At first glance, the entire harbor lay deserted.
The baron and his family hung from the town gate, their corpses left for ravens to peck at.
"Quick. Dig a deep pit and bury them."
Breken covered his nose as he surveyed the ruins. The lord's longhouse, temple, and storehouses were reduced to rubble. The well had been stuffed with the bodies of people and livestock.
"There's no point clearing this place. Better to build our own camp."
Having decided, Breken selected open ground on the southwest side and began constructing a fortified encampment from scratch—built to permanent defensive standards.
Hard Labor
For the next week, Frode was consumed with inventory work. When not counting supplies, he dug ditches and hauled logs, until his hands and feet were covered in blisters.
"By Odin… now I understand 'Marius's Mules.'"
In 107 BC, Gaius Marius reformed the Roman army, professionalizing it. To reduce reliance on baggage trains, soldiers carried their own armor, tools, rations, and gear—30 to 40 kilograms in total. Like pack mules.
After days of relentless marching and labor, Frode finally grasped the soldier's burden. From dawn until dusk, one worked under constant scrutiny. A minor mistake meant rebuke; a serious one could mean flogging—or worse.
Gradually, he grew used to being called "Bob." It began to feel like his true name—his sole purpose obedience and execution of orders.
A New Stronghold
In time, a brand-new camp rose along Galway's southwestern coast:
A deep defensive ditch
A five-meter wooden palisade
Rows of tents, later replaced by wooden barracks
A simple dock for naval vessels
"By the gods… what have these Vikings done?"
Five rebel leaders stared in disbelief. They had never seen construction at such speed. Some whispered that magic must be involved.
One elderly chieftain recited ancient Druidic incantations to banish evil.
Nothing happened.
The wind blew softly. The camp stood unchanged.
The rebels left, dejected.
Arrival of the Field Ballistae
Two days later, five two-masted square-rigged ships arrived—forming the newly organized Irish Fleet. They would patrol the western coast and transport supplies and reinforcements.
At the dock, a young naval lieutenant approached Breken with a manifest.
"Count. Everything you requested has arrived. Please confirm receipt."
Breken scanned the list. His eyes fixed on the final line:
Four field ballistae.
At last.
He walked toward the unloading ships, eager to see them. The naval officer cleared his throat.
"They're transported disassembled. If you'd like a demonstration, we can assemble one."
Six sailors set to work, fitting together metal components, torsion spring bundles, and the main frame.
They produced a thick projectile—closer to a short spear than an arrow. Its fletching consisted of shaped hardwood vanes rather than feathers.
Loaded.
They aimed at an abandoned longship 160 paces away.
A hammer struck the trigger.
The machine shuddered.
The bolt screamed forward—
—and buried itself in the mud a few meters short.
Curses erupted. A second shot followed.
Missed again.
The naval officer removed his tricorne and wiped his brow.
On the third attempt, the bolt struck the longship's hull—embedding itself in the planks but failing to punch through.
"That's it?" Breken frowned, disappointed.
The naval officer asked cautiously, "What did you intend to use it for?"
"In Athlone I heard the arsenal had built mobile ballistae for field use. I planned to smash rebel palisades and gates. At best, this might pierce a wooden house."
The officer shrugged helplessly.
"We didn't build them. You'll have to complain to the Londinium Arsenal—or the Ministers of War and Industry."
Training and Limitations
After unloading, Breken selected forty men from various companies to train as a ballista unit.
The process was cumbersome:
Each ballista weighed over 200 kilograms.
On flat ground, they required wagons.
In rough terrain, they had to be dismantled and carried by mule—or men.
The torsion springs required regular maintenance and tendon replacement to avoid loss of power.
Breken watched for some time, then sighed.
"Complicated. Expensive. And you must choose between power and mobility."
Still, they had them.
"Fine. We'll make do."
Into the Mountains
With the camp established and supplies secured, Breken moved to pacify the surrounding countryside.
Every settlement was ordered to provide ten hostages—or face punishment.
The plains complied.
The northwestern mountain tribes did not.
Breken divided his two thousand men into three forces:
Two columns to conduct sweeps
One to remain in camp, overseeing labor for barracks, warehouses, and even a lighthouse
With a local guide, Breken led eight hundred men into the mountains.
The terrain grew harsh—strong Atlantic winds, sparse vegetation, low shrubs, patches of heather. The landscape resembled parts of Glasgow's rugged coast.
Settlements were small and scattered. The locals farmed, herded, fished, and hunted seabirds. There was little wealth to extract.
Breken ignored compliant villages. Hostages were enough.
On the second day, they encountered a tribe that refused submission. Their settlement sat halfway up a hillside, defiant.
"Attack."
Breken deployed two hundred archers and crossbowmen to suppress defenders along the path. Militia formed a shield wall and advanced uphill.
The rebels' arrows were mostly bone-tipped—poor penetration. The militia reached mid-slope with minimal loss.
"Bring up the ballista. Let's see if it's worth the trouble."
Under orders, the ballista crew unloaded components from the mules and assembled the machine one hundred paces from the wooden palisade.
For the first time, it would be tested in war.
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