At dawn the following day, Vig led his army into Tamworth. The Frankish garrison had fled overnight, leaving the town completely unguarded.
A check of the granaries revealed golden wheat scattered all over the ground. As many as twenty thousand bushels of grain had been abandoned—enough to sustain the army for two full months.
In addition, Vig seized large quantities of weapons, some taken from the armories of Londinium, others originating from West Francia.
His own core troops used standardized equipment and had no need for this assorted junk, but it was perfectly suited for Little Pascal's irregular units and the Highland mercenaries.
With that in mind, Vig ordered messengers to summon them to assemble, and at the same time dispatched an envoy to Manchuni.
"Tell Lennard to stop hiding. If I don't see his troops within a week, he shouldn't come ever again."
Vig could more or less guess Lennard's intentions—deliberately staying holed up in Manchuni to bargain for Liverpool in the west.
Liverpool had always been poor, a barren scrap of land with little value to squeeze out of it. But that was no reason for Vig to compromise. If Lennard couldn't read the situation, then Vig would simply deal with him first.
After noting this down in his ledger, Vig turned his attention back to the battlefield. He summoned Joren and Torgil, ordering them to pursue the enemy along Charles's retreat route.
"It will take Gunnar three days to receive the news and send reinforcements. You have three days to hunt the enemy down—wipe out the scattered remnants. Taking Rattleworth would be ideal, but if you can't, that's fine too."
Joren worried about an ambush and requested command of the mountain infantry battalion. Vig agreed.
After the two departed, Vig summoned Shrike, tasking him with persuading the Welsh clans to join their cause.
"We captured more than eight hundred damaged suits of armor and a great deal of stockpiled equipment—enough to hire a large army. And remember to recruit plenty of longbowmen. If nobles demand land, use Cornwall to placate them."
"Understood!"
Shrike returned to the Second Infantry Regiment, handed over his duties, then led a dozen guards westward into the Welsh mountains.
Years ago, Halfdan and Ethelwolf had been ordered to invade Wales. Shrike, together with two tribal chiefs, launched a night raid, defeated Halfdan's army, and even shot him with an arrow. To avoid retaliation, Shrike had led his people north. That had been ten years ago.
"Time really flies," he muttered.
The sun hung high in the sky, and the air was thick with the scent of damp soil and fresh grass. Riding a pure white horse, Shrike narrowed his eyes and surveyed the scenery on both sides of the road.
The wetlands of his memory—always shimmering with water, choked with reeds and rushes—had changed beyond recognition. In their place were neatly divided fields. Freshly turned soil lay dark brown, steaming faintly under the sunlight.
In the distance stood a tall windmill. Its blades turned lazily in the breeze, creaking with heavy, drawn-out groans as it pumped water from the lowlands into drainage ditches.
He roused a farmer napping under a tree's shade.
"How have the harvests been these past few years?"
Awakened by a nobleman, the farmer dared not show anger and answered honestly:
"After submitting to Ragnar, the lords gave up raiding eastward and focused on reclaiming the marshes. Every year we owe forty days of unpaid labor—cutting timber in the hills, building windmills, digging canals. It's exhausting, aches all over. But… it's not bad. The farmland keeps expanding, and at least we can eat our fill."
Shrike asked about land holdings. On average, each household had fifteen acres of farmland, and in their spare time they worked odd jobs for lords and gentry—barely enough to scrape by.
"And what do you think about this war?" Shrike asked.
The farmer scratched his itchy scalp.
"Wars between Anglos, Franks, and Vikings—what's it got to do with us?"
In the afternoon, Shrike spotted the outline of a wooden fort on a distant hill—Maratthfall.
"Finally."
He dismounted and led his horse across a pontoon bridge over the Severn River. On the western bank, a soldier stopped them.
"Who are you?"
"Shrike. Baron of Bowness. Envoy of Vig of Tynemouth, here to see Lord Rhodri."
Inside the fort, a feast was underway, attended by the local nobles of note.
A quick glance told Shrike that Rhodri had aged—gray streaks at his temples. Three sons stood beside him, and an infant slept in a maid's arms.
"Shrike?"
Recognizing him, Rhodri rose to greet him and personally poured him a cup of wine. Shrike smacked his lips—it tasted decent. These Welsh nobles were clearly doing well if they could afford such luxuries.
"My lord, what is your view on the succession war?" Shrike asked.
Rhodri smiled awkwardly and returned to his seat, waiting for others to speak. The hall fell silent—until his fifteen-year-old eldest son spoke up.
"Gunnar allows his soldiers to loot villages. I think—"
"Silence!" Rhodri snapped. "It's not your place yet!"
After a pause, Shrike delivered his carefully prepared words:
"After Ragnar's death, setting aside the petty squabbles of the northern backwater barbarians, five forces are contending for the throne: Sigurd and Queen Regent Aslaug, Gunnar, Æthelbald, Ivar, and Vig.
"Truthfully, you all know this—whether in war or governance, Vig is the most suitable man to be king."
Rhodri replied flatly, "This is an outsider's affair. We neither support nor oppose anyone. We only wish to remain peacefully in Wales."
Shrike sneered.
"To stay out of it, my lord? That's wishful thinking. Haven't you heard about the secret agreement?"
By now, rumors of Gunnar and Æthelbald's pact had spread widely—its most alarming clause declaring that after the war, Wessex would annex Mercia, Cornwall, and Wales.
In other words, Wales would simply gain a new master.
Judging their expressions, Shrike knew they had already heard the rumors. He raised his voice:
"When the war ends, Æthelbald will turn his gaze on Wales sooner or later. Are you willing to swear fealty to him?"
Someone barked defiantly, "Let him come! We'll never submit!"
"You plan to hide in the mountains forever?" Shrike shot back, eyeing the speaker's fine robes and bloated belly. "Are you willing to abandon your homes and all the reclaimed farmland?"
Over the past decade, Wales had purchased large quantities of iron tools and goods from the North. Based on trade volume, Vig estimated the population had grown by fifteen percent.
If an enemy invaded and the Welsh fled into the mountains, abandoning their fields, a massive famine would follow. Easy come, easy go—the old tactics no longer worked.
Faced with Shrike's challenge, the nobles' rebuttals rang hollow. They exchanged glances—clearly, a side had to be chosen.
A voice rose from the crowd.
"What will Vig offer in return?"
"His Majesty promises to grant Cornwall to the Welsh nobles after the war—distributed by merit."
At that, more than two-thirds of the nobles smiled. A few still pressed their luck.
"Cornwall won't be enough. Can we have more?"
Having secured the majority, Shrike refused to concede further. He lunged forward, seized the speaker by the arm, dragged him to the doorway, and pointed toward the newly reclaimed lowland fields below—and the tirelessly turning windmills.
"Add all this together," he demanded harshly, "and you still say His Majesty hasn't given you enough?"
Silence fell.
Then came the sound of a blade being drawn.
Clang!
A noble dropped to one knee, sword planted before him, face solemn.
"The Cumbran tribe will fight."
"The Carmarthen tribe will fight."
"The Neath tribe will fight."
In less than half a minute, the majority of guests knelt. Rhodri sighed and gestured for his second son to join them, adding another branch to the family's future.
The boy nodded, stepped outside, and knelt on one knee. He looked up at the clouds stained red by the setting sun and cried out in a youthful voice:
"Powys will fight."
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