Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 266: Striking at the Heart

As the inspection concluded, Wigg returned to the central command. He tore open Butcherbird's letter, read it carefully, and then handed it to his aides.

"The pontoon bridge over the River Shannon has been constructed. We hit a snag along the way—it was nearly burned down by the rebel army's fire ships. It seems the enemy's morale is high. This war won't be as easy as I imagined."

Wigg unrolled the map. Synthesizing the recent battle reports, a vague plan gradually took shape in his mind.

Three days later, at dusk.

The expeditionary army arrived in Athlone. After the forces converged, Wigg's total military strength swelled to fourteen thousand men, including two thousand cavalry. In terms of numbers, equipment, and training, they completely crushed the rebel army.

However, warfare was never a simple matter of mathematics. Recognizing the sheer disparity in strength, the enemy evacuated the plains entirely, retreating into the western mountains to seek refuge, biding their time until the moment was ripe to launch a new wave of rebellion.

That night, Wigg convened a war council in the castle hall, briefing everyone on the grim situation they now faced.

"...After more than a decade of conflict, the western region of Ireland has forged a group of chieftain leaders highly skilled in small-scale harassment. They are experienced and resolute; the possibility of offering them amnesty and enlisting them is practically nonexistent. There are no clever tricks to employ here. We can only send our army deep into the mountains and eradicate any tribe that dares to resist."

Having said that, he spread a large, intricately drawn map across the long table. He brought out numerous black unit markers representing their forces and placed them all in the center of the map.

Wigg then took up a slender command stick, pushing the markers across the board as he explained his strategy to the over thirty men gathered around the table.To secure an overwhelming advantage, he planned to concentrate their forces in the first phase, pushing directly into the western mountains all the way to the west coast of Ireland, thereby severing the overland connection between the northwest and the southwest.

Once the first phase was complete, the expeditionary army would wheel around, launching a full-scale assault on the northwest before finally clearing out the southwestern mountains.

After concluding his presentation, Wigg looked toward the nominal lord of Ireland. "Duke Imon, what are your thoughts?"

"Your Majesty, my lifelong destiny is to serve you. Everything shall be done exactly as you command."

Having witnessed the might of the royal family, Imon discarded any ulterior motives. He only wanted to end the war as quickly as possible and send this massive, dangerous army away.

Over the next two hours, Wigg synthesized the information provided by the local nobles and his intelligence network. He broke down the broad concept of "conquering the western mountains" into countless individual steps. He then plotted the marching routes, ensuring that the commanders of each unit would advance in an orderly fashion and coordinate seamlessly.

"That is all. Does anyone have anything to add?"

By this late hour, most of the nobles were groggy; only a sparse few, such as Thorkel and Butcherbird, could keep up with Wigg's line of thinking. After another ten minutes of discussion, Wigg concluded the meeting and announced the start of the banquet.

The following day, the Third Infantry Regiment convened a meeting for its battalion and company-level military officers. Fridleif was called over to act as the recording scribe, simultaneously allowing him to accumulate some experience at the command level.

Once the meeting ended, the regimental headquarters held a dinner. Fridleif devoured half a roast chicken and drained a large bowl of fish soup. Then, belching softly, he supported a drunken Ingvar as they made their way back to the Second Company.

After settling everything, Fridleif was interrogated by the company commander and his peers. "Scribe Bob, why did the regimental commander choose you to record the meeting?"

"Uh, probably because I had the best grades," he offered casually. Unfortunately, no one bought it, so he lowered his voice.

"Alright. The truth is, I'm a relative of a cabinet minister. I was tossed into the army to build up my resume, nothing more."

This excuse was plausible enough, and Fridleif managed to convince the group. In late June, the expeditionary army split into four routes and officially launched their combat operations.

Early in the morning, damp mist rose from the banks of the River Shannon. Under the sunlight, the river's surface shimmered with patches of fragmented gold. The water spanned over a hundred meters wide, with vast stretches of reeds lining both shores.

"Watch your step. Make sure you don't slip into the water."

Company Commander Ingvar marched at the head of the formation as usual, leading a column four men deep onto the pontoon bridge. Their leather sandals struck the slick wooden planks, emitting dull thuds that caused the entire bridge deck to sway slightly.

Nearing the center of the river, the soldiers' anxiety intensified. They subconsciously lowered their heads, fixing their gazes dead upon the backs of the comrades in front of them. No one dared to get distracted by looking at the surging currents below. The sun beat down mercilessly on their iron armor and helmets, while sweat trickled down their necks, bringing an indescribably maddening itch.

Finally, Fridleif stepped onto the west bank. The solid sensation of the earth beneath his feet brought him immense peace of mind. He greedily gulped the air, unable to resist looking back. The trailing forces were still surging forward with silent determination, their iron helmets converging into a blinding ribbon of light under the sun.

Ingvar issued an order: "Rest where you are. No shouting."

Before long, over nine hundred infantrymen had crossed the pontoon bridge. Next in line were the scout riders and supply wagons.

Faced with the rushing waters and the faintly swaying bridge deck, the horses instinctively balked. They snorted and anxiously pawed at the ground. No matter how tightly the riders yanked the reins or shouted, the beasts only hesitated at the edge of the bridge, refusing to advance.

Soon, a particularly fiery warhorse suddenly reared on its hind legs, letting out a terrified, drawn-out neigh. Several soldiers immediately lunged forward, desperately gripping its halter. Through a chaotic mix of pushing and shoving, they half-forced the massive creature onto the pontoon bridge, expending a great deal of time and effort to drag it all the way to the west bank.

"We're going to be busy," Fridleif murmured. Sitting on the riverbank with his comrades, he silently watched the commotion among the cavalry, a trace of exhaustion inevitably creeping into his body.

A long while later, the rear forces finished crossing the river. The military band struck up a marching tune, urging the troops to press on with their journey.

The Third Infantry Regiment was ordered to head toward the western port of Galway. In addition to his core troops, Bracken was assigned two hundred cavalry and eight hundred conscripted militia, bringing his total military strength to over two thousand men.

Galway was originally the fiefdom of a certain baron, but it had since been pillaged by the rebel army. Bracken's mission was to occupy the town and purge the surrounding area.

On their second day after crossing the River Shannon, the infantry regiment fell under fire from a small band of rebel archers. The attackers had hidden in the hills north of the road, hastily unleashing five volleys of high-angle fire before fleeing toward the swamps to the northeast.

Hundreds of feathered arrows rained down on the rear echelons, instantly triggering a localized panic. Lacking iron armor, five of the conscripted militia were killed on the spot, while eleven others suffered injuries, wailing as they begged for medical aid.

Bracken's expression darkened as he watched the embedded shamans tend to the wounds. Subsequently, he ordered the supply wagons to transport the injured back to the field hospital in Athlone, preventing their piteous cries from devastating the troops' morale.

For the rest of the journey, this small band of rebels continued their harassment until they were finally cornered by an infuriated unit of cavalry. Following a brutal slaughter, not a single one of the thirty-two archers survived.

Gazing at the corpses strewn across the ground, Bracken shook his head in regret. It was a pity they had not kept any captives alive; now, it would be impossible to root out the enemy's hideout.

Having dealt with this band of rebels, the infantry regiment accelerated their march, arriving at their destination well before the designated deadline.