Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 343: Initial Contact

On August 10th, the First Field Division arrived in Brest. With ample forces at his disposal, Wigg began his assault on the northern port of Saint-Malo.

The actual sailing distance between Southampton and Saint-Malo was about 370 kilometers. Under favorable wind conditions, the journey took merely two to three days. If the fleet encountered storms along the way, they could seek shelter from the wind and waves in the Hebrides. Securing this port would make all subsequent transportation significantly more convenient.

Upon arriving at the city outskirts, Wigg employed his previous tunneling tactics, ordering the sappers to begin digging. To confuse the enemy, he selected twenty different locations for simultaneous construction. Three-quarters of these were decoys; only five were actual tunnels being excavated.

Watching the dirt-covered sappers, the second prince, Frede, muttered softly:

"Are we going to keep using these tunneling tactics for every siege from now on? It is far too tedious. Besides, what will we do if the enemy figures out a countermeasure?"

Chief of Staff Leif explained to his cousin, "Tactics have been constantly evolving over the years. It applies to both us and our enemies. When we use new tactics to defeat them, they suffer losses and will naturally devise ways to avoid repeating those failures.

Before this expedition, the Army Academy came up with several methods to counter tunneling tactics. The Frankish Army will inevitably think of them sooner or later. We must take advantage of this precious time gap to breach as many enemy towns as possible."

As time passed, the trench digging proceeded methodically. Wigg dispatched soldiers to sweep through the surrounding noble estates, continuing to gather grain and warhorses.

In the previous battles, the Vikings had captured a total of three hundred warhorses and over seven hundred packhorses. They suffered minimal casualties while assaulting the manors. The mopping-up forces completely overwhelmed the minor lords' militias in every aspect, with skirmishes usually ending in under ten minutes.

On August 17th, within the siege camp, Wigg was lecturing the newly enlisted cadets. "Assuming your unit gets lost in the wilderness, you should make the following arrangements—"Suddenly, Leif rushed into the classroom, bringing the King a piece of bad news: an enemy force numbering over ten thousand was rapidly approaching.

"Understood."

Wigg dismissed the class and returned to his central command tent. He studied the map spread across the table, picked up a blue flag representing the Frankish Army, and placed it to the east of Saint-Malo.

Judging from past battles, it was impossible for Charles the Bald to assemble a massive force in such a short period. The number of troops in this Frankish Army was estimated to be between ten and twenty thousand, a force Wigg felt confident he could handle.

"Send out all the remaining Rangers. The siege work will continue as usual."

Meanwhile, in a grassy field forty kilometers east of Saint-Malo.

Four scouts clad in chainmail slowly rode their horses through the rolling waves of grass. They patrolled vigilantly, their field of vision filled with nothing but green fields, the open sky, and a small patch of woods not too far away.

Suddenly, ten riders burst from the tree line. Wearing earth-yellow brigandine armor, they charged straight at the four Frankish Army scouts. As the distance between the two groups shrank to thirty paces, the sharp, rapid snapping of bowstrings echoed like a sudden downpour.

The feathered arrows struck the upper bodies of the Frankish Army scouts but failed to penetrate the defense of their chainmail. Seeing this, the attackers shifted their aim to the scouts' warhorses.

Before long, a tall, muscular black horse let out an agonized whinny. Its front hooves buckled abruptly, violently throwing its unprepared rider forward. The scout's heavy, iron-armored body crashed into the grass, tumbling repeatedly and crushing a large swath of greenery.

Immediately after, a second horse collapsed, then a third... The heavy thuds of impact echoed one after another as the dismounted scouts struggled to their feet, looking like overturned beetles flailing on their backs.

The Rangers reined in their mounts, forming a loose circle around them. Sitting tall in their saddles, they coldly looked down at the struggling scouts with indifferent eyes, much like seasoned hunters observing prey caught in a trap. After waiting a few seconds, a short, sharp whistle pierced the air. One of the Rangers gently squeezed his horse's flanks, charging toward a scout who was just trying to prop up his upper body.

The scout swung his longsword in vain, desperately trying to defend himself. The Ranger merely gave his reins a slight tug, and his mount nimbly sidestepped the blade. With lethal precision, the Ranger's cavalry saber sliced across the scout's exposed neck, entirely missing the chainmail. Hot blood sprayed out, splattering across the emerald grass stems. The light in the scout's eyes extinguished instantly as his body slumped heavily back into the dust.

The rest of the Rangers spurred their horses forward. With clean and practiced movements, they swiftly finished off the remaining three Frankish Army scouts.

The skirmish concluded, the Rangers smoothly dismounted and approached the corpses scattered in the tall grass. The coppery scent of blood and the faint, dying whinnies of the horses hung heavily in the air.

They expertly looted the spoils of war. Bloodstained scabbard swords were yanked free, heavy coin pouches were cut loose, and working in pairs, they stripped the chainmail from the fallen scouts.

After a few moments of busy work, one of the Rangers pulled out a tin canteen. Out of habit, he caught a glimpse of the distant, emerald horizon from the corner of his eye. His face turned deathly pale, and he hurriedly warned his comrades in Pecheneg.

"Squad Leader, enemies."

The others looked in the direction he pointed, their hearts dropping. On the horizon, over twenty blurry silhouettes were rapidly expanding, charging straight toward their position at breakneck speed.

As the Ranger Squad Leader, Santan immediately barked an order: "Retreat! Keep the four longswords as proof of the kill, but drop the chainmail and iron helmets!"

He scrambled onto his horse as fast as he could and fled, with the remaining nine men close behind. The Rangers drew their bows and fired backward, hoping to slow down their pursuers. However, panicked and thrown off balance by the violent swaying of their galloping mounts, their hastily loosed feathered arrows missed their marks entirely, causing zero casualties.

After a long chase, two of the Rangers began to fall behind. They had disobeyed their Squad Leader's orders, unwilling to abandon the heavy chainmail and other spoils of war. Their horses were panting heavily, white foam frothing at their mouths and nostrils, their speed noticeably dropping.

Realizing they could not escape, the two exchanged a look of despair and split up, fleeing in opposite directions. The two closest Frankish Army scouts did not hesitate, splitting off to pursue them. One of the scouts rode like the wind, rising slightly in his saddle. Using the sheer momentum of his mount, his right hand gripped his longsword and slashed out in a cold arc. A flash of steel gleamed, and the fleeing Ranger pitched forward violently along with his horse.

Shortly after, the other Ranger also fell under a Frankish Army scout's blade, prompting Santan to curse loudly, "Fools who value coin over their own lives!"

Half an hour later, the pursuit was still ongoing. Santan and his men fled to a crossroad where two charred wooden stakes had been planted in the nearby grass, accompanied by a pile of crushed stones.

"This way!"

Santan led his brothers fleeing southward. Soon enough, a large grove of sycamore trees appeared ahead. Santan mimicked a bird call, and a moment later, the exact same chirp echoed from the woods.

Seeing this, the surviving Rangers darted into the forest, but the Frankish Army still refused to give up the chase. A few minutes later, a barrage of feathered arrows suddenly flew out from the trees on both sides. Caught completely off guard, the Frankish Army scouts watched as their warhorses were shot down one by one. Five men were killed in action, and the remaining seventeen were forced to surrender.

"Thanks for the help, otherwise my brothers and I would have been completely finished this time," Santan said loudly, finding the commander of the mountain infantry company to express his gratitude. After resting for over half an hour, they escorted their captives back to the camp to report their success.