January 31, 871 AD.
Nearly five days had passed since King Ragnar's fleet first anchored in the bay of Norway.
The promised abslute slaughter by the river had indeed happened, but war was rarely as simple or clean as a perfect plan drawn on a piece of smooth parchment.
The Frankish vanguard had been ambushed in the dead of night, and Commander Sigurd's elite repeating rifles had shredded their outer camps.
However, Lord Lothair was not a stupid man.
The southern commander had rallied his surviving knights, abandoning the exposed riverbank.
He ordered his vanguard to retreat back toward the forest edge and the safety of the eastern beach.
It was a bloody fighting retreat that lasted for days, turning the Norwegian mud into a graveyard.
Thus, the grand war tent of the Iron Kingdom was filled with a tense atmosphere.
Richard stood near the large wooden map table, his tailored coat ruined by mud and dried blood.
