September
Vig and the Crown Prince returned to Britain by ship.
With the northeast wind pushing steadily behind them, the flagship Black Bass entered the mouth of the Thames. Standing on the bow deck, Vig gazed at the farmland and pastures lining both banks.
Suddenly, a faint, unpleasant odor drifted through the air—like something quietly rotting in a hidden corner. At first he paid little attention, but as time passed the smell grew stronger, prompting repeated complaints from the crew.
On the northern bank stood a makeshift dock where small fishing boats crowded together after a successful catch. Their hulls rocked gently with the current as workers, bare-chested, unloaded nets filled with fish.
Most of the catch was herring. They were piled into small mounds along the shore, their scales glittering in the sunlight and attracting flocks of noisy seagulls circling overhead.
Beside large wooden tables, groups of middle-aged women worked quickly—scaling the fish, cutting off heads, slicing open bellies, and tossing the entrails into nearby barrels. The organs were mixed with sea salt and a small number of herbs.
Soon afterward, the mixture was poured into enormous clay jars half-buried in the ground. Workers used long-handled paddles to compress the contents, forcing out as much air as possible. The jars were filled only to about seventy percent capacity, leaving room for later stirring.
The openings were covered with fine fishing nets—not sealed, but protected from debris—allowing the mixture to ferment in the sun and open air.
From time to time, workers lifted the nets and stirred the contents from top to bottom, exposing deeper layers to oxygen and ensuring even fermentation. Each stirring released a pungent cloud of decay and brine that spread across the river, provoking loud curses from passing sailors.
"Odin above, can't they move this cursed stuff somewhere else?"
"My nose is dying. How do those workers stand it?"
On the bow of the Black Bass, Vig ignored the complaints.
Roman records frequently described citizens protesting fish-sauce workshops, forcing governors to shut them down temporarily. Yet once public anger faded, production always resumed—because people simply could not live without the condiment.
Midday
The flagship docked at Londinium.
Families of soldiers crowded along the quay. As Vig stepped onto the pier, he saw Herigif holding the hands of their two children. Beside her stood his sister Britta, along with her daughter-in-law and grandson.
After half a year apart, Britta's hair had grown noticeably whiter. She hurried toward him, anxiety plain on her face.
"Where is Leif?"
"The fleet is currently attacking the Channel Islands," Vig replied.
"Leif's Marine Battalion is participating. They should return within half a month."
Meanwhile — Guernsey Island, about thirty miles from the Norman coast.
Fifteen twin-masted warships advanced in single file from north to south toward the harbor on the island's eastern side. Above the defensive wall flew a white banner bearing a black bear.
A lookout high on the mast observed carefully.
Only two trebuchets stood behind the wall.
Under the lead of the flagship Red Falcon, the fleet maneuvered to within two hundred meters of the harbor and unleashed a coordinated bombardment. The trebuchets were quickly destroyed.
Next, the ships entered crossbow range. Stone shot, arrows, and bolts rained down upon the eastern wall until resistance from the defenders collapsed entirely.
Transport ships moved forward to the docks, and Marine Battalion squads entered the fortification in their standard paired formations, securing the small fishing port of roughly one hundred households.
There was no time to rest.
Leif handed defensive duties to allied troops. The Marines returned to their ships and sailed southeast toward Jersey Island.
Jersey was the largest island in the archipelago, covering about 115 square kilometers.
The fleet circled to the southern coast.
From a distance, the harbor defenses revealed an alarming sight:
Five counterweight trebuchets.
"Five… this is trouble."
Aboard the Red Falcon, the fleet commander's expression darkened. He had no intention of risking the loss of a single warship.
He ordered a signal raised:
"Notify the Marine Battalion to land on the nearby beach and seize the harbor by force."
On the transport ships behind them, Leif and his officers exploded in anger when the message arrived.
"Cowards!"
"They won't risk their own ships, so they push the Marines forward to die. Are our lives cheaper than theirs?"
After venting their frustration, Leif had no choice but to obey.
He ordered the transports to steer toward a stretch of fine white sand west of the harbor. Upon reaching shallow water, ropes were lowered and soldiers climbed down into swaying longboats.
Under the blazing sun, twenty longboats rowed toward the shore. The soldiers chanted in low, rhythmic voices as their oars slammed into the sea, sending up sprays of white foam.
But fortune favored the defenders.
The tide was ebbing. Seawater was rapidly retreating from the beach. The longboats had to row against the current, their speed drastically reduced. Each stroke became exhausting, the boats seeming to crawl forward as if dragged by invisible ropes.
This delay gave the Frankish defenders precious time.
"Idiots—complete idiots!" Leif shouted furiously.
"Who orders a landing during low tide? After the war, I'm filing a complaint with the Admiralty!"
In his increasingly desperate gaze, roughly two hundred Frankish militia appeared along the shoreline. About one-third carried crude bows.
Seeing the Viking boats slowed and exposed, the militia commander immediately gave the order to fire.
Arrows whistled through the air and fell like rain upon the crowded longboats. With little room to maneuver, the soldiers could barely dodge. They relied on their armor to absorb the blows, yet men continued to fall.
"Row harder! Get ashore and kill them all!"
Despite mounting losses, the Vikings' ferocity and survival instinct drove them forward. Under relentless arrow fire, they rowed with even greater fury. The oars scraped against sand and stones beneath the water.
At last, with a harsh grinding sound, the damaged longboats ran aground in the shallows.
A sharp whistle cut through the chaos.
Officers signaled the charge.
Viking warriors roared wildly and leapt overboard, splashing through knee-deep water toward the militia line.
The Frankish militia had seized the initiative—but they were not professional soldiers.
Faced with the sight of drenched, blood-streaked Vikings charging like madmen, panic spread among them like disease. Many turned and fled without waiting for orders.
"Ha… ha… they run fast enough," Leif muttered.
He collapsed onto the sand, gasping for breath.
The victory had come at a heavy cost. Rowing through arrow fire in shallow water, then wading ashore to fight hand-to-hand combat, had drained the Marines completely. Their arms trembled from exhaustion. Many lacked the strength even to pursue the fleeing enemy.
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