The ballista assembled, the crew began cranking the ratchet at the rear. It clicked sharply, each turn dragging the thick bowstring back inch by inch. A heavy bolt—more a short spear than an arrow—was set into the groove.
The squad leader adjusted the aim toward the watchtower left of the gate.
He struck the trigger with a wooden mallet.
The ballista shuddered.
The bolt shot forward and smashed into the tower, punching through the planks and killing the archer behind it.
At the same time, the second ballista turned toward the right-hand tower. The archers there scrambled down their ladders in panic.
Under cover of the ballistae and two hundred archers and crossbowmen, ten shield-bearing soldiers rushed the gate and hurled jars of fire oil. The jars shattered with crisp cracks, viscous liquid cascading down the oak doors and staining the ground black.
"Fire!"
Breken ordered a concentrated volley of flaming arrows. The oak gate ignited, orange flames licking across the wood, crackling as they consumed it. Rebels tried to douse the fire from the walls—only to be riddled by bolts and arrows, collapsing like hedgehogs bristling with shafts.
At last, the burning gates gave way with a crash.
Behind them, the rebels had hastily stacked handcarts as barricades. Beyond that stood a shield wall of over a hundred militia.
The ballistae fired again.
The heavy bolts tore through the wooden carts, punched through them, and continued on—impaling four men in a single shot.
Breken stroked his chin.
"So this is what it's good for—shattering infantry formations."
He signaled the infantry to hold position and let the ballista crews continue firing.
A second volley shattered the rebel shield wall entirely.
Breken slashed his hand forward.
The mountain infantry company and the spearmen surged uphill. Archers and militia remained in place.
Frode at the Rear
As company clerk, Frode was not required to fight. Instead, he assisted the accompanying shaman in treating wounded militia.
"Hold him still—don't let him thrash."
The shaman forced a mouthful of spirits down the wounded man's throat, stuffed cloth between his teeth, and washed the wound with alcohol.
Next came the knife—cutting into flesh to extract a bone arrowhead. After checking for cloth fragments, the shaman cleaned the wound again and stitched it closed.
"These filthy bone tips are the worst. Let's hope he survives."
Frode recorded the man's details in the casualty ledger and waited for the next wounded to arrive.
Soon, the remaining rebels fled the hillfort. Breken ordered pursuit by the mountain infantry, while the rest of the force rested and began repairing the fortifications for future use.
At midday, Frode washed his hands and chewed on hardtack. The bloodshed dulled his appetite; he finished only half a biscuit before sitting in the shade with his comrades.
Then—
A faint flute sound drifted from the northern hills.
Three columns of black smoke rose into the sky.
"Ambush—enemy strength triple ours!"
Frode recalled his training instantly. He hurried to adjust his gear.
Alarms rang out near the fort. Breken dispatched two companies of spearmen and one of archers at once.
"Damn it—they can coordinate ambushes now?" the shaman muttered, grabbing shield and sword as he and Frode joined the column.
They ran hard along the mountain path. Frode's legs grew heavy, but when they reached the battlefield, the situation was not as dire as expected.
The mountain infantry had formed a hollow square.
Shield-and-axe men and spearmen made up the outer ring. Inside stood thirty longbowmen and the wounded.
Dozens of bodies lay scattered outside—mostly ragged rebels.
Two hundred paces away, over four hundred rebels rested, poorly equipped with a mix of axes, wooden spears, slings, and bows.
"Charge!"
Fearing the rebels would escape, the battalion commander ordered an immediate assault without full formation.
Seeing fresh Viking forces arrive, the rebels broke and fled in disorder.
The hollow square dissolved. Five intact mandarin-duck squads joined the pursuit; the rest remained to recover.
"Any shamans? Over here!"
Frode helped with treatment, then was handed a roster to record casualties and confirmed kills.
The results were startling:
Though outnumbered three to one, the mountain infantry had not collapsed. The casualty ratio stood at roughly 2.8 to 1—nearly three rebels for every Viking lost.
By mid-afternoon, most rebels were scattered. Prisoners were brought back to the hillfort.
Under interrogation, they admitted they had originally intended to reinforce the fort. But the Vikings' speed of march and assault exceeded expectations. They hastily arranged the ambush instead—and paid for it.
Breken laughed loudly.
"With fighting ability this poor, they still pushed Duke Eamon back step by step? Just how incompetent were his men?"
He drafted a detailed battle report.
Strategic Consolidation
Two days later, in the great hall of Athlone, Vig received Breken's report.
He pinned a small black disk to the map.
Across western Ireland, the map was already crowded with black markers—each one representing a captured stronghold.
At this rate, the army would reach the western coast within two days and complete the sweep.
Vig stretched lazily.
"Is the report finished yet?"
Chief Chamberlain Sebert Stormrage looked up.
"Another hour, Your Majesty."
Vig stepped into the castle garden, ate a simple meal, rested briefly, then returned to receive the compiled survey.
It was the result of days of labor—based on Eamon's data, prisoner interrogations, and field statistics. It estimated population distribution west of the Shannon.
After the war, Vig intended to construct wooden forts across the region—from plains to hills to mountains and the western coastline—leaving rebels no space to regroup.
"Also," he added, "send word to Londinium. I want full merit records from the War Ministry and the Admiralty."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
No Mercy
The following noon, an urgent dispatch arrived.
Breken claimed to have trapped the rebel leader "Sweyn" in a mountain fort called Rises. Sweyn, with the remnants of his forces, requested terms of surrender.
"That's it?"
Vig had no interest in bargaining with a rebel of uncertain identity.
He stepped to the map table and ordered Shrike—whose forces were nearest—to dispatch reinforcements.
"No matter the means," Vig said coldly, "wipe them out."
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