Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 329: Rangers

With the handoff of Supplies complete, the fleet of Britain began transporting the horses. It was a complex and incredibly time-consuming task. The fleet had been busy for a week, yet many horses remained waiting to board.

"Hurry up, do not dawdle."

The hoarse voice of the Viking captain echoed in the chilling wind, urging everyone to pick up the pace. After confirming that fifteen horses and three Nomads had boarded, he ordered the sailors to untie the mooring ropes from the pier.

A moment later, four nearby rowing Longships received their orders and paddled toward the eastern waters, slowly towing the Brigantine away from the docks.

The Nomads were intimately familiar with the habits of the Steppe Horses. Joren scattered the group of over two hundred men across the various ships to help care for the animals. However, since the Vikings and the Nomads did not speak each other's language, they had to rely entirely on hand gestures, making communication highly inefficient.

After a series of misunderstandings, the Nomads gradually grew accustomed to life at sea. Working in shifts of three, they tended to the fifteen Steppe Horses in the hold. During their free time, they would lean against the ship's rail and gaze toward the east, where their homeland lay, only to be met with an endless expanse of dull, gray ocean.

Ten days passed, and the sailing ships arrived at the island of Bornholm. Two Steppe Horses in poor condition and a sick Nomad were left on the island to recover.

Following that, the vessels sailed through the Kattegat Strait and entered the tempestuous waters of the Atlantic Ocean.

"Gods above, how can the Vikings endure this torment?"

Amidst the freezing drizzle, the Nomad Santan leaned heavily against the railing and retched. Had he known it would be like this, he should have let go of his grudges and joined the Eastern Roman army. At least after the war, he could have brought his wealth back to his Tribe to live in peace. Now, having sailed to the distant West, he figured he would never be able to return home in this lifetime.By early November, the fleet sailed into an estuary. The sailors' moods grew increasingly restless, and Santan realized that this long, grueling journey was finally coming to an end.

Compared to his homeland, the climate here was much warmer. The land on both banks was flat, and he could see sweeping fields of young winter wheat.

In the afternoon, a Stone Bridge stretched across the river ahead. The northern bank was dotted with sprawling buildings, and everywhere he looked, crowds of people bustled about. It was the most vibrant settlement Santan had ever seen.

"What a prosperous kingdom. Let us hope the employer will not delay our pay."

The fleet moored systematically along the river, taking turns at the pier to unload the horses. Santan and his remaining two hundred companions gathered in the open space by the docks, waiting to be inspected by their new employer.

Before long, over a thousand Royal Guard soldiers arrived on the scene, escorting a middle-aged man. Feeling the oppressive aura of this disciplined army, the clamor among the Nomads ceased, and they wisely adopted a submissive posture.

Wigg rode Greywind II, slowly circling the group of Mercenaries. "Is this all of them?"

Joren pulled out the roster. "We departed with two hundred and twenty-eight men. Twenty stayed on the island to recover, seven died of illness, and two hundred and one have arrived."

Wigg recalled memories from over twenty years ago. The attire of these men had not changed in the slightest. They still wore pointed leather hats pulled low, the brims practically covering their eyebrows. Their bodies were wrapped in tattered, yellowing Sheepskin Jackets, cinched at the waist with leather belts, and they wore equally thick fur trousers tucked into high leather boots.

"I am Wigg of Teyne, King of Britain. From this day forward, you pledge your loyalty to me. Your compensation is as follows..."

Wigg detailed the wages and regulations of the Rangers, placing heavy emphasis on Military Discipline. He then pointed to the corpses dangling from the Stone Bridge across the river. "It is strictly forbidden to Plunder the villagers near your station. Anyone who commits a crime will be executed, and your fate will be exactly like theirs."

After delivering the harsh warning, Wigg's gaze swept over the crowd. "I have finished speaking. Are there any other questions?"

He then left the War Department to handle the follow-up matters. A Ranger Battalion consisted of four hundred men, but there were only three hundred and twenty combat personnel, divided into three Companies. The rest were various support and logistical staff.

According to the plan, these Mercenaries would be used to form the Fourth Ranger Battalion. Their base was set up in the expansive, open pastures of northern Cambridgeshire, and the subsequently purchased Steppe Horses would also be housed there.

Once the King departed, the Nomads formed up into four loose columns and marched toward the temporary encampment in the eastern suburbs to rest. Along the way, Santan quietly asked the translator, "Eighty Silver Pennies a year—is that a good deal?"

The translator replied, "Your food, clothing, and expenses are entirely covered by the War Department. You will eat meat—mostly fish—at least once a day, without having to spend a single coin of your own. Eighty Silver Pennies can buy ten pigs. If you spent it all on drink, you could afford four large mugs of Beer every single day. Once war breaks out, you will receive additional allowances, as well as Spoils of War."

To be well-fed, warmly clothed, and given meat every day—this was practically the treatment of a Chieftain's personal guard. Santan and the Nomads around him nodded to themselves, feeling that this arrangement was quite favorable.

Following a straight, even gravel road, the Mercenaries and the herd of Steppe Horses journeyed to northern Cambridgeshire. At their designated station, the Stables and barracks had already been constructed.

The barracks were arranged in a grid pattern, with every twelve rooms forming a row. The Company office was located on the west side, while the public latrines were situated on the far east side.

The middle section housed the rooms for each Squad, divided into inner and outer areas. The outer area featured a fireplace for heating and simple cooking, while the inner area served as the bedroom, furnished with Wooden Beds for the Squad Leader and nine soldiers.

Urged on by the instructors, the Mercenaries stripped off their tattered clothes and bathed in the bathhouse on the eastern side of the camp. Moreover, they were required to scrub themselves for a full half hour.

After stepping outside, they gathered in the open clearing wearing their freshly issued, brand-new clothes. Santan was filled with anticipation for the Warhorses and equipment. The translator had promised them repeatedly that every warrior would receive standard-issue Brigandine armor.

Iron Armor—this was equipment reserved solely for a Chieftain's elite guards!

However, something seemed amiss. Over the following days, they did nothing but practice marching formations, giving them the inexplicable, sinking feeling that they had been reduced to cannon fodder.

Enduring a grueling month, the group of Pechenegs finally completed their basic training and headed to the storehouse to claim their gear.

The crowd was buzzing with restless excitement. Santan could not help but stand on his tiptoes to get a better look at the Iron Helmets and black Brigandine armor.

"Second Company, Fifth Squad. Santan."

'It is finally my turn.' The young man eagerly stepped forward. The Viking standing across the long table remained expressionless as he systematically handed over a set of Brigandine armor, an Iron Helmet, a Cavalry Saber, and a Recurve Bow.

The Recurve Bow required a much higher level of craftsmanship to produce. Its shorter frame made it ideal for horseback archery, classifying it as the standard issue weapon for the Rangers.

"Next."

Santan cradled his equipment and returned to the formation, mimicking the instructors' movements as he strapped on the armor. The light Brigandine armor worn by the Rangers lacked some of the heavier iron plates, bringing its total weight down to a mere six kilograms, ensuring it had minimal impact on the wearer's mobility.

Shing!

Santan drew the Cavalry Saber. The blade was slender, lightweight, and elegantly curved. It felt incredible to swing, and the hilt was fitted with a handguard. According to the translator, this blade was personally designed by the King (based on light cavalry sabers from the Napoleonic Wars, with a thirty-two-inch blade, an overall length of thirty-eight inches, and weighing about two pounds).

"Hey, put the blade away!"

Over the past month, Santan had gained a profound understanding of how terrifying the instructors could be. He instantly sheathed the blade and followed his formation toward the Stable to claim their respective mounts.