Salomon stepped into the main hall of the Department of Administrative Affairs, where people bustled back and forth. After observing for a moment, he approached the front desk and presented his transfer order.
The clerk glanced at the cover.
"Transferred from the Channel Islands to the central administration? You're quite lucky. Go down the corridor on the right—keep walking. Second-to-last room at the end."
Salomon found the room, knocked, and entered, handing the document to the middle-aged man behind the desk.
The man carefully read the order and the series of seals at the bottom, his tone tinged with confusion.
"Your previous position was military. Now you're switching to a civil post—and even getting promoted? That's unusual. Even with merit-based promotion, you'd normally remain in the army. Why the change?"
Before Salomon could answer, the man fired off several more questions, then reread the document. A troubling thought suddenly crossed his mind.
By Odin… this man doesn't carry himself like a career soldier. Could it be that this 'military post' was just a cover… and he actually came from that department?
He took a quick sip from his tin cup and hurried through the paperwork, not daring to say another unnecessary word.
With a sealed file bag in hand, Salomon left the building and headed to No. 8 Codfish Street to complete onboarding procedures. There, he also received a royal bonus of 100 pounds.
At fifty-four years old, Salomon had no interest in saving money. He spent freely—eating, drinking, enjoying himself—and occasionally traveled to the countryside to observe the promotion of seaweed fertilizer. His days passed in remarkable ease.
As for the wars his colleagues often discussed—whether in Iberia or Eastern Europe—he paid them no mind.
He had no idea how many years he had left. Comfort today was all that mattered.
Royal Palace
Inside his office, Vig was reviewing a report from the Canary Islands.
The islands had now reached a preliminary stage of development, producing sugarcane, grapes, and citrus fruits. The native population had gradually accepted Helgi's rule. Even without relying on exiles, the islands could sustain steady growth.
That led Vig to a new decision:
Exiles would now be sent somewhere more useful—the New World.
He unrolled a parchment map of the Americas, drawn years ago from memory. Combined with the latest reports from the Voyager, he selected three new sites for exile settlements:
Puerto Rico in the Caribbean
The mouth of the Cooper River in South Carolina (later Charleston)
The mouth of the Mystic River in Massachusetts (later Boston)
With the ocean currents now mapped, ships traveling between Europe and the Americas could use these settlements as resupply points.
"In the early stages," Vig thought, "they'll operate like Quebec—buying goods from the natives and reselling them to passing merchants."
He personally drafted an official decree and handed it to the Cabinet for implementation.
Soon after, the Prime Minister and the Minister of Naval Affairs came to ask:
"Who will govern these settlements?"
Vig replied:
"The crew of the Voyager have all been ennobled and granted the right to establish domains in the New World. I'll select three volunteers."
In mid-June, the Voyager and another three-masted ship departed Londinium, carrying a total of 105 settlers along with supplies. Their destination: Puerto Rico, where they would choose a suitable place to settle.
More ships would follow—second and third waves.
Regardless of immediate profit, the priority was clear:
Occupy land first.
Establish the kingdom's claim to the New World.
After seeing the ships off, Vig traveled to the royal stud farm in the eastern suburbs to inspect a newly acquired batch of warhorses.
The previous year, the Cabinet had arranged to purchase Andalusian horses from Lisbon. But transporting them by sea resulted in losses of 30–40%, making the costs unsustainable.
To recover his standing, the Minister of Naval Affairs proposed a new idea:
Have Rurik act as an intermediary to purchase steppe horses from nomadic tribes.
Rurik readily agreed.
Novgorod had long imported British grain, alcohol, dyed cloth, and iron ingots. Its exports were limited—mainly furs, amber, and Byzantine luxuries. With competition from the New World fur trade, profits were shrinking.
The result: a growing trade deficit and steady outflow of silver.
Selling horses offered a solution.
Rurik sent agents to the middle reaches of the Dnieper River, where they traded grain and alcohol for steppe warhorses, then transported them to the mouth of the Neva River.
Agreed price: 2 pounds of silver per horse.
During transport, ships could stop at Gotland, Bornholm, and Zealand, allowing weaker horses to recover. Steppe horses were also more resilient, reducing losses to around 15%.
"Smaller than Western warhorses," Vig observed.
Inside the enclosure stood over a hundred steppe horses—compact and sturdy.
Average height: 13 hands (1.3 meters)
Western warhorses: about 15 hands (1.5 meters)
They had:
broad foreheads
large, alert eyes
constantly twitching ears
short but powerful limbs
hard, compact hooves
Perfectly adapted for endurance on the steppe.
"Total cost comes to about 2.5 pounds per horse," Vig calculated.
"Far cheaper than the 7-pound Andalusians. Excellent value."
He decided to expand purchases.
Steppe horses would serve as mounts for light cavalry. They lacked the explosive power needed for heavy cavalry charges but excelled in:
long-distance scouting
harassment
mobility in open terrain
Turning to his aide, Vig ordered:
"Inform the Minister of Naval Affairs—purchase at least 800 steppe horses this year. Also notify the Ministry of War to recruit civilians with riding experience and form two additional light cavalry battalions."
When fighting the Franks, Vig's greatest concern was surprise attacks or having his lines of retreat cut off. His tactics had often been cautious—restrictive, even frustrating.
But with a thousand or more light cavalry conducting reconnaissance, the risk of ambush would drop dramatically.
Even if his number of heavy cavalry remained inferior to Gunnar's, he would still have confidence in victory.
Gazing at the endlessly flowing Thames River, he muttered:
"Old friend… stay in Iberia. Serve your new master well. If you interfere in my war with the Franks again… don't expect mercy."
After a brief pause, he added another order:
"Steppe horses are different from Percherons and Andalusians. Have Rurik recruit some nomads as well."
Then, with a faint smile:
"Nomads love their drink. Tell them Britain has plenty—wine, whisky, mead, rum, ale, beer… they'll find something to their taste."
—------------------------------
Pat reon Advance Chapters: patreon.com/YonkoSlayer