That evening, Louis the Younger fled back to Aalborg in panic. He immediately ordered his soldiers to repair the defenses and dispatch parties to scour nearby villages for food.
Someone responded,
"Your Majesty, we already searched those villages once during the siege."
"Search them again!" Louis snapped. "Remember— the more grain we store, the better our chances of survival."
Even now, he had not abandoned hope. According to recent correspondence, not only his elder and younger brothers but also his uncle in Paris—Charles the Bald—was preparing to send troops to join this grand and glorious campaign.
"As long as they launch their offensive, I'll eventually get out of this cursed place."
At first, Louis had been wary of his uncle's intentions, suspecting that the promised assistance was merely a pretext to tighten control over East Francia. But now that events had taken such a dire turn, he sincerely longed for his uncle's arrival. If he could return to Saxony alive, he would even be willing to relinquish his crown and serve as a duke under Charles.
While Louis's battered forces held out in Aalborg, Vig found himself in a difficult position. He was unwilling to waste elite troops on a costly assault. Instead, he ordered the construction of siege camps and the assembly of large trebuchets.
During the building of the encampments, Vig's standing army worked alongside the militias of the Nordic nobles. The militia soldiers were filled with envy when they observed—the treatment—of the professional troops. It was the first time they had seen an army whose needs were fully provided for: clothing, food, lodging, water flasks, sewing kits, soap, even the handling of family letters. Everything had been carefully considered.
As for wages, the standing army had received a pay raise the previous year. Each soldier now earned 50 silver pennies annually. With expedition bonuses and loot included, they were expected to earn half a pound of silver this year.
One soldier sighed:
"The Imperial Guard earns even more. His Majesty recently formed an Axe Guard, two hundred men total, attached to the Guard. Annual salary—120 pennies. Unfortunately, I'm not strong enough to carry double-layer armor and pass the selection test."
After hearing this complaint, the Nordic militia returned to their own camp for dinner. They stared at the pot of boiling oatmeal and instantly lost their appetite, thinking of the allied troops' meals:
Those soldiers ate meat every day—usually smoked sausage or salted pork stewed with vegetables—and they added a small amount of amber-colored seasoning known as fish sauce.
Every two days, they received a cup of rich sugarcane liquor or beer. After the recent victory over Louis's army, they had even been given precious sugar.
"We drink oatmeal every night," one militia man grumbled. "Sometimes it's mixed with moldy oats. Even draft horses wouldn't eat this—yet they feed it to us!"
As time passed, their frustration grew louder until it finally drew the attention of their lord, Leksa.
He was exasperated by their complaints. His domain, Kalmar, was nothing more than an ordinary port town. Being able to keep soldiers fed at all was already an achievement—some lords had to borrow grain just to survive.
Annoyed by the constant noise, he made a concession: he ordered his only knarr ship to put out to sea and begin fishing, ensuring that his soldiers would receive fish regularly.
With the unrest settled, Leksa hurried back to Vig's central command tent to continue enjoying that evening's banquet.
Truth be told, the Serpent of the North's cooks were excellent. The variety of seasonings was astonishing—especially the sauce called fish sauce, whose flavor lingered in memory.
He asked the noble known as Sparrowhawk, seated beside him:
"How exactly is that made?"
Sparrowhawk replied:
"His Majesty and the Queen reconstructed the method from ancient Roman texts. They ferment sea fish with salt, add various seasonings, and once fermentation is complete, the liquid that rises to the top is what the Romans called Garum.
In the past two years, it's become popular throughout the kingdom. The one we're eating is made from mackerel—considered high-grade. The more common version uses herring, since catches are abundant and it's suitable for commoners. I've heard tuna-based fish sauce tastes even better. My workshop is experimenting with production. If you're interested, you can purchase some later."
The next day, with nothing urgent to do, Leksa rode to the field hospital at Randers to visit his wounded nephew.
The hospital occupied a large area on the eastern side of town. Across the open ground, countless sheets and bandages were spread out to dry. Under the sunlight, they shone dazzling white—like frozen clouds scattered across the earth. A gentle breeze set them swaying softly, producing a faint rustling sound.
Nearby, wounded soldiers sat or reclined on the grass. They all wore loose gray patient garments. Some closed their eyes and basked in the sun; others casually flipped through illustrated booklets.
Leksa slowed his pace, searching for his nephew's face. As he approached the riverside, he heard the rolling sound of wooden barrels.
Passing through the drying area, he saw several strange wooden drums fitted with crank handles. Soldiers loaded clothing, sheets, bandages, chunks of soap, and water into the barrels, sealed them with lids, and then turned the crank together. The entire drum rotated.
"What's this?"
Curious, Leksa stepped closer. Through a gap in the lid, he saw the garments tumbling continuously in soapy water. The inner walls of the barrel were rough, like a washboard.
As the drum kept turning, the water grew murkier. Once it reached a certain point, the soldiers dumped the dirty water into the river.
After washing, they placed the wet garments between two wooden rollers and turned another crank. The rollers spun in opposite directions, squeezing out large amounts of water—saving the labor of wringing clothes by hand.
After two rounds of rinsing with clean water, the washing was complete. The soldiers carried the damp items to wooden racks to dry, then returned to clean the next batch of bloodstained and foul-smelling garments.
"How much soap do you use in a day?" Leksa wondered aloud.
Looking around, he noticed that every load of laundry used lard-based soap. In his mind, fat was extremely valuable—rich in calories and essential for survival. Yet the Britons were turning it into soap to clean bandages and clothing.
To him, it seemed outrageously extravagant.
He eventually found the hospital director, Little Pascal, an old acquaintance from the Second Viking–West Francia War.
"You always fight wars like this?" Leksa asked.
Pascal answered honestly:
"Yes. Increasing medical investment allows more soldiers to recover and return to duty. You're an experienced commander—you know the value of these men. The higher the proportion of veterans in an army, the stronger its combat effectiveness. That's why, even with equal numbers and the same iron armor, our forces are still one level above the Frankish army."
Recalling the recent battles, Leksa had to admit the truth. British infantry regiments had indeed defeated equal numbers of Frankish soldiers.
At the same time, he recognized a sobering reality:
The times were changing. Traditional Viking warbands were losing their place. They could no longer stand against Frankish knights trained in coordinated lance charges. In this very war, he and the other nobles had been reduced to second- or third-rate roles—harassment, pursuit, flank attacks—tasks of lesser difficulty.
Holding the main line in a direct confrontation was becoming increasingly beyond them.
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