Driven by a steady sea wind, the fleet sailed south along the coastline. With the wind at their backs, it took only three days to reach the mouth of the Thames.
As the Frankish army continued to expand, traffic between Londinium and Calais grew heavier. Joren happened upon a medium-sized transport convoy—five knarrs and ten longships—and immediately signaled the fleet to attack.
"Close in before firing—save the stone shot."
The flagship Grey Parrot II surged forward first. The enemy had not expected an attack at sea and fell into chaos.
At a distance of a hundred meters, the ballista mounted Grey Parrot II's bow locked onto a knarr. The firing lever dropped, releasing the pent-up energy of the torsion springs. A heavy stone shot screamed through the air toward the target.
With a thunderous crash, the stone slammed into the ship's side. Wooden splinters exploded outward like arrows. A nearby sailor was pierced through the chest and died instantly; two others were struck in the thigh and collapsed on deck, howling in agony.
"Reload—quickly!" Joren roared with excitement. He shoved aside a crewman and worked the winch himself. The heavy ratchet clattered with a teeth-grinding click-clack as the thick bowstring was hauled back inch by inch.
He then lifted another stone into the groove, aimed at the knarr's stern deck, and brought the wooden mallet down hard on the release.
Clack!
A second shot.
A third.
Finally, the fifth stone smashed the square stern rudder, robbing the vessel of steering. Seeing this, Joren shifted targets and began pounding a nearby longship.
As the distance closed, the crew of Grey Parrot II drew bows and crossbows, raining fire down on the enemy decks from above. To maximize firepower, Joren ordered the ship to present its broadside, allowing both ballistae to fire together. The six other square-rigged ships followed suit.
More than ten minutes later, the roar of the ballistae gradually fell silent. All ten oared longships had been sunk. The five knarrs, battered and broken, still floated—but were set ablaze by flaming oil jars, becoming five blazing pyres drifting upon the sea.
Staring at the wreckage and the bodies of drowned sailors rising and falling with the waves, Joren was stunned by how easily the victory had come.
"His Majesty was right," he murmured. "The times have changed."
Suddenly, his eyes flicked to the wind vane atop the mast. An east wind was blowing. A bold idea flashed through his mind. He immediately summoned the seven captains.
"This is a rare opportunity," Joren declared. "We strike Londinium. The gods are watching us."
Three hours later, the fleet was sailing upriver against the current. The silhouette of Londinium gradually came into view.
From afar, vast quantities of supplies lay stacked openly along the docks—perfect targets for fire.
"Signal the change—load oil jars. Prioritize the warehouses on shore."
The Frankish troops were completely unaware of the danger. Joren risked bringing the flagship within two hundred meters, aimed at the warehouses, and slammed down the firing lever.
Clack!
One by one, seven ships hurled flaming oil jars. After several volleys, a section of the docks erupted in flames. Only then did the Franks react, hastily turning shore-based catapults on the attacking ships.
Before long, a massive stone splashed into the water near the flagship, sending a wall of spray crashing over the deck.
For safety, Joren ordered the fleet to turn downstream, opening some distance. He no longer sought precision—oil jars were lobbed toward the general area, trusting the fire to spread on its own.
In five minutes, nearly a hundred oil jars were launched. A handful of Frankish crews finally reacted, rowing longships toward the attackers in an attempt to board.
Watching the docks burn in an unbroken line of fire, Joren announced with a trace of regret, "Withdraw."
After this raid, the Franks would surely strengthen their defenses—river chains, more catapults. Any future attack would only grow harder.
During the retreat, the stern-mounted ballistae continued firing, smashing pursuing vessels. Crewmen joined in with bows and crossbows, focusing on the faster longships until the enemy finally broke off pursuit.
When the fighting ended, the sailors collapsed onto the deck, gulping water from their flasks. Joren checked the hold: one hundred oil jars remained, two hundred stone shot, and ample arrows.
"We can fight one more battle."
He summoned the captains and announced the next target: Calais, on the southern coast of the Channel.
Buoyed by victory, the captains and crews showed no hesitation at all. They steered toward Dover, which was currently under Frankish siege. Beyond the land encirclement, five knarrs lay anchored off the southern harbor, cutting off all contact.
"Move—don't let them escape!"
Joren ordered the attack. The seven square-rigged ships surged forward, ballistae pounding the smaller knarrs. Realizing they were outmatched, the Franks ran their ships aground on a nearby beach and scattered, abandoning five stranded knarrs on the shallows.
With the blockade broken, Joren lowered a boat and sent a crew rowing into Dover Harbor, requesting temporary resupply.
"Approved—of course!" Ulf welcomed Joren and the seven captains warmly, inviting them to dine at Candlekeep.
After Ulf had refused surrender, the Franks had conscripted villagers from nearby regions, digging trenches and building siege camps around the town, enforcing a ruthless blockade.
Fortunately, Dover still had ample supplies and could hold out another two or three months—though the monotony was unbearable.
At dinner, Ulf questioned them eagerly about the outside world. When he heard of Ivar's defeat and death, his wine cup slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor.
"So… what the Frankish troops outside say is true?"
Joren quickly reassured him. "Please rest easy. His Majesty has secured the loyalty of the Welsh. Our total strength has risen to thirteen thousand. We lack neither grain nor arms—we can defeat Gunnar and Æthelbald."
"Let us hope so," Ulf said quietly.
Advanced in years, his strength and ambitions had waned. He had little interest in the throne of Britannia; whether Vig or Ivar ruled made little difference to him.
After dinner, Joren and his sailors slept soundly. At dawn the next day, they raised anchor—only for the weather to turn violently. Torrential rain fell, and gales whipped the Channel into towering waves. The fleet was forced back into harbor.
On the fourth morning, the skies cleared. Joren led the fleet straight toward Calais.
As the logistical hub for the Frankish invasion, Calais held over two hundred ships, with mountains of supplies and endless tents spreading beyond the town.
"Charge through!"
Ignoring the fire from harbor catapults, the fleet closed to within two hundred meters of the docks and hurled oil jars as fast as possible, igniting massive fires along the waterfront. During the attack, two square-rigged ships were hit—one lost its foremast, another suffered a gaping hole in its side as seawater poured in.
"Abandon ship. She's lost."
As the vessel listed, the captain ordered the crew off. Before leaving, they set fire to both torsion ballistae at bow and stern.
The surviving sailors were soon pulled aboard friendly boats and distributed among the remaining six ships.
Watching the crippled ship sink beneath the waves, Joren sighed. "Ship, ballistae, and everything in the hold—over two hundred pounds gone. Naval warfare really burns money."
With their objective achieved, the fleet withdrew once more to Dover. Joren estimated that at least half the supplies at both targets had been destroyed.
The enemy, he knew, would not be jumping for much longer.
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