Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 386: Po Valley

After capturing Genoa, Wigg convened a war council. He planned to leave a small garrison to defend the city while the main force pushed north into the Po Valley. By annihilating the scattered Frankish army units in the region, he aimed to secure a stable rear for their operations.

Traveling north from Genoa to the Po Valley required passing through a region of hills. Wigg surmised that the Frankish army would use the terrain to set up defenses and delay his advance.

He decided on an army division strategy, advancing north along three different routes. Even if the Frankish army managed to block one path, they would be completely unable to stop the entire army.

"Intelligence provided by the captives proves that the total military strength of the Frankish remnants is maintained at around twenty to thirty thousand men. Even if they mobilize their entire force, they cannot defeat any single one of our routes. What are your thoughts?"

The generals voiced no objections to the Emperor's inquiry. Their forces completely crushed the enemy in terms of numbers, equipment, training levels, and organizational structure. They could find absolutely no reason for failure.

In early July, the seventy-thousand-strong army split into three routes. Wigg led the central force out of the north gate, marching slowly along an ancient Roman road.

After traveling some distance, the terrain grew increasingly rugged. Large stretches of forest lay ahead, filled with oak, beech, and pine trees. Occasionally, flickering shadows could be seen darting through the dense woods.

"Find the Frankish army scouts and eliminate them."

Upon receiving their commander's orders, two mountain infantry battalions attached to the division broke formation. Operating in individual squads of fourteen men each, they continuously filtered into the dark, dense forest, much like a trickling stream merging into the sea.

Ominous sounds soon echoed from deep within the forest. Flocks of birds burst from the canopy in a panic, fleeing into the distance."This many men?"

Wigg stroked his chin, then ordered the mountain infantry company under each infantry regiment to plunge into the woods to reinforce their embattled allies.

With the arrival of massive reinforcements, the mountain infantry transitioned from defense to offense. Their entire force was equipped with light brigandine armor, while the armor rate of the Frankish skirmishers was less than half. At the same time, every mountain infantry squad was issued a compass, allowing them to rapidly identify directions. Their combat efficiency far surpassed that of the Franks.

In less than half an hour, the shouts of battle in the forest gradually faded. The Viking main force continued their march along the mountain paths.

In the afternoon, the westering sun cast long shadows over the soldiers. After rounding a hillside, the marching column ground to a halt.

A stone fortification sprawled across the path ahead, garrisoned by at least a thousand soldiers. Outside the walls lay moats, alongside a massive array of hastily planted spiked wooden stakes.

"They actually built stone fortifications in a desolate place like this?"

Wigg was shocked by the sheer determination of the Franks. He was incredibly thankful he had brought cannons; otherwise, his army would have been worn down to nothing by these endless fortresses.

The long, resonant blast of a war horn echoed in all directions, deep and filled with murderous intent. The thunderous roars of grassroots military officers rang out one after another. Each company fanned out to the sides at blistering speeds, transforming their original marching column into a battle line facing the enemy.

A short time later, a sweat-drenched artillery colonel hauled up twelve bronze cannons. They were lined up in a row across the clearing, bombarding the stone city walls located roughly three hundred meters away.

By dusk, the Viking soldiers breached the walls. The Frankish army put up a stubborn resistance, holding out until nightfall before finally retreating from the fortress.

The following day, Wigg successively encountered two more strongholds, drastically slowing their advance. It was not until noon on the third day that the Great Viking Army finally marched out of the hills and entered the core region of Northern Italy—the Po Valley.

After another day's journey north, the Vikings reached the southern banks of the Po River. The rangers conducted reconnaissance in the vicinity, discovering that the pontoon bridges upstream and downstream had been burned down. They only managed to find a handful of scattered ferryboats.

"This is enough."

Wigg left five thousand men behind to attack two nearby towns, while the main force searched for a suitable crossing. On July 8th, he arrived at a section of the river where the current was relatively slow. He discovered that over three thousand soldiers were garrisoned on the opposite bank, flying a yellow dragon banner. "The flag of Wessex?"

He pondered for a moment, recalling that the captives had mentioned Alfred, the heir to Wessex, was currently serving in the Frankish faction. In all likelihood, that very man was on the opposite shore.

Seventeen years ago, Wigg had been appointed as Prime Minister by Ragnar. At the time, Ethelwulf also served in the cabinet, and his youngest son, Alfred, would frequently play in the royal court with Ubbe, Sigurd Snake-in-the-Eye, and the others. Wigg had met Alfred on a few occasions and left with a profound impression of the young child.

Time really did fly by.

On the northern bank, Alfred stared intently at the iconic black dragon banner, his mood suddenly plummeting. He tightly gripped the silver cross pendant on his chest and whispered a prayer, barely managing to muster a sliver of fighting spirit.

"Quickly, while the Vikings' cannons are still in the rear, have the soldiers dig moats and trenches."

The soil near the riverbank was soft, and coupled with a light drizzle from the day before, the Franks' excavation progressed rapidly. Over an hour later, each soldier had managed to dig a pit roughly three feet deep.

By this time, the artillery positions on the southern bank had been fully set up. Across the two-hundred-meter-wide river, the bronze cannons began to open fire one after another. The scorching iron balls slammed into the yielding earth. Instead of skipping or ricocheting, they merely buried themselves deep into the soft soil.

"Don't just stand there, keep digging! The deeper the trench, the higher your chances of survival!"

As he spoke, a cannonball smashed into the ground not far from Alfred. He observed it for a moment, then used an iron shovel to pry the projectile closer, letting out a long, heavy sigh.

After more than a month of warfare, the Franks had developed a rudimentary understanding of this new weapon. The Vikings would stuff a packet of powder and an iron ball into a cumbersome, metal tubular object. Once ignited, the iron ball was propelled at an unimaginable speed, smashing directly into whatever lay ahead.

Whether in terms of destructive power, range, or accuracy, the new weapons vastly surpassed the trebuchets and torsion ballistas of the past.

According to the deductions of their scholars, the key to propelling the iron ball lay in that packet of powder. It was roughly black in color and capable of violent combustion. The scholars adopted the terminology previously coined by Eastern Roman sailors, naming it "Viking Fire."

'If only we could obtain the recipe for Viking Fire...'

As the cannons roared, Alfred's mind raced, ultimately arriving at a despair-inducing conclusion:

Long before these new weapons even appeared, the Snake of the North had spent two and a half years systematically destroying the Frankish Empire. Even if the Franks managed to master the explosive formula, it would at best bring both sides' equipment back to an equal footing.

Beyond just their gear, the Franks lagged behind the Vikings in every other aspect. Even if they somehow acquired cannons on the exact same scale, they still wouldn't be able to defeat the enemy across the river.

At noon, the Viking soldiers attempted a river crossing. The Franks didn't dare leave their cover, forced to hunker down inside their dugouts and blindly loose high-angle fire into the sky. The accuracy of their feathered arrows was abysmally low.

After completing the crossing, thirty small boats returned to the southern bank. Over two hundred Viking infantrymen huddled together on the northern shore, enduring the enemy's feathered arrows as they waited for the subsequent forces to cross.

Once their numbers surpassed a thousand, the Viking infantry leveled their spears and charged toward the enemy's main army standard. The Frankish soldiers on both flanks were heavily suppressed by cannon fire, unable to move a muscle. They could only watch helplessly as the trenches housing their center were completely overrun.

Following Alfred's retreat, the Franks on the flanks fled in a panic alongside him, surrendering this crucial river crossing to the Vikings.