Chapter 418: Stretched Supply Lines
Lord Lothair stood near the throne, his hand resting on his broadsword, ready to order the destruction of Denmark just to prove a point.
King Horik slowly opened his tired eyes.
"Calm down, Lothair," Horik said quietly, "Sit down and drink some ale before you do something stupid."
Lothair’s sharp eyes narrowed. "You think I am joking, old man? My knights are already cutting your peasants down in the mud. I can have this wooden town reduced to ashes before the sun comes up."
"I know you can," Horik agreed smoothly, gesturing to the bleeding Danish guard to step outside and wait. "But you won’t... and do you want to know why?"
"...Because you have thirty thousand hungry men sitting in that mud outside my walls," Horik stated firmly, sitting up straighter on his throne. "You need my grain. You need my salted fish, my timber, and most importantly... you need my ships."
"You think you can just burn my country and walk to Norway?" Horik challenged, "If you burn Ribe, you burn your own food supply. Your army will starve to death in the snow before you even smell the Norwegian fjords."
However, Lothair wasn’t a fool... the commander was a highly practical monster.
He knew the old King was right.
A marching army was a hungry beast, and the supply lines from Paris were already stretched thin.
"Then get your people under control, Horik." Lothair growled, taking a step closer to the fire.
"They attacked my Marshal. They are throwing burning torches at my knights. Why all this madness? Over one stupid timber merchant who tried to assassinate a captain?"
"That is exactly where you southern bastards misunderstand us," Horik sighed, shaking his head. "The people are not raging because Jarl Torsten was executed. Torsten broke the peace, and every man in that square knew he had to pay the price in blood."
Horik stood up slowly from his throne, he walked over to a table and poured two cups of dark ale.
"The reason they are burning the streets," Horik explained, handing one of the cups to Lothair, "is because you are the ones who executed the man... marshal Gauzlin standing on our platform, holding a Danish axe, and torturing a Danish Jarl in front of his own family? That is not our tradition. It is a humiliating insult."
Though Lothair didn’t drink the ale right away, he accepted the cup, staring into the dark liquid.
"If you had just handed Torsten over to me," Horik continued quietly, "my own headsman would have taken his life with honor. The crowd would have cheered for justice, and they would have gone back to their taverns to drink."
"...But by doing it yourselves, you made them feel like helpless slaves in their own home. You backed a proud wolf into a corner, of course they are going to bite."
Lothair was a man of war, and he understood pride and morale.
Gauzlin’s arrogant theatrical display had jeopardized their entire northern campaign.
"...the damage is already done... the blood is in the mud."
"Then how do we fix it?" Lothair asked, "If I pull my knights back, your people will just swarm the camp."
"Leave the people to me," Horik ordered, turning back toward the doors. "Guard!"
The bleeding Danish soldier pushed the doors open and rushed back into the hall, saluting his King.
"Gather the rest of the Hird," Horik commanded firmly, referring to his elite royal guards. "I want two hundred heavily armed men in the streets right now. You push the crowds back. Do not kill them, just break up the fights.
...Tell the Frankish knights to retreat to their camp."
"And what if the people refuse to disperse, my King?" the guard asked nervously.
"Tell them I am holding a grand festival," Horik said, waving his hand dismissively. "Tell them King Horik is throwing open the royal vaults. Free ale, roasted pigs, and fresh bread for the entire town for the next two days."
"...We will honor Jarl Torsten’s spirit with a feast."
It would distract them, calm their boiling blood, and give them an excuse to put down their axes without losing their pride.
"It will be done, my King!" the guard nodded rapidly, turning and sprinting out into the night to spread the orders.
Lothair watched the doors close, a look of respect crossing his face. "A festival. You are going to drink them into a stupor so they stop fighting. It is an expensive trick, old man."
"It is much cheaper than rebuilding my city," Horik grunted, walking back to sit.
The Frankish commander finished his ale and slammed the cup down onto the table.
