Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 312: Asturias

On September 25, 864 AD, a royal messenger arrived in Caen, Normandy.

Breaking the sealing wax on the envelope, Gunnar read the letter line by line. The vast majority of the content detailed the war on the Iberian Peninsula.

Since March, the Umayyad dynasty had been massing its forces for a full-scale invasion of Asturias in the northwestern mountains. King Odoño I could no longer hold out and was forced to seek aid from Francia, pleading with Charles the Bald to lend a hand for the sake of their shared faith.

Persuaded by the church and certain nobles, Charles the Bald issued an edict calling upon the nobles within his realm to volunteer for the expedition to Iberia. Due to financial constraints, however, all war expenses were to be borne by the participants themselves.

"Fight in Iberia?"

Gunnar stroked his thick beard and unrolled a parchment scroll map on his desk. In his mind, the most prosperous region of Europe was undoubtedly the Mediterranean coast. The Moors controlled the naval power and trade of the Mediterranean Sea. If he could breach their cities, he might make a massive fortune—money he could use to build defensive structures and subsidize his own treasury.

Moreover, The Channel experienced frequent storms and rough waves during the winter, making it unsuitable for large-scale amphibious operations. He would not need to worry about Wigg launching a massive invasion while he was away on an expedition.

"If I set out now and return by next summer, I should strive to secure enough spoils of war within half a year."

Gunnar muttered to himself. Having finally made up his mind, he assembled a force of over seven hundred men. This included two hundred knights and an equal number of mounted retainers, alongside three hundred support staff comprised of stablehands, cooks, and a handful of artisans.

To hasten their march, the support personnel were also equipped with packhorses as they traveled south along ancient Roman roads. After more than half a month of arduous travel, they crossed the passes of the Pyrenees and entered the neighboring kingdom.Guided by local soldiers, the contingent advanced west along the coastline to Gijón Port, then pivoted south, crossing the fog-shrouded mountain passes of Picos.

Finally, a valley nestled between the mountains appeared ahead. The view suddenly opened up, revealing sprawling apple orchards and wheat fields.

It was already late October, and the fruits on the trees had been completely harvested. The local residents had a tradition of brewing cider from apples, filling the air with the fragrant scent of fermenting fruit.

Crossing the stone bridge over the Nora River, the troops followed the road into Oviedo, the royal capital of Asturias. Gunnar ordered his men to find an open area outside the city to set up camp while he personally entered the city to seek an audience with the King.

The city was rather small, possessing only one main street running east to west and three secondary roads running north to south. Judging by the number of civilian dwellings, Gunnar estimated the population to be merely around two thousand.

Inside the main hall of the royal palace.

Upon learning the size of the reinforcements, the King expressed his deep gratitude to the Duke of Normandy. Gunnar responded in fluent Latin. Soon, the brown-haired youth standing beside the throne caught his attention.

The youth possessed a solemn aura, his eyes conveying a sense of calm thoughtfulness. His name was Alfonso, the Crown Prince of Asturias. Because the King was plagued by illness, the Crown Prince handled the majority of state affairs.

After chatting for a moment, Gunnar unconsciously began comparing the youth to Robert. In all honesty, his own eldest son was good for nothing but indulging in luxury. His knowledge paled in comparison to Alfonso's, and his martial prowess could not match that of his bastard son, Henry.

It was entirely Charles the Bald's fault for raising him to be such a failure.

Gunnar shook off these dangerous thoughts and asked the King and the Crown Prince about the enemy's troop strength and tactics.

Based on past experiences, the Umayyad dynasty could assemble a field army of twenty to thirty thousand men.

Their most elite force was naturally the Royal Guard, primarily composed of nobles, the sons of rural landowners, and the Sakaliba. The Sakaliba were slaves or prisoners of war from Eastern Europe, purchased in bulk and trained to pledge loyalty solely to the monarch of the Cordoba court. Since this group lacked any political foundation and had no ability to usurp the throne, they were deeply trusted by the sovereign and had gradually replaced the influence of the regional nobles.

Secondly, the Umayyad dynasty could conscript tribal militias, providing them with large numbers of light cavalry who excelled at harassment and reconnaissance.

Finally, there were the temporarily conscripted militias. They were vast in number but lacked training, making them suitable only as cannon fodder.

During a battle, the Moorish army typically dispatched their light cavalry to harass the enemy before feigning a retreat. This would lure the opposing forces into a pre-arranged ambush, where their heavy cavalry and main infantry forces would surround and annihilate them. Alternatively, they would employ flanking tactics with their cavalry on both wings, utilizing their overwhelming numbers of horsemen to crush the enemy lines in a single fell swoop.

"Your Majesty, are you saying that twenty to thirty thousand Moors will launch a full-scale offensive next spring? That is a thorny problem." Gunnar furrowed his brow, inadvertently revealing a hint of hesitation.

"Duke, our numbers are not lacking either. In dire circumstances, the kingdom can muster eight thousand soldiers. Furthermore, Frankish reinforcements are continuously gathering. We can absolutely defeat the Moors!"

Alfonso turned to look at his royal father before presenting the terms they had agreed upon in advance, attempting to retain this renowned Norman noble.

The three of them discussed the matter for a long time. The King eventually agreed to make Gunnar the commander of the Frankish reinforcements, granting him priority rights in the distribution of the spoils of war.

"It is an honor to fight for you, Your Majesty," Gunnar said, bowing respectfully. Accepting this temporary appointment, he began organizing the Frankish knights for centralized training.

"Do not stop. You still have two laps to go. You can eat breakfast once you finish."

The north wind howled bitterly, and the sky was a pale, dismal gray. Henry, the bastard son, ran laps around the snow-dusted training ground with a shield strapped to his back, the constant urging of Knight Oliver echoing in his ears.

Forcing himself through the final lap, Henry's knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the snow, gasping for air. After taking a few minutes to catch his breath, he returned to the tent to enjoy his breakfast.

Over the past two months, Crown Prince Alfonso had requisitioned vast amounts of grain and cider from the populace. He had also ordered the fishermen of Gijón Port to increase their catches, barely managing to feed these guests who had traveled from afar.

Bread, fish, and cider. It was the same every single day, and Henry had long since grown accustomed to it.

"Eat slowly. No one is going to steal it from you," Oliver remarked, nursing a cup of warm cider as he gazed out at the wooden fort on the distant mountain peak.

After wolfing down his bread and pan-fried fish, Henry grabbed a cloth bag containing his books, a quill, and ink, then headed toward the tent of an army chaplain to learn Latin—the universal language of high society.

At noon, Henry finished his lessons. After eating lunch and resting for an hour, he practiced his swordsmanship under Oliver's strict guidance.

This was the most grueling part of the day. Donning specialized training armor and wielding a blunted sword, Henry mirrored Knight Oliver's martial movements. The two would occasionally spar. Despite the protection of his armor, Henry still suffered inevitable bruises. Again and again, he dragged himself up from the dirt, retrieved his fallen dull blade and wooden shield, and pushed through the pain until four in the afternoon.

Once training concluded, he changed into a dry set of clothes and led an old, docile packhorse out of the stables. Riding it at a slow canter, he clumsily swung his sword, hacking at straw dummies.

At dusk, Henry returned to the stables. He personally brushed and fed the packhorse, along with taking care of Oliver's two mounts. Only after ensuring the horses were well-fed did Henry return to his tent for dinner. Day after day, this grueling routine continued until the beginning of 865.