That afternoon, once the wooden bridge was completed, Shrike did not press onward. As procedure dictated, he ordered the army to make camp.
After years of training, the regular army had developed a precise system for constructing field camps. Each unit performed its assigned role efficiently. Within a short time, a fortified temporary camp stood ready.
After supper, Shrike appointed the officers for night watch and retired to his tent.
The Night Assault
Deep into the night, dozens of shadowy figures crept toward the camp.
They lay flat against the earth, inching forward whenever the sentries turned their heads. Finally, one of them rolled into the ditch before the palisade—only to be impaled on iron caltrops hidden within. Blood sprayed as he screamed.
"Enemy!"
A whistle shrieked from the wall.
Nearby soldiers raised light crossbows and fired at the dark shapes beyond. Other sentries followed suit, shooting at anything suspicious outside the perimeter—arrows seemingly without end.
In truth, they did have plenty.
With improvements to iron furnaces, Britannia's pig iron output rose year after year. Combined with the full production capacity of the Tyne Fortress and Londinium arsenals, the regular army could afford to expend ammunition lavishly—far beyond any army in Western or Northern Europe.
By dawn, the sentries had fired more than twenty thousand bolts.
When daylight came, roughly a hundred bodies lay northwest of the camp.
Two hours later, the army dismantled tents and palisades and resumed marching toward Athlone.
The Siege of Athlone
At ten in the morning, scouting cavalry returned: Athlone was under siege by more than four thousand rebels.
Shrike did not rush. He maintained steady pace and arrived at two in the afternoon.
Before them flowed the River Shannon, running north to south across central Ireland. Athlone lay on its eastern bank—the largest settlement in the region and the key crossing point to the west.
From higher ground, Shrike surveyed the disorderly rebel encampment. Most wore ragged clothing, though a handful appeared better equipped—likely renegade minor nobles or landed gentry.
"What's the rebel leader's name?"
A baron in Eamon's retinue replied, "Sven. They always call themselves Sven."
Years ago, when Vig aided Ivar in capturing Dublin, a lord named Sven escaped and later stirred rebellions among Irish tribes. Mortally wounded in one battle, he urged his followers to keep the name alive—a curse hanging forever over Ivar and his heirs.
Shrike was unimpressed.
"Ireland rebels more often than anywhere in Britannia. The problem isn't 'Sven.' It's Ivar—and nobles like you who abuse your people."
The baron bristled.
"Don't look at me like that," Shrike added coolly. "Those are the king's words."
The Battle
The two infantry regiments deployed into a broad line.
Shrike ended the conversation and gave the order to attack.
The rebels were mostly light infantry—lacking cavalry and heavy troops. Shrike chose a classic tactic:
Spearmen would advance steadily, pinning the rebel center.
Cavalry would strike from the flank and rear.
At 120 paces, four hundred longbowmen halted.
The commander loosed a brightly fletched arrow high into the air. It arced and fell deep within enemy ranks.
"Match this angle."
The longbowmen began rapid volley fire—twelve arrows per minute per man. Accuracy mattered little. Volume did.
In under three minutes, nearly ten thousand arrows darkened the sky.
The rebels lacked armor. Casualties mounted instantly. Survivors scrambled into dozens of small shield walls to survive the storm.
A whistle shrilled.
Viking spearmen leveled their weapons and advanced.
Meanwhile, over four hundred cavalry hidden behind a low hill one kilometer away received the signal and charged.
They did not arrive in time for a grand clash.
The rebel line had already broken.
"Damn it," the cavalry commander muttered. "What a waste."
He ordered the horsemen to pursue in detachments.
Most rebels fled north toward lake country, vanishing into dense reeds. Despite pursuit by cavalry and mountain infantry until dusk, more than two thousand escaped.
Taking Control
Shrike ordered Athlone's gates opened.
Though he and the local lord were both earls, he showed no courtesy.
"From this moment, central and western Ireland are under my command—until His Majesty arrives. Any objections?"
The local lord flushed red but dared not protest.
"None."
Shrike refused reckless advance westward. Instead, he focused on logistics:
Constructing pontoon bridges
Repairing roads
Converting Athlone into a supply base
He intended to prepare for the king's main force.
Londinium — Total Mobilization
On the very day the regular army departed, Vig issued a general mobilization order across Britannia, summoning all nobles and militia.
After two weeks, over eight thousand men gathered in Londinium.
Vig did not delay.
He ordered departure the following day, bringing:
500 Royal Guards
The 3rd Infantry Regiment
The remaining thousand guards and newly formed 4th Infantry Regiment stayed behind with arriving militia to defend against potential West Frankish aggression.
Frode's First Campaign
To give his eldest son experience, Vig assigned Prince Frode to the 3rd Infantry Regiment—with strict orders not to reveal his identity.
"Ah?"
Frode was not yet fifteen—about the same age as Eamon. He had expected to serve beside his father, as his cousin Leif once had.
Instead, he was sent into the ranks.
Strangely, he felt relieved.
"Understood, Father."
Colonel Breken of the 3rd Regiment escorted him away and assigned him as a company clerk in 2nd Company, 1st Battalion.
"Your Highness, come to me if you encounter any problems."
"No need, my lord."
Frode understood his father's character. Until the war ended, he would remain at the grassroots level.
And that suited him.
Being a company clerk was far easier than standing beside the supreme commander.
He located the company tent and stepped inside, where a worried middle-aged man stood.
"Reporting. I am Bob, first-year command student of the Army Academy. Assigned as probationary clerk to Second Company."
He handed over his transfer orders—signed by the Minister of War Bafers, the Army Academy, and Colonel Breken.
The man examined the document and sighed.
"I expected they'd send a student to fill the gap—but you look far too young."
After a lengthy grumble, he introduced himself as Ingvarren and ordered a veteran to escort Frode to collect equipment and familiarize him with his duties.
The prince of Britannia had just begun his education in war.
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