Chapter 426: The Iron Kingdom’s Fleet
Three days had passed since the explosive trap in the valley shattered the Frankish vanguard’s confidence.
Lord Lothair and his thirty thousand southern soldiers had sat stuck in the pine forest. They were terrified of taking a single step off the dirt paths, trying to dig their surviving bronze cannons out of the sludge.
Richard pulled his coat tight as he walked through the streets of the port city. He pushed past groups of Norwegian riflemen, reaching the grand longhouse that sat at the highest point of the city.
He pushed the oak doors open and stepped into the hall.
King Erik of Iceland was sitting near the center hearth. He was a giant of a man, draped in polar bear furs. His red beard was braided with iron rings, and his hands were resting on a map of the coastal forests spread out across a table.
Beside him stood Commander Sigurd, holding a cup of dark ale.
"Richard," Erik grinned, "Come in, my boy! Grab a cup of ale and warm your southern bones."
"I don’t have time for a drink, King Erik," Richard said, walking up to the table. "Lothair has managed to free a dozen of his bronze cannons from the marsh. Our scouts report that his infantry is forming up. He is going to try to push across the valley craters by tomorrow morning."
Erik let out a scoff. He picked up his cup and took a drink.
"Let him push," Erik grunted. "If he thinks he can just walk thirty thousand men across a bombed-out road while we sit behind these wooden walls and watch, he is a fucking idiot."
"He isn’t an idiot, my King," Richard corrected. "But he is desperate. He knows his men will starve if they don’t take this port. We need to break them before they even reach the tree line."
Erik looked down at the map, his eyes locking onto the line that represented the river east of the Frankish camp.
"So, we do it tonight," Erik decided, pointing a finger at the river. "I am giving you the official orders, Richard. Take Sigurd and three thousand of my best men. Take the shallow-hulls. Flank their camp directly from the river."
"It will be a slaughter in the dark," Sigurd chuckled. "They think the water is too fast for boats. They won’t even have pickets watching the riverbanks."
"Exactly," Richard nodded. "But we are not just taking the standard weapons. I want to shoot them with the new rifles."
"You can have all of them," Erik agreed. "Load the boats. Drift down the river in silence. When you reach their tents... I want you to unleash hell on them."
"It will be done, my King," Richard said.
However, before Richard could turn around to leave the longhouse, a sudden sound rattled the walls of the hall.
It was a war horn. But it wasn’t the sound of the Frankish horns. It was deep and loud.
King Erik stopped smiling. He dropped his cup and grabbed the battleaxe resting against his chair.
"What in the names of the gods is that?!" Sigurd yelled, drawing his sword.
"That came from the bay!" Richard shouted, sprinting toward the doors.
The three men rushed out of the longhouse and ran toward the battlements that overlooked the harbor. The port city was in a panic. Norwegian riflemen were scrambling onto the walls, unsure if the Frankish navy had somehow bypassed the coastal defenses.
But as Richard reached the edge of the wall and looked out over the water, his breath caught in his throat.
It wasn’t the Frankish navy.
Sailing into the bay was a huge fleet. There were hundreds of longships, transports, and ironclads pouring black smoke into the morning sky.
"By the heavens..." Richard whispered.
"Lower your weapons!" King Erik roared from the wall. "Do not shoot! Those are our sails!"
It was the Iron Kingdom’s fleet.
As the armada drew closer, the scope of the arrival became clear. The decks of the ships were packed with soldiers. There were nearly fifteen thousand men standing on those decks.
Right in the center of the fleet was a ship far larger than the rest. It was an ironclad, with a black flag snapping in the wind.
As the flagship ground to a halt against the pier, the landing ramps were thrown down.
The first man to step off the ship was King Ragnar Ulfsson.
He wore his leather blacksmith apron over his dark armor. His face was calm.
But it wasn’t just Ragnar that caught everyone’s attention.
Walking behind the Iron King were three unusual men.
One of them was a warrior wearing the tartans and leather armor of the northern highlands. He carried a claymore strapped to his back. His name was Domnall, a lord from Scotland.
The other two men were dressed in the scale armor of the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms. Eadberht and Wulfhere. They were veteran commanders from York.
They were marshals. King Ragnar had hired them just a while ago to command his armies.
But... why?
The whispers erupted among the Norwegian soldiers on the docks. Richard frowned, baffled by the sight.
Giving supreme military command of fifteen thousand elite soldiers to a Scotsman and two lords from York was unheard of.
And more importantly... why was Ragnar even here?
Ragnar walked down the pier, his eyes scanning the port, the bronze cannons on the walls, and the confused faces staring back at him. He stopped at the base of the stairs that led up to the city.
King Erik didn’t hesitate. He walked down the stairs.
Erik reached the bottom, dropped to one knee in the mud, and bowed his head.
Seeing the King of Iceland submit, Richard, Commander Sigurd, and every soldier, merchant, and peasant in the port city fell to their knees.
Ragnar looked down at Erik.
"Get up, Erik," Ragnar said quietly, his voice carrying across the docks. "We have a lot of work to do."
Richard stayed on one knee... the river flanking plan suddenly felt small.