Chapter 422: THE Truth -3
"Line the cannons up!" Gauzlin shouted happily, riding his horse onto the smooth surface.
"Double column! Keep the infantry on the flanks!"
Lothair rode his dark horse onto the gravel, he looked down the long path cutting through the dense pine forest.
It led directly toward the rear of the Viking port, bypassing the rugged hills and deep mud.
"They built us a highway to their back door," Gauzlin laughed, riding up next to Lothair. "King Erik is going to shit his pants when he sees fifty bronze cannons rolling down his own logging road."
"Don’t get cocky," Lothair warned, though he allowed a small, grim smile to touch his lips.
"Keep the scouts riding ahead. If this is a logging route, we might run into a Viking work camp. I do not want any alarms raised before we have the cannons aimed at the city."
Even so, the march became incredibly fast.
What would have taken them a full day of brutal, labor in the mud was reduced to a swift walk.
The draft horses barely had to strain to pull the bronze cannons over the packed gravel. The infantry didn’t have to constantly trip over hidden tree roots.
For the next two hours, the mood in the ranks was entirely high.
The knights joked with each other, boasting about the loot they were going to claim once they breached the port.
The fear of the ten thousand rifles was temporarily forgotten, replaced by the comforting sound of boots marching on solid ground.
Lothair rode in silence... he kept his eyes moving, scanning the trees lining the edges of the wide road.
He still couldn’t shake the feeling in his gut... the road was too perfect. The silence was too deep.
"We are making incredible time, Lord Lothair," Gauzlin noted, checking the position of the sun through the gaps in the tall pines.
"We should reach the edge of the forest in less than an hour.
We will have plenty of daylight to set up the artillery lines and bombard the port from behind."
"Keep the men focused," Lothair grunted, resting his hand on his broadsword.
As they continued down the road, the dense pine forest began to slowly thin out.
The ancient trees gave way to smaller, younger pines and wide patches of cleared land.
"Look at this, my Lord," Gauzlin pointed out, gesturing to the sides of the road.
"Massive tree stumps. Hundreds of them. They have been clear-cutting this entire section of the forest. You see? I was absolutely right! It is just a logging operation."
Lothair nodded slowly, finally letting out a quiet breath of relief.
Gauzlin was right... The signs of heavy logging were everywhere!
Massive piles of discarded branches, deep ruts in the dirt where timber had been dragged, and large, empty clearings dotted the landscape.
It was just industry... the Iron Kingdom was hungry for resources, and this was how they fed the beast!
"Alright," Lothair finally conceded, his shoulders relaxing. "You were right, Marshal. I let the rumors of their King cloud my judgment. They are just men building camps."
"Thank you, my Lord." Gauzlin grinned, clearly pleased with himself for outsmarting the grim commander.
However, the easy march was interrupted.
The forward scouts, who had been riding about a quarter-mile ahead of the main column, suddenly stopped their horses.
They didn’t turn around and ride back in a panic like before.
They just sat still in their saddles, staring blankly ahead at something blocking the road.
Lothair frowned, kicking his horse into a quick trot.
Gauzlin followed closely behind, the bronze cannons continuing to roll forward on the gravel.
When Lothair reached the scouts, the road had opened up into a cleared valley.
The pine trees were entirely gone, revealing the rocky, snow-dusted ground stretching out toward the distant hills that overlooked the port.
But it wasn’t the clearing that made the scouts stop.
"What is the hold up?" Gauzlin demanded loudly, riding to the front.
"Why are we stopping? The road is clear."
"Marshal..." one of the scouts whispered.
Lothair narrowed his eyes, squinting into the bright afternoon sun.
About five hundred paces ahead, sitting in the exact middle of the flat road, was a single unusual object.
It wasn’t a fallen tree... It wasn’t a barricade... It wasn’t a line of Viking riflemen.
It was a small, finely crafted wooden table.
Sitting alone in the massive clearing.
On top of the table sat a silver pitcher, two silver cups, and what looked like a plate of freshly roasted meat.
And sitting in a chair behind the table, with his boots kicked up onto the smooth gravel, was a single man.
He was wearing a finely tailored, dark woolen coat, looking out of place in the Norwegian wilderness.
The Frankish army of thirty thousand men and fifty bronze cannons slowly ground to a confused halt behind Lothair.
The silence returned, heavier and more terrifying than before...
"What in the fucking hell is this?" Gauzlin muttered.
The man at the table slowly poured himself a cup from the silver pitcher, ignoring the army of southern steel staring down at him.
Lothair gripped his broadsword tightly.
"If this road was built for hauling heavy logging carts... why are there no cart tracks on the gravel?"
"..."
"I asked you a question, Gauzlin," Lothair said, not taking his eyes off the valley. "If this road was built for carts, where are the tracks?"
The man answering didn’t have the confident swagger he had possessed just a few minutes ago.
Gauzlin swallowed hard. "I... I don’t know, my Lord. Maybe the heavy rain washed them away? There is no time for questions like that right now... Look at him!"
Lothair ignored the Marshal’s weak excuse about the rain. He grabbed his spyglass and brought it to his eye, adjusting the focus ring.
The man was cutting a piece of roasted meat with a small silver knife... he didn’t look like a peasant, and he certainly didn’t look like a common soldier.
"Is that King Erik?" Gauzlin whispered, drawing his long sword.
"No," Lothair stated, lowering the glass. "We know what King Erik looks like from the spies in Denmark. Erik is a massive brute with a fiery red beard, usually draped in bear furs. This man is slim, clean-shaven, and wearing a tailored southern coat. He is a general, of course. Maybe even Erik’s right-hand man."
"..."
Thirty thousand men, fifty bronze cannons, and thousands of horses, all stopped because of one man having his lunch?
"Should I order the front line to raise their muskets?" a Frankish captain asked, riding up beside Lothair. "We can shoot him to pieces right now, my Lord."