Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 301: The Horse Herd

Following their commander's orders, the Vikings unleashed a frantic barrage of fire at the palisade.

The combined forces of army crossbowmen and sailors totaled over a thousand men. Since the deck lacked the space to accommodate them all, a portion of the troops stood by in the cabins while the rest fired at the enemy from above, rotating out only when their stamina was completely exhausted.

"Loose your arrows! Kill any of these Franks who dare to return fire!"

The twang of bowstrings merged into a single deafening hum as sharp arrows leaped from their rests. They rose like a dark, billowing storm cloud, blotting out the clear sky above the river. Reaching their apex, the arrows seemed to hover for a fleeting moment before diving downward with an ear-piercing shriek.

Before the first volley of arrows had even blanketed the palisade, a second wave was already airborne. The shrieking of arrows tearing through the air was endless. The Frankish army archers who dared to shoot back were quickly wiped out, leaving the surviving defenders pinned behind splintered wooden walls and shields, thoroughly stripped of any thought of resistance.

After unleashing roughly fifty thousand arrows, the Black Bass signaled the attack with its flags. The brigantines and knarr ships lowered their longboats, surging toward the riverbank in the wake of twenty Viking longships.

"Valhalla!"

As the vessels ground to a halt, Viking soldiers leaped into the muddy shallows, sending water splashing in all directions. Shouldering long ladders, they charged the palisade. After a brief but brutal slaughter, the flag of Saxony was chopped down from the battlements, swiftly replaced by the black dragon banner of Britain.

Not long after, the heavy wooden gates were slowly pushed open with a groaning creak. Leif and the soldiers of the Marine Battalion filed into the settlement, only to be greeted by an absolutely shocking sight.

As far as the eye could see, feathered arrows bristled from the ground, the rooftops, collapsed woodpiles, and even the corpses slumped against the walls. They were so dense and abundant that they resembled a thick patch of reeds wildly overgrown in early summer."Stay alert! Fan out into combat formation!"

Deputy Battalion Commander Ingvar blew his brass bugle, signaling each squad to form up into tactical pairs and advance down the streets to sweep the area.

After advancing about a hundred yards, they encountered a small, routed band of defenders. Ingvar shouted in broken Frankish, gesturing for the enemy to drop their weapons and surrender.

Through a brief exchange, the prisoners claimed to be local militia from Saxony. A few days prior, a massive force of cavalry had passed through the area en route to Denmark. Alongside the royal family's iris banner, they had marched under a flag bearing a black bear on a white background.

"A black bear on a white background. The intelligence was right; that is Gunnar's banner."

Ingvar nodded slowly. Led by the captives, they proceeded to the storehouses in the northern part of the town. Inside, they found mountains of grain, smoked meat, and a cellar packed to the brim with barrels of beer.

Pulling out his standard-issue tin flask, Ingvar filled it to the brim with beer and downed it in a single gulp. The rest of the soldiers quickly followed suit, and the cellar was instantly saturated with the heavy, rich stench of alcohol.

"Pour me some," Leif said, ducking into the cellar. After tasting the local brew, he smacked his lips. "It has a hint of sourness to it. The seal probably wasn't tight enough during fermentation. Aside from these supplies, what else did you find? What is the situation at the stable?"

Ingvar shook his head. "Second Company just reported in. The stable covers a vast area, yet there are only twenty-one sick warhorses and thirty draft horses meant for pulling carts left."

'How could that be all?'

Leif had the translator interrogate the captured prisoners and managed to extract a highly useful piece of information: just this morning, the warhorses had been dispatched to the frontlines alongside the grain transport convoy. There were four hundred and twenty horses in total, all sourced from the military stud farms of West Francia.

"That many?"

