Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 387: Milan

After capturing the ferry crossing, the Great Viking Army utilized boats to transport troops in small batches while simultaneously gathering more vessels from upstream and downstream to construct a pontoon bridge.

On July 13th, the other two armies arrived to converge with them, restoring Wigg's total forces to seventy thousand.

By July 15th, the pontoon bridge was completed. The main Viking force began crossing the river. Their next target was Milan, a city with approximately twenty thousand inhabitants and the most crucial settlement in the Northern Italy region.

Ever since the Vikings had pushed north, Frankish soldiers from the Alps and the Po Valley had been steadily rushing toward Milan. Their numbers totaled ten thousand, and an additional five thousand militia members had been mobilized from the surrounding areas.

In an era of cold weapons, fifteen thousand soldiers defending city walls left over from the Roman period would be enough to hold out until their grain ran dry. However, the Vikings possessed cannons, completely obliterating any defensive advantage the Franks held.

The high command of the Frankish Army debated for a long time, ultimately reaching the conclusion that they must retreat to the east.

"Retreat now? What about the forces stranded in Turin City and the Alps?" Charles the Bald demanded. He estimated there were still three thousand soldiers in the west, along with massive amounts of supplies that could not be evacuated in time.

Turin City was a vital supply base for the Alpine Defense Zone. Most of the spoils plundered from Corsica and Sardinia last year were stored in its warehouses, including enough grain to feed fifty thousand soldiers for a year, as well as vast stockpiles of armor, weapons, arrows, and textiles.

"Grain, armor, weapons, none of that matters," Alfred argued. "As long as we withdraw to the east coast, the Eastern Roman Empire will absolutely ship us enough supplies. If we can just preserve this army, there is still hope for everything!"

"He is exactly right!" the Count of Orléans and the other nobles agreed loudly.Unable to bear the stifling heat inside the room, Charles the Bald walked over to the window to breathe in the fresh air. After a long silence, he finally agreed to evacuate the following morning.

"There is no time for that, Your Majesty," Alfred urged. "We must retreat right now. The Viking cavalry may have already mobilized. If we delay any longer, we will not be able to escape even if we try."

At one o'clock in the afternoon, throngs of bewildered soldiers trudged out of their barracks. Their commanding officers had ordered them to pack their personal belongings and relocate their garrison to the east coast.

The majority of the soldiers had no families tying them down and gladly accepted the orders, unwilling to stay behind and fight the Vikings to the bitter end. However, the soldiers with families and the local militia refused to withdraw, fiercely demanding to remain in their homeland.

"It does not matter. I will not force you," their commander declared.

The officer instructed the soldiers who refused to evacuate to gather on the western side of the square. The remaining forces formed into four columns and swiftly marched out of the city.

By noon the next day, a small detachment of rangers appeared on the outskirts of Milan. They circled the perimeter, meticulously observing the city's defensive fortifications. Some of the remaining garrison took the initiative to charge out and drive the rangers away, earning a chorus of cheers from the local populace.

A short while later, an even larger group of rangers returned to the outskirts. They resumed their reconnaissance of the city, lingering like a swarm of flies that simply could not be swatted away.

Soon, the rangers extracted crucial intelligence from the suburban villages: ten thousand soldiers had evacuated the day before, carrying over twenty noble banners. It was highly probable that this was the main Frankish force.

At three in the afternoon, Wigg received the report. He decided to dispatch Thorkel with all the heavy cavalry, light cavalry, and four thousand mounted infantry to hunt down the main Frankish Army.

The journey from Milan to the eastern coast of Italy would take an estimated seven to ten days, even if the Franks abandoned their supply trains to travel light. Thorkel was fully confident he could catch up to them.

On July 16th, the cavalry units launched their pursuit along the ancient Roman road east of Milan. After a grueling day of riding, they managed to run down a few straggling Franks.

"Where is Charles the Bald?"

Faced with the ferocious and intimidating Viking soldiers, the captives instantly confessed, "Just up the road ahead." Hearing this, Thorkel pushed through his exhaustion and pressed the pursuit. He chased them relentlessly until the afternoon of July 18th, but there was still no sign of the main Frankish Army ahead.

"What is going on?"

He vaguely suspected he was being played for a fool and dispatched a large number of troops to scour the surrounding area. Finally, a greedy shepherd offered a tip to the Viking interpreter:

"The Franks did not take the main road. Instead, they entered the Alps to the north. They are likely fleeing along the mountain trails right now. My lord, I am willing to serve as your guide, but it will cost you extra."

Thorkel harbored deep misgivings about the shepherd's proposal.

Perhaps this old man was an undercover agent, intentionally luring him into some treacherous, narrow valley. Once inside, Frankish archers blanketing the mountainsides could shoot from a commanding height, turning the Viking soldiers into pincushions.

Furthermore, cavalry units were notoriously ill-suited for mountain warfare. Even if the man was not an undercover agent, plunging into the mountains to hunt the enemy remained a terrible idea.

Just then, a staff officer had a sudden stroke of inspiration. He suggested making a long-distance forced march across the Po Valley to block the Frankish Army at the mountain pass where they would eventually exit the Alps.

Thorkel adopted the strategy. Nearly ten thousand men surged forth in a mighty host, riding unhindered across the Po Valley along the ancient roads left behind by Rome.

However, he soon ran into another problem, food.

During this time, the local populace had been terrified by the news of the approaching Vikings. They had packed up their grain and other valuables and fled into the forests or fortified towns. The villages lining the main roads were completely picked clean. At this rate, the rations carried by their packhorses would only last another two days!

When campaigning abroad, securing food was the absolute highest priority. Thorkel dispatched all his rangers, ordering them to expand their search radius to twenty miles. Consequently, their marching speed plummeted.

By this point, Thorkel had lost all confidence in continuing the pursuit. He sent a messenger to report back to the Emperor, laying bare the dire circumstances facing the cavalry and leaving the subsequent plans up to his liege's discretion.

Meanwhile, in the Alps to the north.

Alfred trudged arduously along the mountain path, leaning heavily on his oak walking stick. The King and the rest of the nobles were in the exact same state; their warhorses had been abandoned on the very first day they entered the mountains.

Occasionally, a blood-curdling scream would echo through the valleys before fading into absolute dead silence. The soldiers marched onward with numb expressions, seemingly desensitized to the horrifying phenomenon.

At night, the Franks huddled into the crevices of rocks or took shelter in leeward mountain hollows to sleep. They had no tents and no hot food, only black bread as hard as stone and meager scraps of cheese.

By the early hours of the next morning, the deep indigo sky gradually lightened into a pale, ashen blue. Then, in a brilliant flash, golden rays of dawn pierced through the clouds, illuminating everything in sight: the stark white snow capping the distant peaks, the low-lying moss clinging to the slightly lower slopes, and further down, vast expanses of dark green fir forests.

After taking in the view for a moment, Alfred exhaled a puff of white mist into the frigid air. He quickly scarfed down the small chunk of black bread in his hand and followed the procession as they resumed their trek.

By July 30th, the Frankish Army had lost a staggering thirty percent of its troops. The survivors wore hollow expressions and tattered clothing, following the soldiers in front of them aimlessly, like a herd of migrating goats.

They marched in complete silence, unwilling to waste even the slightest bit of energy on conversation. Alfred had lost his armor and his scabbard sword; all he had left was a single oak walking stick. His legs felt as heavy as lead, but he dared not stop.

Occasionally, amidst the howling of the bitter wind, he would look up out of habit. Yet, stretching endlessly before his eyes was nothing but an unbroken, infinite chain of mountain peaks.