June, 849 A.D.
The summer heat pressed heavily over the Stirling plains. Tempers in the camp were rising; the soldiers clamored again and again for an assault on the town, but Vig refused them every time.
As his commanders came before him, eager for battle, he asked them calmly,
"Tell me—what is the most important quality in a commander?"
"Strategy!" one answered.
"Charisma!" shouted another.
Vig frowned.
"No," he said. "Restraint. A commander is the mind of his army. He must master himself—banish impatience and the lust for blood."
He lectured for half an hour, but the glazed eyes around him betrayed how little they listened. Just then, a scout galloped into camp, bowing low.
"My lord, a Gaelic army is gathering on the western coast. Their numbers are unknown."
"Send riders. I want exact figures."
The scout sped away. Vig studied his map in silence.
At Stirling, he had 3,800 men in camp—enough to maintain the siege. The Gaels, he reasoned, wouldn't dare confront him head-on. More likely, they would march east to relieve Edinburgh.
"When I left," Vig muttered, "Burlow had eight hundred men. By now, with the new raiders arriving, that's fifteen hundred. He's a fine mountain fighter, but his experience is limited to skirmishes. That victory over Halfdan was… exaggerated. Now he's holding a thousand prisoners while facing an attack from two directions. It could go very badly."
After some thought, Vig left two thousand soldiers to maintain the siege and took 1,800 men south to intercept the Gaelic host.
This, he judged, would be the northern alliance's last field army. Destroy it, and the north would never again muster a proper counterattack.
Before departing, he pulled Jorlen aside.
"Be cautious. Continue the siege works. If I've misjudged, and the Gaels come for Stirling instead, don't be a hero. Take the longships and withdraw."
"Understood!"
By dusk that same day, Vig's column reached Falkirk, where they camped uneasily through the night.
At dawn, they set off southeast toward Edinburgh. Not long after, a scout rode up in haste, bringing both good and bad news.
"My lord, you were right—the Gaels are marching for Edinburgh. They're barely twenty kilometers away. They'll reach the city by nightfall."
The situation was urgent. Vig immediately dispatched a courier with new orders.
"Ride to Burlow. Tell him to send a detachment to block the wooden bridge eight kilometers west of Edinburgh. If necessary—burn it."
"Yes, my lord!"
The courier spurred his horse and raced eastward.
Through narrow country paths he rode for over an hour, crossing the wooden bridge and following a shepherd's trail up a low hill. From the crest, he could already see the outline of the fortress of Edinburgh against the eastern sky.
"Hah… not easy being a messenger," he panted.
The young rider, Connor, ran a hand through his sweat-damp blond hair. As the younger son of an Anglo landholder, he'd inherited no estate—only the hope that service in the lord's army might earn him a patch of land of his own.
He drained half his water skin and poured the rest into his horse's mouth. The air was thick and wet, heavy with the scent of grass. Flies buzzed around his sweating mount, its hide slick, its mane clumped together with salt and dust.
After feeding it a handful of oats mixed with salt, Connor rested for ten minutes before continuing. When he finally reached the siege camp, 1,500 Welshmen and Norse soldiers were eating lunch.
Spotting Burlow gnawing on a mutton bone, he hurried over.
"My lord, a message from the Duke."
"How many Gaels?"
"Over two thousand, mostly light infantry without armor."
Burlow's expression wavered between relief and concern—poorly armored meant weak in battle, but it also meant fast. He immediately sent a squad of his swiftest hunters to secure the wooden bridge.
Mission complete, Connor filled his water skin, took two loaves of black bread and a small pouch of oats, and set off again to return to Vig's force.
The sun blazed overhead. Sweat stung his eyes. After a few miles, his horse slowed, then stopped entirely, trembling with exhaustion.
"Come on, boy—just a little farther!"
He coaxed and cursed, even fed it more oats, but the beast simply folded its legs and lay down in the dirt, flicking its tail at the flies.
Connor sighed and swore at his stingy father for saddling him with such a useless nag.
Half an hour later, a hundred Welshmen passed him by, laughing and teasing in their native tongue before disappearing down the road.
When his horse finally rose, Connor pushed on. By the time he reached the bridge, those same Welshmen were fighting for their lives.
Their arrows had driven off a small vanguard of Gaelic scouts, but now a dark tide of enemy soldiers was rolling toward them across the western bank.
Realizing they couldn't hold, the Welsh tried to burn the bridge.
Clack. Clack.
Their captain struck flint against steel, sparks hissing and dying as sweat dripped from his chin onto the tinder.
The enemy was already in sight. Desperate, the others drew their hand axes and knives, hacking madly at the planks.
Then the Gaelic main force arrived. Two thousand strong, they unleashed a storm of arrows, axes, and short spears. One in five of the Welsh fell in moments. The rest were forced to retreat before the bridge was completely destroyed.
Shouting triumphantly, the Gaels tore down a nearby farmhouse for lumber and nails, using the planks to repair the bridge while Welsh archers harassed them from two hundred meters away—too far to stop the work.
Meanwhile, Vig's relief force was still on the march. Scouts rode up with grim faces.
"My lord, the Gaels—two thousand five hundred of them—have reached the western bank. They're rebuilding the bridge."
"That fast?" Vig muttered.
At their pace, his army was still half an hour away. Anxiety flickered behind his calm exterior.
Sensing his unease, Torga and several knights rode forward.
"My lord, let us go ahead."
"Two hundred horse against twenty-five hundred infantry?" Vig hesitated, then nodded.
"Very well. You have command, Torga. Gunnar was the finest cavalry commander I ever met. Learn from his strengths—and avoid his flaws. Use your head out there."
Torga inclined his head in silence, then swung into the saddle.
Two hundred horsemen formed up behind him, the sunlight glinting off their helms. With a single sharp whistle, they spurred forward, thundering westward toward the wooden bridge.
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