash high-angle fire at this elevation. Adopting a rapid fire rate of twelve arrows per minute, they did not aim for accuracy. Instead, their goal was to rain down as many arrows as possible before the two armies clashed.

In less than three minutes, the longbowmen poured nearly ten thousand feathered arrows onto the dense enemy formation ahead through high-angle fire. Lacking iron armor, the rebel army suffered devastating casualties in the sudden barrage. They were forced to hastily contract into dozens of uneven shield walls to defend against the deadly shower of arrows.

Tweeeet!

The enemy formation was thrown into absolute chaos. The Viking soldiers leveled their spears and, spurred on by the sharp whistle, launched a piercing charge. Meanwhile, over four hundred cavalrymen lying in ambush behind a low hill a kilometer away received the signal and spurred their horses toward the battlefield. By the time the cavalry was halfway there, the surviving three thousand-odd rebels had already routed.

"Damn it, what a waste of time," the commander muttered, suddenly feeling incredibly bored. He ordered the cavalry to break into small squads to mop up the fleeing routed soldiers.

At this point, the majority of the routed troops fled toward the lake district to the north, using the dense reed beds to hide from their pursuers. The cavalry and mountain infantry busied themselves until dusk, yet over two thousand men still managed to escape the battlefield.

Having repelled the rebel army, Butcherbird forcefully commanded the town's defending soldiers to open the gates. Even though both he and the local lord were earls, he didn't give the man the slightest bit of face.

"From this moment on, the central and western regions of Ireland are under my jurisdiction until His Majesty arrives. Any objections?"

The local lord's face flushed red, but he dared not spark a conflict with Butcherbird. "None."

The situation in western Ireland was severely deteriorated. Butcherbird did not underestimate the enemy or advance rashly. Instead, he focused his efforts on constructing pontoon bridges and repairing roads, aiming to build Athlone into a qualified logistical base to support the King's main army.

Londinium.

On the very day the standing army had set out, Wigg had issued a general mobilization order across the entire territory, conscripting all the nobles and militia in Britain.

After a two-week wait, over eight thousand men had gathered in Londinium. Wigg couldn't be bothered to waste any more time, so he ordered them to march out the following day, bringing along an additional five hundred members of the Royal Guard and the Third Infantry Regiment.

The remaining one thousand Royal Guards and the newly formed Fourth Infantry Regiment were not deployed. Together with several thousand militiamen who arrived later, they stayed behind to garrison Londinium and guard against any potential attacks from West Francia.

To allow his eldest son, Fridleif, to accumulate experience, Wigg temporarily transferred him into the Third Infantry Regiment, explicitly instructing him not to reveal his identity.

"Huh?"

Fridleif was around the same age as Imon, not yet fifteen. Looking at the experiences of his cousin Leif, he had assumed he would be kept by his father's side. He never expected to be tossed into the rank-and-file units below.

Yet, realizing he would be free from his father's strict oversight, his mood suddenly lightened. "As you command, Father."

Soon after, Bracken, the regiment commander of the Third Infantry Regiment, led him away and assigned him as the documents clerk in the First Battalion's Second Company. "Your Highness, if you run into any problems, feel free to come to me."

"There is no need, Earl."

Fridleif knew his father's personality well. Until the war ended, he would have no choice but to honestly bide his time at the grassroots level. But this wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Serving as the company's documents clerk was far more relaxed and liberating than staying by the commander-in-chief's side.

After inquiring about the Second Company's location, Fridleif took a deep breath and walked straight toward the company command tent. Inside stood a middle-aged man with a deeply troubled expression.

"Reporting for duty! I am Bob, a first-year student from the command department of the Army Academy. I've been ordered to serve as the apprentice documents clerk for the Second Company."

Fridleif handed over the transfer order from the Ministry of War. At the bottom were the signatures of the Minister of War, Bafors, the Army Academy's representative, and the regiment commander, Bracken.

Finding no errors in the document, the middle-aged man looked at the youth's tender face, his anxiety only deepening. "I guessed the higher-ups would send a student to temporarily make up the numbers, but you look far too young."

After complaining for quite some time, the man introduced himself as Ingvalen and arranged for a veteran to take Fridleif to collect his military equipment and familiarize himself with the situation.