In mid-May, Little Pascal began his journey home.
While temporarily resting at Bornholm, he received a shocking piece of news—
East Francia had invaded once again.
"How did they start fighting again?"
He immediately abandoned his return plans, ordered the captain to sail toward the southeastern Danish coast, then transferred to a rowing longship bound for Schleswig.
After the previous war, the Nordic nobles had assembled four thousand men to garrison the Danevirke defensive line.
Vig had not provided troops personally, but Britain regularly dispatched grain ships to sustain this medium-sized army.
"At minimum, British reinforcements will take a month to arrive. Can they really hold out that long?"
As the longship traveled through the winding Schlei inlet, Little Pascal anxiously stared westward over the water.
Suddenly he recalled the cabinet's assessment of the Nordic powers:
Poor equipment.
Low armor rates.
Limited arrow reserves.
And almost no cavalry.
In open battle, they were at an absolute disadvantage.
Still, since they were defending the Danevirke fortifications, Frankish cavalry would be unable to发挥 their strengths. As long as the Nordic warriors relied on defensive works, holding out for a while should not be difficult.
Six hours later, the docks of Schleswig appeared ahead.
Little Pascal urged the sailors to speed up.
After landing, he sought out local nobles and learned that the southern front was in dire condition.
"When will the reinforcements from Norway and Sweden arrive?"
The noble shook his head.
"Hard to say. Half a month at least. Maybe a full month."
After lunch, Little Pascal climbed the southern wall.
Several black dots swayed along the distant horizon.
Then more and more appeared, eventually merging into a vast human tide.
Within the swirling dust, a tattered banner intermittently came into view—
the World Tree emblem chosen by Uppsala for the Nordic coalition.
"They lost?"
Silence fell across the walls.
Little Pascal widened his eyes, estimating over two thousand routed soldiers.
Soon several riders galloped toward the gates, shouting for them to be opened immediately.
They claimed more than ten thousand Frankish troops were close behind.
Little Pascal had no talent for battlefield command and could only allow the local nobles to act as they saw fit.
The gates were opened to admit the routed soldiers, after which the defenders sealed themselves inside the city and refused to sortie.
By dusk, large numbers of Frankish cavalry had arrived outside Schleswig, though they made no attempt to attack.
The following day, the main infantry force arrived.
Five thousand troops surrounded the city while another five thousand bypassed Schleswig entirely and continued northward.
Sensing the fear spreading throughout the city, Little Pascal judged that the two-thousand-man routed force had completely lost its morale and no longer possessed any field combat capability.
They could only remain trapped within the city—
or flee elsewhere by ship.
"Staying here serves no purpose. Better to return home quickly and report everything to His Majesty."
He tried to find an excuse to leave when another piece of bad news arrived.
The Frankish army had begun constructing trebuchets along the narrowest section of the Schlei inlet, attempting to block Schleswig's eastern sea route.
If that happened, the city's fall would only be a matter of time.
Little Pascal immediately realized the danger.
He rushed to the dockside tavern and found the drunken captain.
"Gather the crew. We leave immediately."
"My lord," the captain slurred, "the lads are off enjoying themselves around town. It'll take some time."
"There's no more time," Little Pascal warned sharply.
"The Franks are building trebuchets along both shores of the Schlei. Once word spreads, panic will erupt inside the city. Some of the routed soldiers may try to seize ships."
Realizing lives were at stake, the captain gathered fifteen sailors.
Three remained missing.
The captain cursed them and left them to their fate within the city.
By now, increasing numbers of routed soldiers crowded the docks.
Voices rose chaotically.
The moment Little Pascal's group boarded and untied the mooring ropes, everyone immediately seized the oars and rowed furiously away from the increasingly unstable mob.
"Twenty-eight ships. More than three thousand soldiers and civilians.
"If properly organized, four round trips would evacuate everyone to sea.
"But these routed troops are completely disorganized. Fighting for spots on the first ships will inevitably trigger bloodshed. If the Frankish army attacks during the chaos…"
Little Pascal forcibly cut off the hopeless thought.
Abandoning all aristocratic dignity, he rowed alongside the sailors.
As they passed the narrow section of the inlet, they indeed saw several hundred Frankish soldiers cutting down trees nearby.
That afternoon, Little Pascal finally returned to the two-masted sailing ship waiting outside the fjord.
Only then did the tension in his chest ease.
Half a month later, Londinium. Royal Palace.
"They're bothering me again. Can't these Franks stay quiet for once?"
Vig stared at the map on the wall and quickly grasped East Francia's intentions.
Nordic raiders excelled at harassment warfare.
The best solution was therefore direct offensive action—
strike at the Vikings' homeland itself and eliminate the pirate problem at its root.
Furthermore, multiple silver mines had been developed in the Harz Mountains of Saxony.
East Francia now possessed ample funds to sustain another war.
After dismissing Little Pascal, Vig muttered to himself behind his desk:
"It's all Ubbe's fault. If he hadn't betrayed Nils back then, the coalition would've had a real chance of taking Magdeburg.
"Then they could've ravaged the middle and upper Elbe, crippling East Francia's war potential.
"Sigh… if things keep going like this, am I going to have to rescue Denmark every few years forever?"
The following day, Windchaser arrived in Londinium and requested that Vig fulfill his sacred duty as Protector of the Faith.
He promised that if the Franks were defeated, every temple throughout the Nordic world would honor Vig as High King Supreme.
"This is troublesome," Vig admitted.
"If I send troops, Charles the Bald will send troops as well.
"Warhorses aren't suited for long-distance sea transport. I lack sufficient cavalry.
"It'll become the same situation as a few years ago—I can drive off the West Frankish army, but I won't be able to inflict any lasting damage."
From a commander's perspective, a campaign into Denmark was unwise.
Yet politically, as king, he could not ignore the conflict.
If the Franks established a stable foothold in Denmark and gradually consumed Sweden and Norway afterward, Britain would become completely isolated.
"These Franks keep attacking Denmark every few years, forcing me to ferry armies across the sea to rescue them. This can't continue."
Vig paced restlessly around the hall.
Gradually, a dangerous idea emerged in his mind.
Rather than allowing the Franks to dictate the battlefield—
why not shift the war directly into West Francia itself?
The two nations were separated only by a narrow channel.
Britain could transport far larger armies there, and horses would spend very little time aboard ships, resulting in almost no losses.
Vig returned to his throne and looked down upon the aging Windchaser.
"I'm willing to send troops.
"But the target will not be Denmark.
"It will be West Francia itself.
"We'll end this once and for all with a war unlike any before—and settle matters completely with our enemies."
Nineteen years earlier, Ragnar had invaded West Francia, and the Vikings annihilated the Frankish main army along the Seine.
Eight years later, Ragnar—crippled by financial crisis—attempted another raid into West Francia and suffered catastrophic losses, beginning the rapid decline of his entire family.
Then, while Britain collapsed into civil war, Gunnar's Frankish army landed and utterly devastated southern Britain.
After so many wars, Britain and West Francia no longer had any hope of reconciliation.
Unless one side was completely defeated,
this state of confrontation would continue for generations—
perhaps for centuries.
—------------------------------
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