After completing his inspection, Vig returned to the central command tent. He broke the seal on Shrike's letter, read it carefully, then passed it to those beside him.
"The pontoon bridge over the Shannon is complete. There was a minor incident—rebels nearly burned it with fireships. Their morale remains high. This war won't be as easy as I hoped."
He spread out a map and studied the recent reports. Gradually, a plan began to take shape in his mind.
Gathering at Athlone
Three days later, at dusk, the expeditionary army arrived at Athlone.
After linking up, Vig commanded fourteen thousand troops—including two thousand cavalry. In numbers, equipment, and training, they overwhelmingly surpassed the rebels.
But war was not simple arithmetic.
Faced with such disparity, the rebels abandoned the plains and withdrew into the western mountains, waiting for another chance to ignite rebellion.
That night, Vig convened a war council in the castle hall.
"After more than a decade of conflict," he began, "western Ireland has produced tribal leaders skilled in small-scale raids. They are experienced and resolute. Persuasion is nearly impossible. There are no clever shortcuts left. We must march into the mountains and eliminate any tribe that dares resist."
He unfurled a large, intricate map across the long table and placed black markers representing his forces at the center.
Taking up a slender command rod, he pushed the markers westward as he explained.
To ensure overwhelming superiority, the first phase would concentrate forces and drive straight west—pushing all the way to Ireland's western coast, severing land connections between the northwest and southwest.
Once the western corridor was cut, the army would pivot north to crush resistance there—then finally turn south.
When he finished, Vig looked toward the nominal lord of Ireland.
"Duke Eamon, your thoughts?"
"Your Majesty," Eamon replied stiffly, "my life's purpose is to serve you. I leave all decisions to your command."
Having witnessed royal power firsthand, Eamon abandoned ambition. He wanted only to end the war swiftly—and see this vast, dangerous army depart.
For the next two hours, Vig broke the broad concept of "conquer the western mountains" into dozens of specific operations—routes, supply lines, coordination between columns—until each commander understood his role.
"That concludes it. Any additions?"
Most nobles were mentally exhausted. Only a few—Torjarl, Shrike, and others—kept pace with Vig's thinking.
After a final round of discussion, Vig dismissed the council and announced a banquet.
The hall instantly revived. Nobles laughed and ate reheated dishes with renewed appetite.
Frode Observes Command
The next day, the 3rd Infantry Regiment gathered battalion and company officers for a meeting. Frode was summoned to record minutes—an opportunity to observe higher-level command.
Afterward, the regimental headquarters held a feast. Frode ate half a roast chicken and drank a large bowl of fish soup, then helped the drunken Ingvarren stagger back to Second Company.
Later, his comrades cornered him.
"Clerk Bob—why did the colonel pick you to record the meeting?"
"Uh… probably because I had the best grades at the academy."
No one believed him.
Lowering his voice, he added, "Fine. I'm related to a cabinet minister. They tossed me into the army to gain experience. Nothing more."
That explanation was plausible enough. The questioning subsided.
Crossing the Shannon
In late June, the army split into four columns and began operations.
Morning mist rose from the Shannon. Sunlight scattered gold across its surface. The river stretched more than a hundred meters wide, reeds lining both banks.
"Watch your footing. Don't slip."
Captain Ingvarren led the four-column formation onto the pontoon bridge. Leather sandals thudded against damp planks. The structure swayed faintly.
Near mid-river, tension thickened. Soldiers fixed their gaze on the backs ahead, refusing to glance at the rushing water below. Sunlight baked their helmets; sweat trickled down their necks.
At last, Frode stepped onto the western bank. Solid ground beneath his feet felt profoundly reassuring.
He turned to see endless ranks still crossing—helmets gleaming like a ribbon of light.
"Rest in place. No talking," Ingvarren ordered.
Soon nine hundred infantry had crossed. Next came scouts and supply wagons.
The horses balked at the swaying bridge and rushing water. They snorted, pawed the ground, and resisted despite their riders' shouts.
One warhorse reared wildly, screaming. Soldiers rushed forward, dragging it by force onto the bridge. It took long minutes to haul it across.
"This'll take a while," Frode muttered, sitting by the riverbank as cavalry chaos unfolded.
Eventually, all forces crossed. Drums and horns sounded. The march resumed.
First Blood
The 3rd Regiment was assigned to seize Galway to the west. In addition to its core troops, it was reinforced with two hundred cavalry and eight hundred levied militia—over two thousand men total.
Galway, once a baron's fief, had been sacked by rebels. Colonel Breken's mission was to retake it and sweep the surrounding region.
On the second day after crossing the Shannon, rebel archers struck.
Hidden in hills north of the road, they launched five rapid volleys—then fled into northeastern marshland.
Over a hundred arrows fell upon the rear ranks. Panic rippled briefly.
The militia lacked armor. Five men died instantly. Eleven were wounded, crying out for aid.
Breken's face darkened as he watched the shamans treat the injured. Then he ordered the wounded sent back to Athlone's field hospital—better to remove their screams than let morale suffer.
The rebel band continued harassing the column for days—until furious cavalry finally trapped them.
Thirty-two archers were cut down. None survived.
Breken shook his head regretfully.
"No prisoners. No way to find their base."
With the threat eliminated, the regiment quickened its pace—reaching its objective on schedule.
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