When Vig announced plans to establish a hospital, the Raven-Speaker was overjoyed. He saw it as a chance to spread their faith under a noble pretext and readily agreed. Following Vig's instructions to the letter, he also ordered the other shamans to keep the methods secret—lest their medical knowledge be stolen by outsiders.
After two days of rest, the army marched north again.
The victory at the Tweed had shattered the Pictish coalition: eight hundred dead, a thousand captured, and the rest wounded or scattered. Their fighting strength was gone. By April 29, the Vikings reached the outskirts of Edinburgh without resistance.
The town clung to the steep cliffs south of the Firth of Forth—a wooden fortress atop the rock, with about four hundred homes at its base.
The settlement was ringed by a flimsy wooden palisade, no moat, and patchy fields of barley and oats. A few pastures lay fallow, dotted with sheep.
Once scouts confirmed there were no ambushes nearby, Vig ordered the attack.
Under covering fire from the archers and crossbowmen, the Vikings smashed through the palisade within minutes. The few defenders who resisted were cut down, and the settlement at the foot of the hill fell.
"Up the slope! Leave the peasants!"
Jorlen barked the command, stopping looters from pillaging and leading his men uphill toward the fortress.
At a hundred paces, Pictish defenders loosed a hail of arrows. Jorlen and two hundred Vikings locked shields, their advance slowing to a crawl.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Arrows clattered against their shields in a relentless drumbeat. Every few seconds, a shaft slipped through a crack to bury itself in flesh. Cries of pain echoed up the slope.
After two minutes of grueling ascent, the Vikings reached the foot of the earthen rampart before the fortress—just as the defenders hurled volleys of javelins.
Three rounds of missiles tore the shield wall apart. When the formation finally broke, the survivors tumbled back down the hillside in chaos.
Humiliated, Jorlen begged permission to lead the armored troops in another assault.
Vig shook his head.
"The slope's too steep. We can't bring up rams or siege wagons. By the time our men climb that hill in full armor, they'll be exhausted. And there's a four-meter rampart before the wall itself. Not worth the losses. Let them sit up there and starve."
Sighing, he relaxed discipline on purpose, allowing townsfolk to flee into the fortress. Then he ordered trenches dug and two concentric lines of earthworks—one facing the defenders, the other facing outward in case of reinforcements.
While construction continued, Vig met with Burlow to discuss a formation suited to small-scale skirmishes.
"Mountain fighting doesn't suit large armies," Vig explained. "To deal with the indigo-painted raiders who thrive in close combat, I'll try something new."
He sat cross-legged on the grass and, using pebbles, demonstrated from memory a formation inspired by a future age—the Mandarin Duck Array, devised by Ming general Qi Jiguang to defeat the Japanese pirates.
"Fourteen men per squad," he said. "A captain and two axe-and-shield soldiers in armor; four spearmen with three-meter pikes; two men with forked iron prongs—the wolf-brush substitute; four veteran archers; and one porter for supplies."
"Coordination is everything," Vig continued. "Discipline first, skill second. Avoid hot-headed warriors. Each unit can shift between column and line, even split into two mini-formations if needed."
Burlow listened in silence. The concept made sense—it would cover his archers' weakness in melee—but the maneuvers sounded difficult to teach.
"My lord… I'll need two months. No—three."
"That's acceptable."
Before departing, Vig laid out a two-phase campaign plan:
Capture the Central Lowlands—Edinburgh, Stirling, Glasgow—flat terrain ideal for major battles.
After securing the lowlands, move south to clear the hills, then north into the Highlands for the final conquest.
By his estimates, subduing the lowlands would take three to six months—plenty of time for Burlow to drill his new formation.
By late May, the twin siege lines around Edinburgh were complete. Vig left eight hundred men to continue the blockade, with Burlow in command, using the downtime to train the "Mandarin Duck" units.
After repeated instructions, Vig led 3,800 soldiers northwest along the river toward Stirling—a key crossroads between the lowlands and the highlands, rich in hematite ore. To him, Stirling's iron was worth more than either Edinburgh or Glasgow.
The march was easy across the open plains. After a day and a half, scouts galloped back with news.
"My lord, a stream ahead—five hundred Picts beyond it."
"Five hundred?"
Vig raised a hand to halt the column, then rode to a nearby hill. Ahead lay a small village—barely thirty homes—beside a winding creek. Across the water, five hundred disorganized Picts stood among the low hills.
"What's this place called?"
"Bannock Burn, my lord," the guide replied.
Bannockburn. Vig blinked—then laughed aloud.
"Here, here, and here," he said, pointing with his whip. "Perfect spots for ambushes. They're trying to lure us into crossing—then hit our flanks from the woods."
He chuckled. "So that's their grand plan? Do they take me for a fool with more brawn than brains?"
Stretching lazily, he ordered the men to make camp and cook where they stood.
During the meal, he sent a squad of archers and crossbowmen to harass the enemy across the stream, while dispatching riders with a message to the fleet in the Firth of Forth.
"Tell the ships to sail into the River Forth and come upriver—land north of Stirling. Let's see how these simpletons enjoy being outflanked."
When lunch was over, Vig still didn't attack. Instead, his soldiers built dummy bridges at several points, pretending to prepare crossings.
From the woods, the hidden Picts waited and watched. They held their breath for two long days.
On the third, their patience snapped—arrows whistled from the treeline, and the battle for Bannockburn began.
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