On August 10th, the First Field Division arrived at Brest.
Now that Vig possessed sufficient troops, he began operations against the northern port of Saint-Malo.
The actual sailing distance between Southampton and Saint-Malo was roughly 370 kilometers. With favorable winds, the voyage could be completed in two or three days.
If storms struck along the way, the fleet could shelter in the Channel Islands.
Once this port was captured, future transportation and supply operations would become far more convenient.
After reaching the outskirts of the city, Vig reused the same tactics as before, ordering the engineers to begin tunneling operations.
To deceive the defenders, he selected twenty different digging sites simultaneously.
Three-quarters were merely decoys.
Only five tunnels were actually being excavated.
Watching the mud-covered engineers hard at work, Second Prince Frey muttered quietly:
"Are we really going to keep using this same tactic to capture cities forever?
"It's too boring.
"And what if the enemy eventually figures out how to counter it?"
Chief of Staff Leif explained to his younger cousin:
"Tactics are always evolving.
"Both sides adapt the same way.
"We use new methods to defeat the enemy, and after suffering losses, they search for ways to avoid repeating those failures.
"Before this campaign, the Army Academy already came up with several ways to counter tunnel warfare.
"The Franks will eventually think of them too.
"We need to exploit this precious window of time and capture as many enemy cities as possible before they adapt."
Time passed steadily as the excavation work proceeded in an orderly fashion.
Meanwhile, Vig continued dispatching troops to clear out nearby noble estates, gathering additional grain and warhorses.
During previous operations, the Vikings had already seized three hundred warhorses and more than seven hundred packhorses.
Losses suffered while raiding estates had been minimal.
The clearing forces overwhelmingly outclassed the militias of small lords, and most battles ended within ten minutes.
August 17th.
Inside the siege camp, Vig was giving a lecture to newly enrolled cadets from the military academy.
"If your unit becomes lost in the wilderness, you should make the following arrangements—"
Suddenly, Leif hurried into the classroom and informed the king of troubling news:
An enemy force numbering over ten thousand men was approaching.
"I understand."
Vig dismissed the lesson and returned to the central command tent.
Studying the map on the table, he placed a blue marker representing Frankish troops east of Saint-Malo.
Based on previous campaigns, Charles the Bald could not possibly complete full mobilization so quickly.
Vig estimated this Frankish force numbered between ten and twenty thousand men.
He believed he could handle them.
"Send out all remaining ranger cavalry.
"The siege operations continue as planned."
At the Same Time — Forty Kilometers East of Saint-Malo
Four scouts clad in chainmail rode slowly through rolling grasslands.
They remained alert, carefully scanning the surroundings.
Within their sight existed only grass, sky, and a small patch of woodland nearby.
Suddenly, ten riders burst from the trees.
Dressed in khaki-colored brigandines, they charged directly toward the four Frankish scouts.
The distance rapidly closed to thirty paces.
Then came the rapid twanging of bowstrings like a sudden rainstorm.
Arrows struck the upper bodies of the Frankish scouts but failed to penetrate their chainmail.
The attackers immediately shifted targets and began shooting at the scouts' horses instead.
Before long, a large black horse let out a scream of agony and collapsed to its knees.
Its armored rider was hurled violently forward, crashing heavily into the grass and rolling several times, flattening a wide patch of greenery.
Then a second horse collapsed.
Then a third.
Heavy impacts echoed one after another as the scouts struggled to rise like overturned beetles.
The ranger cavalry reined in their horses, surrounding the scouts in a loose circle.
Seated calmly atop their mounts, they stared down at the struggling men with cold, detached eyes—like experienced hunters studying trapped prey.
After several seconds, a short whistle sounded.
One ranger lightly pressed his heels against his horse's sides and charged toward a scout who had just managed to lift himself halfway upright.
The Frankish scout desperately swung his sword in defense.
The ranger merely tugged lightly on the reins.
His mount gracefully avoided the blade.
Then the cavalry saber in his hand flashed past the exposed gap beneath the scout's chainmail coif.
Blood sprayed across the green grass.
The light vanished instantly from the scout's eyes as his body collapsed heavily back into the dirt.
The remaining rangers rode forward together, their movements efficient and practiced as they swiftly butchered the remaining three Frankish scouts.
When the fighting ended, the rangers dismounted smoothly and approached the scattered corpses lying among the grass.
The air smelled of blood and dying horses.
They expertly stripped the battlefield of spoils.
Bloody swords were pulled free.
Heavy coin purses were cut away.
Working in pairs, they removed the scouts' chainmail armor.
After several moments of looting, one ranger pulled out a tin canteen.
As his eyes casually swept across the distant green horizon, his face suddenly turned pale.
He immediately shouted a warning in Pecheneg.
"Squad leader! Enemy!"
The others looked where he pointed and felt their hearts tighten.
More than twenty blurry figures were rapidly growing larger on the horizon, racing straight toward their position.
As squad leader, Santan immediately gave orders.
"Retreat!
"Leave four swords behind as proof.
"Drop the chainmail and helmets!"
He scrambled onto his horse and fled at full speed, with the other nine men close behind.
The rangers fired arrows backward while retreating, hoping to slow their pursuers.
But panic and the violent motion of their galloping horses ruined their aim.
Every hurried shot missed harmlessly.
After a lengthy pursuit, two rangers gradually fell behind.
They had ignored Santan's order and refused to abandon their chainmail loot.
Their exhausted mounts breathed heavily, foam spraying from their nostrils as their speed noticeably slowed.
Realizing escape was impossible, the two exchanged despairing glances before splitting apart in opposite directions.
The two closest Frankish scouts separated without hesitation and pursued them individually.
One Frankish scout rode like the wind.
Rising slightly in his saddle, he used the momentum of his horse to slash with his sword in a cold arc.
The fleeing ranger and his horse both pitched violently forward.
Not long afterward, the second ranger also died beneath a Frankish blade.
Seeing this, Santan cursed loudly.
"Idiots who care more about money than their lives!"
Half an hour later, the chase still continued.
Santan and the others reached a fork in the road.
Two charred wooden stakes stood planted in the grass nearby, alongside several arranged stones.
"This way!"
Santan led his surviving men southward.
Soon afterward, a vast grove of sycamore trees appeared ahead.
Santan imitated a birdcall.
Moments later, the same birdcall echoed back from within the forest.
The surviving rangers immediately plunged into the woods.
The Frankish scouts stubbornly continued the pursuit.
But only minutes later, arrows suddenly rained down from both sides of the forest.
Caught completely off guard, the Frankish horses collapsed one after another beneath the barrage.
Five scouts died instantly.
The remaining seventeen were forced to surrender.
"Thanks for the help.
"Otherwise we'd have all been finished this time."
Santan found the captain of the mountain infantry company and loudly expressed his gratitude.
After resting for over half an hour, they escorted the prisoners back to camp to report in.
—------------------------------
Pat reon Advance Chapters: patreon.com/YonkoSlayer