Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 265: State of War

Early morning, June 15th.

The port was bustling and noisy, the crude wooden docks creaking under heavy footsteps. Shouldering his rucksack, Fridleif followed the orderly line and boarded the Adventurer Charles.

Junior officers, clerks, and shamans were permitted to remain on the deck, though free movement was strictly prohibited. The vast majority of the soldiers were crammed into the lower hold, packed alongside mountains of cargo.

Before long, the tide at the mouth of the River Mersey reached its peak, and the piercing blast of a war horn tore through the clamor of the port.

"Hold your horses, it isn't our turn yet!"

The captain barked at a few overly eager sailors. After waiting for about ten minutes, he threw his arm forward. Two crew members cranked the winch, slowly hauling up the heavy iron anchor.

Soon after, a massive square sail was hoisted up the mast. The oarsmen in the lower hold shouted in unison, their oars rowing in a steady rhythm. The Adventurer Charles sailed out of the River Mersey estuary. Ahead, the waves of the Irish Sea shimmered under the sun, refracting countless fragments of brilliant light.

With only a weak breeze, the Knarr ship's speed was painfully slow. It crawled along the northern coastline of Wales for an entire day, finally dropping anchor at Holy Island in northwest Wales at dusk.

By this time, the soldiers confined in the lower hold could bear it no longer and surged onto the deck to breathe the fresh air. A few requested to go ashore, but their commanding officers flatly refused.

Dinner proved quite palatable—a savory fish stew bursting with salmon and shellfish. Fridleif broke his hardtack into pieces, tossing them into the broth and waiting patiently until the rock-hard biscuit softened completely.After the meal, the bored soldiers fashioned makeshift fishhooks from needles and thread to cast lines over the edge. Following a meager catch, their superiors herded them back into the lower hold to rest.

"Go to sleep, unless you want me to beat it into you!" the deputy company commander roared from the hold, sending a chill down everyone's spine. Fridleif hurriedly unfurled his thick woolen cloak and lay down on the deck pressed against his comrades, staring blankly up at the brilliant, starry sky.

Much later, a faint rustling woke Fridleif. Opening his eyes to a dim sky, he found a small seabird standing by his left hand, occasionally pecking at his thick woolen cloak in search of leftover hardtack crumbs.

Waving the bird away, Fridleif closed his eyes once more. He was hovering on the edge of sleep when a shrill blast from a brass whistle pierced his ears. Startled, he bolted upright, his nearby peers reacting in much the same way.

'They are stricter than the academy instructors,'

he grumbled internally, swiftly folding his cloak and stuffing it into his rucksack. Grabbing his water skin, he made his way to the aft deck, where the crew was currently hoisting barrels of fresh water from a smaller boat below.

Emptying the stale liquid from his leather water skin, Fridleif refilled it to the brim with fresh, clean water. He recalled his father mentioning that water stored in wooden canteens and leather skins spoiled easily, suggesting that a change in material was necessary.

However, iron flasks rusted easily, copper ones were expensive, and lead canteens were toxic to the human body. Silver flasks boasted strong antibacterial properties and resisted rust, but their sole flaw was their exorbitant cost. After careful consideration, Wigg had selected tin as the standard material for the military's canteens.

Before departing, Fridleif had heard rumors that the Londinium armory was experimenting with a tin alloy formula. He reckoned that by next year, the army would see a massive influx of tin canteens.

As time passed and the sun climbed high into the sky, the fleet departed from the coast of Wales, catching a gentle northeast breeze into the Irish Sea.

Occasionally, migrating humpback whales surfaced on the waters, their spouting mist drawing a crowd of curious sailors. By three in the afternoon, the fleet approached the eastern coast of Ireland. A thick plume of black smoke billowed from the Howth peninsula, guiding their way. Along the bay to the east of Dyfflin, many impoverished commoners wandered the mudflats with woven baskets slung over their backs, gathering oysters and other shellfish in hopes of selling them to the army for coin.

