The morning sun rose slowly over the plains of Calais.
"You know," Bjorn said, "If a commander tried to storm a city with his chest bare in front of ten field cannons, he would end up in the history books as the stupidest commander who ever lived."
Erik snorted, nearly choking on his apple. "Bare-chested or wearing full steel armor, it doesn't matter to Ragnar's cannons! But you are right. Duke Odo must be pulling his hair out this morning. First, we blew up his siege towers in the daylight. Then, we vaporized his little assassins in the dark. What is left for the great Holy Order to do?"
"That is exactly what worries me," Bjorn muttered.
Far out on the grassy plains, the Frankish army was moving again...
The tents were being hurriedly taken down. The heavily armored knights were mounting their horses, but they were not forming up in attack columns. They were moving backward.
