After the exchange of goods was completed, the British fleet began loading the horses.
It was an exhausting and highly complicated task. Even after a full week of nonstop work, many horses still had yet to board.
"Move! Stop dawdling!"
A Viking captain's hoarse voice echoed through the cold wind as he urged everyone to work faster.
Once he confirmed that fifteen horses and three nomads had boarded, he ordered the sailors to cast off the mooring lines.
Moments later, four nearby longships received signals and rowed eastward, slowly towing the two-masted sailing ship away from the docks.
The nomads understood the habits of steppe horses well, so Joren distributed the two hundred-plus mercenaries among the ships to help care for the animals.
Unfortunately, Vikings and nomads shared no common language. Communication relied entirely on gestures, making everything painfully inefficient.
After countless misunderstandings, the nomads gradually adapted to life at sea.
Three men rotated shifts caring for the fifteen horses below deck.
During idle moments, they leaned against the rails, staring eastward toward their homeland—but all they could see was the endless gray sea.
Ten days later, the fleet reached Bornholm Island.
Two horses in poor condition and one sick nomad were left behind to recover.
Afterward, the ships passed through the Kattegat Strait and entered the storm-tossed Atlantic.
"By the gods… how can Vikings endure this torment?"
Under freezing drizzle, the nomad Santan hung over the rail vomiting violently.
Had he known it would be like this, he would have swallowed his hatred and joined the Byzantine army instead. At least then he could have returned home after the war with wealth in hand.
Now, after sailing west to this distant land, he suspected he would never see home again.
In early November, the fleet entered a broad river estuary.
The sailors became visibly excited. Santan understood immediately:
The long, miserable journey was nearly over.
Compared to his homeland, the climate here was milder. The riverbanks were flat, lined with fields of winter wheat seedlings.
By afternoon, a massive stone bridge spanning the river appeared ahead.
Countless buildings crowded the northern bank. People swarmed everywhere.
It was the most bustling settlement Santan had ever seen.
"What a prosperous kingdom… hopefully our employer pays honestly."
The fleet docked in orderly fashion.
The horses were unloaded one by one, while Santan and the remaining two hundred nomads assembled in the harbor square to await inspection.
Not long afterward, over a thousand Guardsmen arrived escorting a middle-aged man.
The sheer pressure of the soldiers silenced the nomads immediately. They wisely lowered their heads in submission.
Mounted atop Graywind II, Vig circled the mercenaries once.
"That's all of them?"
Joren opened the roster.
"228 departed. Twenty were left on the islands for recovery, seven died of illness. 201 arrived."
Vig recalled memories from over twenty years ago.
These men looked unchanged:
pointed leather caps pulled low over their brows
ragged yellowed sheepskin coats
thick fur trousers
tall leather boots
worn leather belts
"I am Vig, King of Britain."
"From this day onward, you serve me.…"
Vig outlined the regulations for the light cavalry, emphasizing military discipline.
Then he pointed toward the corpses hanging from the bridge.
"Looting villages near your garrison is strictly forbidden. Offenders will be executed. Like them."
After delivering the warning, his gaze swept across the crowd.
"I've finished speaking. Any questions?"
Without waiting long, he handed the rest over to the Ministry of War.
A light cavalry battalion consisted of 400 men, though only 320 were combat troops, divided into three companies. The remainder were support personnel.
According to the plan, these mercenaries would form the 4th Light Cavalry Battalion, stationed in the northern grasslands of Cambridge County.
Future shipments of steppe horses would also be housed there.
After the king departed, the nomads marched in loose four-column formation toward temporary camps in the eastern outskirts.
Along the way, Santan quietly asked the interpreter:
"Is eighty silver pennies a year considered good pay?"
The interpreter replied:
"The Ministry of War covers food, clothing, and supplies. You'll get at least one meat meal a day—usually fish. No need to spend your own money."
"With eighty silver pennies, you could buy ten pigs. If you spent it all on alcohol, you could drink four large mugs of beer every day."
"And if war breaks out, you'll receive additional bonuses and share in the spoils."
Warm food, clothing, and daily meat…
That was fit for a tribal chief's personal guards.
Santan and the nearby nomads nodded to themselves.
Following straight, paved gravel roads, the mercenaries and horse herds traveled north into Cambridge County.
Their new camp already contained stables and barracks.
The barracks were arranged in a grid:
twelve rooms per row
company offices on the west side
communal latrines on the east
The center rooms belonged to the squads.
Each was divided into two sections:
an outer room with a fireplace for warmth and cooking
an inner sleeping area with wooden bunks for the squad leader and nine soldiers
Under the instructors' supervision, the mercenaries stripped off their filthy old clothes and entered the bathhouse on the east side of camp.
Bathing for less than half an hour was forbidden.
Afterward, they changed into freshly issued uniforms and assembled in the square.
Santan's thoughts were entirely fixed on the promised horses and armor.
The interpreter had repeatedly sworn that every soldier would receive standard-issue brigandine armor.
Iron armor!
Equipment fit for a chief's elite guards!
Yet something felt wrong.
For the next month, all they did was formation drills.
Some of them began to suspect they were being trained as expendable cannon fodder.
Finally, after enduring a full month of basic training, the Pechenegs were marched to the armory.
Excitement rippled through the crowd.
Even Santan rose onto his toes to better see the helmets and black brigandines.
"Second Company, Fifth Squad — Santan."
At last.
He hurried forward eagerly.
The Viking quartermaster remained expressionless as he placed the equipment onto the table one piece at a time:
brigandine armor
iron helmet
cavalry saber
self bow recurve bow
The self recurve bow required more advanced craftsmanship than ordinary bows. Its shorter body made it ideal for horseback combat and served as standard equipment for light cavalry.
"Next."
Santan returned to formation clutching his equipment.
Following the instructors' example, he donned the armor.
The light cavalry brigandine omitted some metal plates, weighing only about twelve jin, allowing greater mobility.
Shing!
Santan drew the cavalry saber.
The blade was slender, lightweight, and slightly curved. It handled beautifully, complete with a handguard.
According to the interpreter, the weapon had been personally designed by the king.
"Hey! Sheathe that blade!"
Over the past month, Santan had developed a deep fear of the instructors.
He immediately shoved the saber back into its scabbard and followed the formation toward the stables to receive their mounts.
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