After wading across a narrow stream, the Viking army made camp on the grassy adow along the northern bank.
The soldiers of the directly subordinate forces thodically excavated trenches in accordance with regulations. The unearthed dirt was piled into earthen ramparts, and wooden stakes were driven into the ground to form a temporary palisade (during the march, supply wagons were responsible for transporting these stakes).
Once the trenches were finished, the soldiers scattered caltrops along the exterior and hung warning bells on the inner side of the ditch as an early alarm system.
As the outer defensive works were completed, the sky gradually darkened, prompting the soldiers to hurry and pitch their tents.
Each squad shared a single leather tent, which featured a central aisle flanked by the soldiers' sleeping bags. Thanks to standardized components, it took no more than fifteen minutes to set up a tent.
After pitching the tents, the squad leaders sought out their company quartermasters to collect the day's supplies:
Each soldier received three Anglo pounds of wheat flour—roughly a kilogram. This flour was used to make hardtack, a staple recipe of the Roman legions that the Duchess had discovered on an ancient parchnt. Its taste was abysmal, only marginally better than the hard bread they used to eat, and it was a frequent source of complaint among the troops.
In addition to their staple food, the squad leaders received a set ration of cured at, hard sheep cheese, and onions. Because they had fought a battle during the day, the higher-ups specifically distributed smoked sausage and so light beer to boost the army's morale.
Initially, Wigg had intended to emulate the traditions of the Roman legions by selecting a vinegar-based drink called "Posca" as the standard military beverage. However, this was t with fierce opposition from the soldiers. Before enlisting, they were accustod to drinking cheap and delicious beer, and they saw no reason to settle for such a sour, astringent substitute.
Prodded by the quartermaster, the squad leader filled in his na and rank on the supply manifest before shouldering the rations and returning to the tent. A campfire had already been built in the clearing out front, and the soldiers skillfully baked their hardtack, grumbling all the while about the dry, rock-hard food.
After distributing the light beer, the squad leader sat cross-legged by the fire, cradling his cup. As he took a sip, he sighed, "Be content. This afternoon, a company in the neighboring regint botched a formation change, and the whole company was reduced to eating barley."
It had always been the practice to issue barley to poorly performing soldiers as a disciplinary asure. Hearing that their comrades had gotten into trouble, the soldiers imdiately perked up, pestering the squad leader for more inside details.
Inside the central command tent.
The tactical briefing had ended, and the commanders stayed behind to dine together as usual. Their als were relatively lavish, featuring fresh at, honey bread, smoked foods like sausage, and a set ration of wine.
Halfway through the al, Utgard was struck by a sudden whim and pulled out his bagpipes to play a tune from his holand. Once he finished, Pascal Jr. plucked the strings of his lyre, chanting a certain passage from the epic of Beowulf.
"The harp is struck, the ballad is sung, The tale is woven by Hrothgar's bard.
He sings of the world's origin, the creation of man, the shining plains encircled by water, the fragrance of grass and wood brushing the cheek, and the pure, white full moon.
In that ti before blood feuds and war, when only harmony graced the earth."
Wigg sat upright on a folding camp stool, listening to the discussions and jokes of the commanders. He finished the food on his plate in silence and politely declined Leif's offer to pour him more wine.
After the dinner concluded, he personally assigned the night watchn, solemnly instructing the military officers in the tent, "Short on supplies, Gunnar has no choice but to retreat. Tonight is his final opportunity, and it is also our ultimate test. We must withstand this assault."
In the latter half of the night, Wigg woke up groggy and sweltering. He poured so clean water to wipe his face, pushed aside the tent flap, and climbed up the temporarily erected watchtower.
Looking out, the entire encampnt was dead silent, with sentries stationed every few dozen ters along the palisade. Suddenly, several dark silhouettes flashed across the northern palisade. Imdiately after, roaring war cries shattered the silence. Countless torches flared up outside the walls, and the enemy surged toward the camp like a tidal wave.
"They're finally here."
Waiting for a mont, the commanders of the various units sent ssengers one after another. Wigg ordered them to rally their forces to defend their respective camps, strictly forbidding any unauthorized sallies.
Before long, the enemies in the north breached a small section of the palisade. However, they were imdiately t with a blanket of suppressive fire from the crossbown and archers, forcing them to raise their shields as they advanced. Their montum ground to a crawl. After so ti, the troops in the northern sector gradually regained the upper hand, slowly but firmly pushing the enemy forces out of the camp.
At that mont, heaven-shaking war cries erupted from the western palisade. The sheer volu of the clamor was overwhelming. Countless fire arrows shot out from the darkness, descending like a massive shower of fire from the sky, instantly igniting dozens of tents.
Leif's tone was urgent. "Uncle, this is the enemy's main force! Should we send reinforcents?"
Wigg glared at him. "Feign one thing while doing another. What are you panicking for?"
The outer periter of the camp was guarded by Wigg's five directly subordinate infantry regints. He was confident that these ticulously trained troops could hold the line for at least an hour.
He continued to observe and noticed that the fighting in the western sector wasn't actually that intense. The enemy was rely employing high-angle fire to rain down arrows, dispatching small assault teams to seize the palisade and fighting the Viking soldiers with their backs to the wall.
Soon enough, the enemy expended their supply of fire arrows, and the skirmish on the west gradually subsided. However, the assault on the north abruptly intensified. Braving heavy casualties, the Frankish army's heavy infantry pushed forward a significant distance, seizing a large swath of the Third Infantry Regint's camp.
"It's ti."
Wigg deployed the mountain infantry battalions to reinforce the front lines of the Third Infantry Regint, helping them stabilize the formation.
Following that, Wigg looked toward the Highland rcenaries standing by not far away. Over thirty percent of the rcenaries were equipped with hastily patched iron armor. Every one of them was practically jumping out of their skin, eager to join the fray.
They had long since proven their valor, but their fatal flaw was their chaotic lack of discipline. Worried that these n might disrupt his own defensive lines, Wigg stroked his chin in deep thought for a long ti before ordering them to flank around to the enemy's rear to engage the slaughter, fighting as an independent unit.
"Your Majesty, await my good news!"
Chieftain Douglas let out an excited, bizarre screech, leading a massive horde of rcenaries away in a grand, sweeping tide.
Having received two consecutive waves of reinforcents, the Third Infantry Regint finally stabilized the situation. At that mont, a smattering of war cries also echoed from the eastern palisade, accompanied by the neighing of nurous horses.
"Haha, what is Gunnar doing? Trying to scare with horses?"
Under such dimly lit conditions, warhorses could easily break their hooves while galloping, making them practically useless for night raids. By stirring up such a commotion, Gunnar rely wanted to force Wigg to divert his troops.
After over ten minutes passed with the northern front still unable to achieve a breakthrough, the enemy forces successively retreated into the darkness, leaving behind nothing but a heavily battered camp.
The next morning.
Wigg convened a eting with his officers, arranging for the various units to clear the battlefield. At this ti, Pascal Jr. inquired about their next move. Wigg picked up a bowl of salted at porridge with oats and said nonchalantly,
"If nothing unexpected happens, the Frankish army is currently retreating. What are your thoughts?"
After speaking, he surveyed the faces inside the tent. Butcherbird and Thorkel looked thoughtful. Leif was anxious to say sothing but held his tongue. The reactions of the rest were largely the sa—they were all requesting a pursuit.
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