Leif's interest was thoroughly piqued. At this moment, Wigg's flagship was still floating out on the river, making it impossible to send a timely report. Instead, he simply dispatched a messenger to notify their allied forces, then rallied his troops and marched out of Hamburg, pursuing the convoy toward the northeast under the guidance of the prisoners. During their station in Britain, the standing army's rations were regularly supplemented with animal offal and carrots to improve the soldiers' night vision. Carrots originated from Western Asia, and because the King had spent a fortune purchasing seeds from Arab merchants, they had been cultivated on a small scale in Britain in recent years, richly diversifying the populace's dining tables.

Because the Marine Battalion was subordinate to the navy, they had access to an even greater supply of marine fish livers. Combined with their regular night-march training, their proficiency in nocturnal warfare was excellent. Leif was fully confident they could overtake this supply train.

Without them even realizing it, the last sliver of sunlight vanished, and night fell completely. The air was thick with the scent of pine resin and rotting leaves. As a gentle breeze swept through the treetops, the dark green pine needles rippled like a black tide, accompanied by the occasional, spine-chilling hoot of an owl.

The Marine Battalion formed up into a double column, marching steadily over the soft humus soil. Torches were lit at set intervals along the line. Guided by the faint, flickering light, the soldiers could just about make out the twisted tree roots, low-hanging branches, and slippery moss beneath their boots, ensuring they did not break formation.

They spent the entire night rushing along the winding forest trails. When dawn broke, Leif conducted a headcount. They had set out with four hundred and fifty men, and now four hundred and twenty remained. It was a far cry from their usual training scores, but it was barely acceptable given the circumstances.

Noticing the exhaustion weighing on his soldiers, Leif ordered them to rest in place for three hours before resuming the march. By that afternoon, they finally caught up to the sluggishly moving supply convoy.

Looking from afar, the convoy stretched out in a long, winding line down the narrow dirt road, kicking up a massive cloud of dust that blotted out the sun. It was impossible to count exactly how many supply wagons there were. A massive number of warhorses were mingled in the middle of the procession, divided into dozens of smaller herds, each managed by a dedicated team of grooms.

"Quickly, execute the plan!"

Following Leif's command, two companies fanned out into the woods on the left and right flanks, initiating a pincer movement.

Not long after, the agonized screams of Frankish army scouts echoed through the woods. The Vikings' position had been exposed. Leif immediately blew his brass whistle, and the rest of the military officers followed suit. In an instant, the entire area rang with the sharp, ear-piercing shrieks of charge whistles.

Without a shred of hesitation, the squads launched spear charges at the nearest Frankish forces. It took only a single fierce assault to completely crush the panic-stricken, feeble militia. To prevent startling the horse herd, they did not even draw their bows and arrows throughout the entire engagement.

"The Vikings are here! Run for your lives!"

Realizing that the Vikings were swarming them from the left, right, and rear, the grooms fell into a state of sheer panic, each scrambling to mount a warhorse and flee.

Seeing the horse herd teetering on the edge of chaos, Leif hurriedly ordered his soldiers forward to restrain them. However, the heavy stench of blood clinging to the Vikings ultimately shattered the horses' fragile composure. Several ill-tempered stallions neighed wildly, bolting desperately in whatever direction they deemed safe.

As the massive warhorses crashed toward them, the Viking spearmen instinctively closed ranks. They used their spears to force back the enormous, frantic beasts, driving them to retreat step by step.

Meanwhile, under the lethal threat of drawn bows and arrows, many of the grooms were forced into submission and ordered to help corral the herd.

After over an hour of frantic effort, Leif finally stabilized the situation. Excluding the horses that had fled or been shot dead, they successfully captured three hundred warhorses, along with one hundred and thirty supply wagons and their accompanying draft horses. In addition to grain and liquor, the wagons were loaded with over a hundred sets of chainmail and a vast array of weaponry.

Thrilled by the staggering volume of their spoils of war, Leif vibrated with excitement. He ordered the convoy to turn around and trace their original route back to Hamburg.

"Based on the total value of our spoils of war, the Ministry of the Army will issue a proportional reward after the battle. Thank the gods I made a timely decision. I'm going to be filthy rich."