Chapter 419: On The Port
"I hate this water..." Marshal Gauzlin groaned loudly, leaning heavily against the wooden railing beside Lothair.
The proud Frankish Marshal looked green in the face.
His pristine fur cloak was ruined, soaked in salty water and smelling of old fish.
He had spent the last three days emptying his stomach over the side of the boat, humiliated in front of the silent Danish rowers.
Lothair didn’t even turn his head... he just pulled a crisp green apple from his leather pouch and took a slow, relaxed bite.
"You are a Marshal of the Empire, Gauzlin," Lothair said quietly, chewing the sweet fruit. "Try to at least stand up straight. Your men are watching you."
"Let them watch," Gauzlin muttered, spitting salt water onto the deck.
"...we are knights of the open plains, Lord Lothair. We belong on solid dirt with heavy warhorses beneath us. Cramming thirty thousand men into these tiny, floating wooden buckets is complete madness."
"If King Erik intercepts us right now with his ironclads, we will all sink straight to the bottom."
Lothair let out a low chuckle.
He swallowed his bite of the apple and tossed the core into the sea.
"King Erik isn’t going to intercept us on the open water," Lothair stated firmly, "He doesn’t have the ironclad fleet with him. King Ragnar kept the ships locked down south to protect the English Channel.
Erik only has his ten thousand riflemen and whatever local longships he managed to scrape together from the deep fjords."
"Even so, ten thousand rifles is a nightmare, my Lord." Gauzlin argued nervously, "If they line up on the beaches, they will slaughter our infantry before we can even drop the landing ramps.
How do we break a defensive line that can shoot us from a hundred paces away?"
"We use our pure numbers," Lothair answered plainly, "They have ten thousand rifles, but we have thirty thousand heavily armored men. We spread the fleet out across a wide front. We hit the beaches fast, raise the painted shields, and rush the tree line. Men will die, Gauzlin. Thousands of them.
But once we close the distance and turn it into a bloody melee, their little fire-tubes won’t save them from our long swords."
It was a brutal, entirely practical strategy... Lothair didn’t care about glory or holy crusades. He cared about winning.
His personal goal was simple: break the myth of the Iron Kingdom’s invincibility, crush Ragnar’s loyal vassals, and force the Iron King to finally leave his fortified island and fight in the open.
Though the southern knights had fully expected to sail directly into blinding blizzards and giant ice blocks, the sky above them was a crystal clear, deceptive blue.
The morning sun was actually warm, burning away the mist that clung to the water.
"Land!" a Danish sailor suddenly screamed from the top of the mast, pointing a finger straight ahead. "I see the southern coast!"
The entire fleet seemed to collectively hold its breath.
Thousands of seasick Frankish soldiers eagerly pushed themselves up from the cramped, dirty wooden floorboards, gripping the edges of the ships to look out over the water.
There it was...
Rising slowly from the dark horizon were the massive, jagged green cliffs of southern Norway.
They had navigated the treacherous sea... they were on target.
"Finally~" Gauzlin gasped, a wave of relief washing over his face.
"Solid ground... I swear to the heavens, I will kiss the mud the second my boots touch it."
"Save your kisses," Lothair warned quietly, "Draw your blade and order the men to prepare the landing ramps. We are going to hit the main port."
As the massive Danish fleet sailed closer, the grand southern port of Norway slowly came into completely clear view.
It was situated in a wide, naturally deep bay, surrounded by steep pine-covered hills.
Usually, it was a bustling hub of Viking trade, filled with merchant cogs and fishing boats.
However, today, the harbor was empty of civilian ships...
Instead, the massive wooden docks and the stone breakwaters were lined with thick defensive barricades.
Lothair could clearly see thousands of tiny figures moving rapidly behind the stakes.
King Erik of Iceland had locked down the port, exactly as their spies had warned.
"Look at them..." Gauzlin sneered, regaining his arrogant southern courage now that he could clearly see the enemy.
"They think a few wooden spikes and some fire-tubes can entirely stop the might of the Frankish Empire... It’s almost pathetic."
Lothair narrowed his eyes, leaning far over the dragon-carved prow of the longship.
"Sound the war horns," Lothair commanded, drawing his broadsword from his back.
"Tell the fleet to spread wide. We hit the docks from all sides at the exact same time. Do not let them focus their rifle fire on a single target."
"Blow the horns!" Gauzlin roared at the nearby flagmen.
A deep, unified blast of dozens of heavy war horns echoed across the water, shattering the peaceful morning air.
