Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 377: Stripped of Titles

Two days later, Kotsel arrived in the capital of Moravia. The stone city walls here were largely completed, and Greek artisans were setting up heavy ballistae.

Within the city, one could occasionally spot large contingents of standing army soldiers gripping spears. Their shields bore the insignia of a black eagle, and they wore Eastern Roman-style lamellar armor, likely military equipment provided as aid by Basil.

Entering the royal court, Kotsel noticed that the number of guards was significantly higher than usual, with many unfamiliar faces mixed in among them. The panic in his heart intensified, giving him an overwhelming urge to turn around and flee for his life.

Around nine in the morning, nobles from various regions gradually assembled. Kotsel followed the crowd into the grand hall, nearly tripping over his own feet along the way.

It did not take long for an uproar to sweep through the crowd. Kotsel raised his head. The old King was announcing the crimes of his nephew and seven other nobles. Ultimately, the monarch issued an order to strip all eight of their noble titles and placed a bounty on their heads, wanted dead or alive.

'Thank the gods we aren't the ones he's after.'

Kotsel wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, generally understanding the root cause of this sudden purge.

For a long time now, the old King had leaned toward siding with the Romans, while his nephew, Svatopluk, firmly stood with the Franks. This stark difference in allegiance had frequently sparked intense conflicts between the two.

As it stood today, neither the traditionalist faction nor the East Francia faction benefited the old King's rule. Furthermore, with the collapse of the various Frankish nations, even if the old King completely eradicated his nephew's forces, it would not invite any outside interference.

Over the next two hours, the old King announced various reform measures, sternly urging certain nobles who had fallen behind on their taxes to make up the deficit within a month.At noon, the royal court hosted a lavish banquet. Kotsel remained on edge the entire time. His gaze occasionally drifted toward his five accomplices, terrified that one of them might crack under the immense psychological pressure and expose their true intentions.

Enduring until the banquet finally concluded, he left the royal court as quickly as humanly possible. He mounted his horse and galloped madly toward the northwest until he safely returned to his own domain of Zatec.

Two days later, Kotsel received word that Svatopluk and his cohorts had vanished without a trace. They might be lying low within the kingdom's borders, or they could have fled south to Croatia. Following this turbulent event, the political landscape in Moravia fell into even deeper chaos.

When the news from Moravia reached Northern Italy, the Frankish remnants showed absolutely no reaction.

Although Svatopluk was the candidate they had previously backed, that was all in the past. Charles the Bald now had a much more pressing target demanding his attention: the island of Corsica.

After reclaiming Sicily, East Rome fulfilled its promise, handing over the captured Moorish sailors and ships to the Franks.

In early August, a fleet of seventy assorted vessels departed from the Port of Pisa. After sailing for the better part of a day, the rugged coastline of Corsica finally appeared on the horizon.

The fleet steered toward a sheltered bay. Dozens of bloated corpses littered the sandy beach, alongside thousands of discarded feathered arrows. The watchtower perched on the cliff had been reduced to ruined walls and broken debris, the clear aftermath of a fierce and brutal battle.

The amphibious landing proceeded in an orderly fashion. Frankish soldiers leapt into the waist-deep water and charged onto the beach to form a shield wall. Their chainmail and lamellar armor glinted with a blinding white brilliance beneath the scorching sun.

Alfred stepped onto the beach, the soles of his boots sinking into the fine sand that had been baked scalding hot by the sun. He caught the scent of sea salt, charred wood, and a nauseating stench of decay. It was the unmistakable aura of war; from Britain all the way to the western Mediterranean Sea, it never changed.

The Earl of Orléans divided the army into three distinct forces, each pushing inland along a different route. Alfred commanded the northern contingent, marching along a dried-up riverbed. The sweltering heat was utterly suffocating, turning their heavy armor into literal ovens. Every soldier was drenched in sweat, while the surrounding brush occasionally rustled with the sounds of fleeing animals.

At dusk, they encountered their first group of enemies. Almost instantaneously, Moorish pirates ambushed them from behind the rocky crags. They wore loose linen garments and iron helmets, their curved blades reflecting an orange-red gleam in the fading sunlight.

"Shield wall! Form ranks and hold your ground!"

The battle erupted suddenly and ruthlessly. The pirates rained arrows down from above, and though the barrage was largely deflected by shields and armor, agonized screams still rang out sporadically. Alfred watched a young soldier fall backward, an arrow lodged deep in his eye socket, spraying fresh blood across the parched earth.

After loosing five volleys of feathered arrows, the Moorish pirates howled as they charged the Frankish ranks. Alfred parried a vicious slash, reversing his grip to drive his longsword straight into his attacker's chest. Warm blood spurted over his gauntlets, carrying a thick, coppery stench.

The two forces clashed for a brief time before the highly disciplined Franks seized the upper hand. They began to steadily push back the enemy lines, and the bloody skirmish concluded just as night fell. The Frankish army suffered thirty casualties, while the pirates left behind more than ninety corpses.

Before setting out, the Franks had gathered intelligence from local fishermen, learning that the largest single band of Moorish pirates on the island numbered no more than three hundred men.

The intelligence proved accurate. Starting the next day, Alfred led his thousand-plus soldiers deeper into the northern side of the island, yet they never once encountered a large-scale pirate faction.

The inland territory was sparsely populated and the terrain was rugged. Falcons circled high in the azure sky, and the faint jingling of goat bells occasionally drifted from the distance. Corsican villages were typically nestled in easily defensible mountainous areas, with watchtowers erected on the peaks to scan the horizon for pirate raids.

The primary local crops consisted of wheat, cultivated on terraced hillsides and in valleys with access to irrigation. Even small, scattered plots of land were fully utilized to grow chickpeas, lentils, and sprawling grapevines.

Approaching the entrance to one village, a lone shepherd cautiously questioned the heavily armed soldiers. "Who are you?"

Alfred had his guide translate his response. "Do you truly not recognize the banner of your own King?"

"A King? When Corsica was taking turns being endlessly pillaged by Moorish pirates, the King never once cared whether we lived or died."

The shepherd muttered under his breath, hurriedly guiding his flock back into the village.

From the perspective of the locals, the arrival of the Frankish army was an unmitigated disaster. The moment the troops entered the village, they immediately summoned the villagers, demanding they pay decades' worth of back taxes while simultaneously conscripting a quarter of the able-bodied youth to serve as hard labor.

Alfred could palpably feel the deep-seated resentment of the villagers, but his hands were tied. Hundreds of thousands of Frankish refugees had flooded into Italy and were in desperate need of grain and various supplies. This was the exact reason for reclaiming Corsica, an ugly reality that absolutely no one could change.

After twenty grueling days of campaigning, the Franks successfully purged Corsica of its pirates, requisitioning enough grain to feed twenty thousand men for a full year.

"It is not enough. It is far too little." The Earl of Orléans was highly dissatisfied with the results from the various divisions, bitterly complaining that the soldiers had been gorging themselves on food and drink during the requisition process, resulting in severe waste.

Suddenly, the Earl lowered his voice and proposed a truly audacious idea.

"Why do we not head south to Sardinia and 'borrow' a batch of grain from the locals? Sardinia is three times the size of Corsica, and its internal order is remarkably stable. Its crop yields are vastly superior to those of this pirate-infested rock."

Alfred paled in shock. "That hardly seems appropriate, does it? Sardinia nominally swears fealty to East Rome. Are you truly suggesting we plunder an ally's territory?"

The Earl of Orléans scoffed. "What nonsense are you spouting? We are borrowing, not plundering! Once we reclaim West Francia, we will repay the locals with interest."