When trading, the locals heavily favored the standing army in their black armor. The standing army possessed the strictest discipline and actually paid for their purchases. In contrast, the troops belonging to the Earls had wildly inconsistent discipline; locals dealt with them cautiously, terrified they might end up both penniless and beaten.

Disembarking at the docks, the Third Infantry Regiment moved into a temporary camp outside the city. For the next few days, they were tasked with felling trees to expand the encampment, preparing to accommodate the allied forces arriving behind them.

On June 22nd, the final batch of troops arrived in Dyfflin. That afternoon, the company commander took Fridleif to the market, purchasing a full ten barrels of seafood. At dusk, the quartermaster distributed beer and sugarcane rum.

Before the meal commenced, Ingvar raised a wooden cup brimming with sugarcane rum and warned the assembled soldiers:

"The great army marches out tomorrow! Leaving Dyfflin means we are entering a combat zone. We are moving to the highest state of alert. I expect all of you to reign in your tempers and refrain from doing anything out of line."

The moment he finished speaking, the soldiers began to wolf down their food. Some pried open oyster shells with their daggers, while others smashed the carapaces of velvet crabs with the pommels of their knives to savor the tender, delicate meat inside. A portion of the men, unaccustomed to seafood, opted instead for a hearty meat stew brimming with smoked pork, sausages, and vegetables.

Fridleif was not a picky eater. He sampled every dish available, and once his stomach was full, he sat cross-legged on the ground, cradling a cup of sugarcane rum as he stared vacantly into space.

Upon closer inspection, the pale yellow liquid contained plenty of murky sediment—likely bits of bagasse that hadn't been properly filtered out. He took a sip; the rum tasted faintly sweet, carrying a slight, burnt undertone.

'It's vastly inferior to wine, whiskey, or mead. If Uncle Hrogeir doesn't find a way to improve the brewing process, sugarcane rum is doomed to remain a drink fit only for commoners,'

The next morning, the reveille whistle assaulted everyone's eardrums. As Fridleif packed his gear, he noticed that the atmosphere within the army had grown exceptionally grim. Suddenly, the accompanying shaman leaned in and whispered a reminder, "Why aren't you wearing your armor?"

"What?" Fridleif looked bewildered. "I thought clerks were non-combat personnel. Do we have to march in full armor, too?"

The shaman rolled his eyes. "It's not a regulation, but a voluntary choice made by all the clerks and shamans. A combat zone is riddled with all sorts of unforeseen dangers. Assuming you don't want to get pierced by a stray feathered arrow, you'd better hurry up and put on your armor!"

With no time left for breakfast, Fridleif grabbed his black brigandine armor and pulled it over his head. He quickly drew the front and back sections together using the side laces, tying them tight to ensure the brigandine fit snugly against his body without shifting.

Next, he donned his arm guards, sliding the ringed vambraces onto his arms and securing them with laces. He then wrapped his belt around the outermost layer of the brigandine at his waist, cinching it tightly.

Finally, Fridleif donned his helmet and fastened the chinstrap firmly underneath, making sure it wouldn't slip off while marching or fighting.

Fully geared up, he hastily gnawed off a few bites of hardtack before slipping into formation under the deputy company commander's icy glare. If he were a regular combatant, such sluggishness would have undoubtedly earned him a few lashes from a leather whip.

After departing from Dyfflin, outriders and duck-and-drake formation squads fanned out along both flanks of the marching column, remaining highly vigilant against any enemies that might appear at a moment's notice.

At high noon, the blast of a war horn sounded from the center army, signaling the troops to halt and rest in place. Exempt from guard duty, Fridleif picked a spot in the shade of a tree to sit down and relax, washing down his hardtack and salted meat with gulps of clean water.

Suddenly, a large contingent of cavalry rode past, escorting a man draped in a black cloak embroidered with a golden dragon. As they passed through Fridleif's area, the man paused for a brief moment before walking away without uttering a single word.