He had gotten the peace he needed, but his patience was running out.
"You have your festival, Horik," Lothair stated quietly, "But my men cannot sit forever. I will march in two days. And when I do... I need the ships."
"You will have them," Horik promised, avoiding the commander’s gaze. "Two hundred of my best longships and transports will be waiting at the northern docks. They will carry your thirty thousand men into the Norwegian fjords."
"Make sure they are ready." Lothair warned softly, turning and walking calmly toward the exit.
...
Two days passed in a blurr haze of loud music, spilled ale, and nervous tension. King Horik’s expensive festival had miraculously worked.
The local Danes, their bellies full of roasted pork and their minds clouded with strong mead, had slowly put away their weapons.
The Frankish knights had strictly remained inside their camp, avoiding the town square... the uneasy, fragile peace held just long enough.
Now, the morning fog clung tightly to the northern docks of Denmark.
The scale of the operation was breathtaking... over two hundred Danish longships and deep-hulled transport vessels were lined up along the piers!
Their canvas sails were tightly furled, and the oars were ready.
Thousands upon thousands of Frankish soldiers were marching in tight lines out of their camp and onto the decks of the borrowed fleet.
Halfdan and Knud stood hidden behind a large stack of timber crates near the edge of the harbor, watching the endless stream of southern steel board the ships.
The festival hangover was still pounding in their heads, but the sight before them sobered them up instantly.
"Look at them..." Halfdan whispered, "There are so many of them, Knud... It never ends."
"They are heavily armed, too," Knud muttered, his sharp eyes catching the shapes of the primitive muskets slung over the backs of the Frankish infantry. "They are packed into those hulls like salted fish."
Down on the main pier, Lord Lothair stood still, watching his army load into the boats.
He wore his simple gray cloak, ignoring the sea spray splashing against his boots.
Marshal Gauzlin stood a few paces behind him, wearing a clean fur cloak to replace the one ruined by Torsten’s blood.
"The men are fully loaded, Lord Lothair," Gauzlin reported stiffly, clearly eager to get off this hostile land.
"...the Danish captains say the wind is favorable. We will reach the southern shores of Norway in less than three days."
"Good." Lothair grunted, not looking away from the choppy water of the sea.
Even so, an uneasy silence settled between the two Frankish commanders...
They were about to sail into the heart of the Iron Kingdom’s vassal territory.
They were abandoning the safety of dry land, trusting their lives to foreign ships and the unpredictable wrath of the northern ocean.
Gauzlin cleared his throat, stepping slightly closer to the gray-cloaked rider.
"Lord Lothair..." Gauzlin asked nervously, looking out toward the misty horizon.
"...the scouts reported that King Erik of Iceland has already sailed his fleet to intercept us.
They say he has ten thousand elite riflemen waiting in the snow."
Lothair slowly turned his head, looking at the Marshal with a blank expression.
"Are you afraid of a few northern savages with fire-tubes, Gauzlin?" Lothair asked quietly.
"No, my Lord." Gauzlin quickly lied, puffing out his armored chest.
"But... we are fighting the Iron Kingdom’s weapons on their own freezing turf.
Are you certain we can break King Erik’s defensive lines before they push us back into the sea?"
Lothair slowly turned his gaze back to the dark waters of the north.
He reached into his pouch, pulling out a fresh green apple, and took a bite.
The freezing wind of the northern sea had miraculously died down to a gentle breeze.
Thus, the massive fleet of two hundred Danish longships and deep-hulled transports glided smoothly across the water.
The dreaded journey from the muddy docks of Ribe to the southern shores of Norway had been an unexpected blessing...
There was no terrible storm to scatter their numbers, and there were no massive chunks of floating ice to crush their fragile wooden hulls.
It was exactly the right place at exactly the right time... standing at the very front of the lead longship, Lord Lothair kept his eyes fixed on the northern horizon.
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