Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 308: Channel Islands

In September, Wigg and the Crown Prince returned to Britain by ship.

Driven by a northeasterly wind, the Black Sea Bass entered the mouth of the River Thames. Wigg stood on the bow deck, gazing out at the farmlands and pastures lining the banks.

Suddenly, a faint, strange odor drifted in on the wind, like something quietly rotting in a hidden corner. At first, Wigg paid it no mind. But as time passed, the stench grew stronger, prompting repeated complaints from the crew.

A makeshift pier had been erected on the northern bank. Small fishing boats, returning fully loaded, crowded around the wooden walkway, their hulls rocking gently with the waves. Bare-chested workers unloaded the catches from their nets. The vast majority were herring, piled into small mountains on the shore. They reflected a dazzling luster under the sun, attracting flocks of noisy, circling seagulls.

Beside massive wooden cutting boards, a group of middle-aged women grabbed the slippery fish to scale, decapitate, and gut them. They tossed the entrails into nearby wooden buckets, mixing them with sea salt and a handful of herbs.

Afterward, buckets of these herring entrails were poured into giant, half-buried clay pots. Workers used long-handled wooden spoons to pack the mixture down tightly, squeezing out as much air as possible. The clay pots were typically only filled to seventy percent capacity to leave room for later stirring.

The mouths of the pots were covered with fine fishing nets to prevent debris from falling in. However, they were not sealed, allowing the mixture to bake in the sunlight and ferment in the open air.

Occasionally, the workers would lift the nets and stir the contents with their long-handled wooden spoons, exposing the bottom layer of the mixture to the air to ensure an even fermentation. As they constantly churned it, a pungent stench, a mix of rot and salty fishiness, spread outward. It lingered over the nearby river, causing the sailors on passing merchant ships to curse profusely.

"Odin above, can they not move this rotting garbage away?"

"My sense of smell is failing me. I have no idea how those workers endure it!"On the bow deck of the Black Sea Bass, Wigg ignored the chorus of complaints. In the records of ancient Rome, there were frequent accounts of citizens collectively protesting, forcing the governor to temporarily shut down the fish sauce workshops. Once the uproar passed, these workshops would resume operations, simply because the populace could not live without the seasoning.

By noon, the Black Sea Bass docked at the pier in Londinium. The shore was crowded with the families of soldiers. As Wigg walked down the gangplank, he saw Heregyth holding the hands of their two children. Standing beside her was his older sister, Breda, along with her daughter-in-law and grandson.

After half a year apart, Breda's hair had grown increasingly white. She hurried anxiously toward Wigg. "Where is Leif?"

"The fleet is currently attacking the Channel Islands. Leif's marine battalion was ordered into battle. They are expected to return within half a month."

Meanwhile, on the island of Guernsey, just thirty miles off the coast of Normandy.

A column of fifteen two-masted sailing ships headed south toward a port on the eastern side of the island. A flag bearing a black bear on a white background fluttered above the palisade.

The lookout high up on the mast had observed the area for a long time. There were only two trebuchets behind the palisade. Led by the flagship, the Kestrel, the fleet moved to a stretch of sea about two hundred meters from the port. They unleashed a synchronized volley aimed directly at the trebuchets, successfully destroying them.

Next, the fleet sailed into bow and crossbow range. Stone projectiles, feathered arrows, and crossbow bolts rained down upon the palisade on the eastern side of the port until the defenders' resistance was completely snuffed out.

The Knarr ship fleet in the rear approached the dock. Soldiers from the marine battalion breached the interior of the palisade as Duck-and-Drake Formation Squads, seizing control of the fishing port and its hundred-odd resident families.

With no time to rest, Leif handed over the defensive duties to friendly forces. The marine battalion returned to their cabins, following the fleet southeast toward the island of Jersey.

Jersey was the largest island in the entire archipelago, covering 115 square kilometers. As the fleet circled around to the southern side of the island, they looked into the distance and were shocked to see five counterweight trebuchets stationed at the port.

"Five of them. This is going to be a problem."

Aboard the Kestrel, the fleet commander wore a grim expression. Unwilling to risk the loss of a single warship, he ordered a cadet officer to send a semaphore signal. "Notify the marine battalion. Have them land on the nearby beach and take this port by force."

Back on the Knarr transport ships.

Upon receiving the message, Leif, Ingvar, and the others cursed furiously.

"What a bunch of shameless bastards!"

"They refuse to take any risks themselves, so they push the marine battalion forward to die! Are the lives of the marines cheaper than yours?"

After venting his frustration, Leif was forced to obey the order. He directed the transport ships toward the fine white sandy beach on the western side of the port. Reaching the shallows, the transport ships lowered longboats using ropes. Leif and the soldiers slid down the lines into the swaying longboats.

Under the blazing sun, twenty longboats rowed toward the beach ahead. The soldiers let out low, rhythmic roars as their wooden oars violently struck the sea, kicking up bursts of white sea spray.

However, fate seemed to stand on the side of the defenders. It was currently low tide, and the seawater was rapidly receding from the beach. The longboats had to row against the current, drastically reducing their speed. Every stroke of the oars became incredibly strenuous. The hulls inched forward with great difficulty, as if dragged back by invisible ropes. This sluggishness bought the Franks precious time.

"Fools, absolute fools! Forcing us to rush the beach during low tide! I'm definitely filing a complaint with the Navy Department after this battle!"

Leif cursed loudly, urging the soldiers to row faster. To his despair, over two hundred Frankish militiamen appeared on the beach, a third of them wielding crude bows and arrows.

Seeing the Viking ships slow down due to the receding tide, practically turning into sitting ducks, the militia commander immediately ordered his men to loose their arrows.

In an instant, arrows rained down upon the Viking longboats, accompanied by sharp, piercing whistles. The space on the boats was cramped, and the soldiers were packed tightly together with almost nowhere to hide. They could only rely on their armor to weather the storm, and men continuously took hits and collapsed.

"Row harder! Push ashore and slaughter them all!"

Despite the heavy casualties, the innate ferocity and survival instincts of the Vikings sustained them. Braving the hail of arrows, the men rowed with even greater madness, their oars even scraping the sand and gravel on the seabed. Finally, accompanied by the grating sound of hulls scraping against the beach, the twenty battle-scarred longships successively ran aground in the shallows.

Fweeeee!

The military officers blew their charge whistles. The Viking warriors unleashed wild roars and eagerly vaulted out of the ships. They waded through knee-deep seawater, recklessly charging toward the militia's positions on the beach.

Although the Frankish militia had seized the initiative, they were, after all, not a well-trained standing army.

Faced with the death-defying charge of these soaking wet, frenzied Viking warriors, the militia panicked. Fear spread like a plague, and many spontaneously turned and fled.

"Huff... huff... they sure run fast."

Leif slumped onto the sand, gasping heavily for air. This victory had been extremely hard-won. From frantically rowing through the low-tide shallows against a rain of arrows, to wading ashore for brutal hand-to-hand combat, the Vikings' stamina was completely depleted. Their arms ached and trembled from overexertion, leaving them with practically no strength left to give chase.