While waiting, Vig ordered his troops to repair the defenses of Esbjerg—digging trenches, building barracks, and dispatching the Marine Battalion to operate in the surrounding countryside, looking for opportunities to intercept and eliminate the messengers of Louis the Younger.
The previous year, the Marines had been assigned to recruit settlers in Denmark, so they were quite familiar with the terrain. They split into multiple small paired units and lay in ambush within dense woodland where concealment was easy.
The air still carried the biting chill of late winter. The sky was overcast, with faint rays of light slipping through breaks in the clouds, barely illuminating the patchy snow scattered across the forest floor.
Leif lay prone in roadside brush, staring at the silent woodland path.
At noon, he ate half a piece of hard bread and pulled a tin flask from his coat, taking small sips of warm water.
The flasks issued by the army were of excellent quality. Even water left overnight remained fresh—unlike the old leather waterskins, which always carried a faint unpleasant taste no matter how thoroughly they were cleaned.
After eating, drowsiness crept over him. He grabbed a handful of snow and rubbed it across his face, then kicked a soldier beside him who had begun to nod off, forcing himself to continue the long, tedious wait.
That afternoon, the rhythmic thudding of hooves approached from afar.
Leif swept his gaze across the surrounding woods and signaled the men to remain silent.
Soon, five shadowy riders emerged from the far side of the forest. Their outlines sharpened in the dim light. Wrapped in heavy fur coats, they hunched against the cold wind. White vapor puffed from their horses' nostrils, showing exhaustion.
The hoofbeats grew louder.
Suddenly, two soldiers hidden beside the path yanked backward with force. A trip line sprang up from beneath the snow.
The lead horse crashed to the ground. Its rider tumbled forward violently, rolling a dozen times before lying motionless.
The remaining four riders panicked, drawing their swords and struggling to control their frightened mounts.
Too late.
An arrow buried itself deep into one rider's eye socket. He collapsed backward without even a cry.
Another was struck from the side—an arrow slipping through the gap beneath his chainmail at the left armpit. His body convulsed before he slumped lifelessly over his horse's neck.
A third rider spun his mount around, attempting to flee, but was instantly cut down in a storm of arrows. Horse and rider fell together.
The final survivor abandoned resistance, raising both hands and speaking rapid Frankish.
Leif ordered the man dragged from the saddle while the unit began erasing all traces of the ambush.
The soldiers hauled the bodies into pits that had been dug earlier beside the road, covering them with dirt, dead leaves, and branches. Every spent arrow was collected.
Before departing, one man carefully swept away footprints with a tree branch, then kicked loose snow over the disturbed ground.
Silence returned to the forest, as if nothing had happened.
A few black ravens landed atop the fir trees, cawing irritably as they scanned the empty ground, apparently convinced they had chosen the wrong place to search.
At sunset, Leif led his squad back to an abandoned village that served as their temporary assembly point.
The longhouse at the center belched thick, acrid smoke from burning coal, stinging the eyes.
"Did the army quartermasters make a mistake? Are they fobbing us off with this low-quality coal?"
After grumbling, he opened the five letters recovered from the messengers and struggled to read the dense Latin script.
His expression changed.
Bad news.
After finishing the first letter, he quickly skimmed the rest, then stuffed them into his coat and ran toward the stable yard.
"Inform the deputy battalion commander to take over operations. I have urgent business—I'm returning to Esbjerg immediately!"
Late that night, Leif burst into the command post.
He pushed open the door and saw Frode and several attendants organizing maps.
"I intercepted a group of messengers. There is urgent intelligence!"
Two minutes later, Vig emerged from his quarters wrapped in a heavy coat. He quickly read through the five letters—and realized the war had just become far more complicated.
After Louis the German disappeared, his three sons—Carloman, Louis the Younger, and Charles the Fat—had divided the kingdom according to Frankish custom, each ruling Bavaria, Saxony, and Swabia respectively. Their rivalries had been constant.
But in this matter, the brothers had reached rare agreement.
They believed this was the best opportunity to eliminate the Viking threat once and for all.
Instead of attacking Saxony, Carloman and Charles the Fat had gathered forces to reinforce Louis the Younger—hoping to strike deep enough to invade Sweden in a single campaign.
"Good thing I came quickly," Vig muttered.
He passed the letters to his attendants, stepped to the map table, and placed six blue markers representing Frankish forces across the southern region.
After studying the map for several minutes, he turned to Leif.
"Withdraw your men. We must not alert the enemy prematurely."
"Yes, sir."
March 15
A new convoy arrived at Esbjerg.
Alongside the scheduled reinforcements, Count Douglas appeared with two hundred Highland warriors who had volunteered for the campaign—simply because they were bored and unwilling to miss a chance to fight.
"As you wish," Vig replied curtly.
He was too busy to deal with them personally and assigned Douglas to operate alongside the Guard Battalion.
At this point, Vig commanded 5,800 professional soldiers. With the addition of more than six hundred recently recruited Danish militia, his total strength rose to 6,200 troops.
By his calculations, Carloman and Charles the Fat were already on the move.
Vig no longer hesitated.
He led his army south at once.
After three days of marching, they intercepted the Frankish reinforcements in southern Denmark.
To deceive the enemy, Vig's vanguard carried the banner of the Kingdom of Norway and included six hundred newly recruited infantry.
When the battle began, the Frankish advance troops reported back to their main force:
"Progress is good—we are about to defeat the enemy."
Five minutes later, the message changed:
"The fighting is fierce. The enemy is stubborn—possibly the Norwegian Royal Guard."
Moments after that, a rider with an arrow lodged in his back staggered into the Frankish command position and reported to Carloman:
"The situation has changed. Those are the forces of the Serpent of the North. Your Majesty—we cannot hold them."
With that, he collapsed from his horse.
Carloman grabbed the man's clothing and demanded details—but the rider had already lost consciousness.
Carloman mounted his horse and stared north toward a small oak grove where waves of routed soldiers were emerging.
His thoughts spiraled in confusion, circling a single question:
When did Vig arrive in Tainburg?
On the northern side of the battlefield, news reached Vig that the 1st Infantry Regiment had driven back the enemy vanguard.
He frowned.
His original plan had been to feign weakness.
Instead, the regiment had struck too hard, revealing both their true strength and their identity.
Moments later, another report arrived:
The enemy main force was hastily reorganizing. Their cavalry had been recalled from an impending charge, and supply wagons were being drawn together to form a defensive barrier.
"An improvised formation change?" Vig murmured.
"I didn't expect Carloman to have the nerve to attempt something so difficult."
He paused, then made his decision.
"In that case, I'll change tactics as well."
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