The Frankish soldiers drew their long swords and raised their heavy painted shields, completely ready to endure the incoming hail of deadly lead bullets.
They were less than half a mile from the docks.
The trap was set, and both sides were simply waiting for the absolute slaughter to begin.
Lothair kept his sharp gaze locked on the center of the port. Something was completely wrong.
The Viking riflemen weren’t forming the standard, tight firing lines that Ragnar’s armies usually favored.
They were clustered around large, strange mounds covered in thick black canvas.
"Gauzlin," Lothair snapped, holding out his bare hand. "Give me your spyglass... right fucking now."
"My Lord?" Gauzlin blinked, confused by the sudden, urgent tone in his commander’s voice.
He fumbled with his belt, quickly pulling out the brass spyglass.
Lothair snatched the brass tube and ignored the Marshal.
He brought the glass to his eye, trying to focus on the center of the docks as the longship bounced over the gentle waves.
The canvas tarps on the docks were suddenly pulled away by King Erik’s men.
After hearing such words of confidence from Gauzlin just moments ago, the reality of what Lothair saw through the glass shattered his calm...
Sitting positioned along the edge of the deep water harbor, resting on reinforced wooden carriages, were dozens of steel barrels.
They were aimed right at the approaching Frankish fleet.
"..."
"What is it, Lord Lothair?" Gauzlin asked, stepping closer. "Are they loading the rifles? Let them shoot! Our shields will hold the first volley!"
"They aren’t just holding rifles, you stupid bastard," Lothair hissed, turning his head to look at the Marshal.
Lothair looked back out at the rapidly approaching shoreline, realizing that his massive fleet of crowded wooden ships was sailing into a deathtrap.
"Cannons..." Lothair whispered.
"What?" Gauzlin gasped.
"There are steel cannons on the port!!" Lothair roared at the top of his lungs, turning to the Danish helmsman.
"Turn the ships! Hard port! Get us out of this bay right fucking now!"
But the crowded longships were caught in the strong wind, moving too fast toward the shore.
It was too late to turn back...
As the first massive clouds of black smoke erupted from the distant docks, Lothair gripped the railing and braced himself for the absolute end.
How did Ragnar manage to move a battery of heavy steel cannons to the northern fjords without a single southern spy noticing?
The deafening roar of the steel cannons shattered the peaceful morning air of the Norwegian fjord.
Massive columns of white water violently erupted all around the front line of the Danish longships.
The explosive iron shells slammed into the freezing sea, sending deadly pieces of shrapnel and heavy waves crashing over the carved wooden prows.
"Row!" Lothair roared at the top of his lungs, grabbing a Danish helmsman by his tunic and throwing him toward the steering oar.
"...turn the ships around right fucking now! Row until your arms snap!"
The Frankish vanguard dissolved into screaming chaos... the seasick knights who had just been praying for solid ground were now entirely scrambling over each other, trying to raise their painted shields against the terrifying rain of iron.
CRASH! A solid iron ball smashed straight through the upper mast of a nearby transport ship, completely splintering the thick timber.
The canvas sail collapsed downward, trapping dozens of screaming Frankish soldiers beneath the heavy, wet cloth.
"We are too slow!" Marshal Gauzlin shrieked, pressing his back flat against the deck as another massive geyser of water sprayed over him.
"The wind is pushing us straight into the port!"
"Grab the oars, you stupid southern bastards!" Lothair cursed, kicking a cowering knight in the ribs.
"Help the Danes row!"
Thus, pure desperation finally took over... heavily armored Frankish knights threw down their expensive swords and shields, grabbing the long oars alongside the Danish sailors.
They pulled with everything they had.
Muscles tore, and lungs burned as they fought against the strong morning wind.
Slowly, the fleet of two hundred ships began to turn their wooden noses away from the deadly harbor.
Though the Viking artillery crews on the docks reloaded as fast as humanly possible, the smoke from their own cannons started to blind their line of sight.
A few more stray iron balls splashed dangerously close to Lothair’s flagship, but the combined rowing of thirty thousand men finally pushed the fleet back out of the immediate kill zone.
They sailed desperately back out into the open, choppy waters of the sea, leaving the defended port behind them.
"We are out of range..." Gauzlin gasped, slowly pushing himself up from the wet deck.
He looked pale, his hands trembling as he stared back at the distant black smoke rising from the Viking docks. "By the gods, Lothair... they had an entire battery waiting for us."
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