Guided by a few Pictish scouts, the archers loosed their first volleys across the creek. Most of the arrows thudded harmlessly into the mud along the bank, but it was enough to send the Viking bridge-builders scrambling for cover.
The ambush was blown.
In the forest north of the stream, Duncan, Lord of Stirling, abandoned all pretense. He raised his sword and roared for the attack. The woods exploded with savage howls. Birds burst from the trees in a great black cloud, swirling upward like smoke.
On the southern bank, Vig calmly closed the book in his hand, expression indifferent.
"Three days of patience," he murmured. "Not bad. No wonder your ancestors tormented the Romans with ambushes until they built Hadrian's Wall just to be rid of you."
He sent forward his armored crossbowmen—the "iron turtles"—to pick off targets along the treeline.
The Pictish archers were no match. After a few minutes of futile return fire, they melted back into the woods, ignoring the Vikings' taunts.
The shouting faded. Vig sat again beneath the trees, reading, occasionally glancing up at the horizon to rest his eyes.
A warm, salty wind drifted in from the Firth of Forth, carrying the scent of the sea. Gray clouds hung low, heavy with rain. Nearby, a black goat grazed lazily, unbothered by the tension that filled both banks of the stream.
A scout galloped up not long after.
"My lord, the fleet has entered the Forth River. They'll reach Stirling by noon."
"Finally."
Vig stretched and ordered the men to light fires and cook. The smell of roasted meat carried across the water.
From the far side, the hidden Picts began to stir
In the northern woods, Lord Duncan grabbed a scout by the collar, eyes blazing.
"How many men on those ships?"
"Around fifty longships, enough to carry two thousand Vikings."
The words sent a ripple of panic through the ranks.
"We're trapped!" shouted one warrior. "The Northland Serpent has outflanked us—he'll land behind Stirling! We must return before it's too late!"
Retreat? Duncan's jaw tightened. The ground here—muddy, wooded, crisscrossed with streams—was perfect for infantry and ambush, death to cavalry. It was the only field where the northern alliance could turn the tide.
If he abandoned it and fell back to Stirling, the Vikings would surround the town and grind them to dust.
Still he hesitated—until, across the stream, the Vikings advanced.
Two companies of light infantry splashed through the shallows under covering fire from archers, clashing with the Pictish skirmishers on the forest edge.
As more and more Vikings crossed, Duncan's confidence collapsed. Urged by his captains, he finally gave the order to withdraw north to Stirling with eight hundred men.
By the time Duncan climbed the northern wall of his fortress, the fleet had arrived. Fifty ships covered the river like floating beasts of oak.
He turned to a pale, freckled youth beside him.
"When did they reach the river?"
"About one meal ago, my lord."
"Then why haven't they landed?"
A grim thought struck him. Duncan ran alone to the Forth's edge.
Across the broad gray current, he saw the crews sitting comfortably—eating, chatting, even fishing. None showed any intent to attack.
His heart sank.
"Damn it… I've been tricked!"
He shouted curses across the water. The sailors looked up, raised their heavy crossbows, and aimed lazily in his direction until the blue-painted noble retreated in fury.
Back at the creek, with Duncan gone, the woods were chaos.
Four hundred Pictish footmen still fought stubbornly among the trees, unaware their lord had fled. When word spread that he'd abandoned them, disbelief turned to rage.
"He left without a word? That coward!"
Among them was Morgan, who commanded sixty men. Grinding his teeth, he made a hard choice—he and his followers slipped away under cover of the fighting, leaving the rest to be cut down.
Half an hour later, the northern woods were silent save for the crows. The Pictish ambush had been annihilated.
Interrogating the prisoners, Vig questioned the numbers carefully.
"So, twelve hundred in the forest," he confirmed. "And counting the force at Tweed… that's barely forty-two hundred mobile troops total? Only that?"
Every captive gave the same answer.
Vig nodded slowly, the corners of his mouth tightening in thought.
"Pathetic. No wonder they're losing."
Without further delay, the army pushed north and encircled Stirling.
Riding around the outer wall, Vig surveyed the terrain: dense forest to the west and south, the Forth River flowing eastward to the north, and rugged highland rising beyond.
"Plenty of timber," he said to himself. "Ideal for smelting. We'll have all the charcoal we need."
In these early medieval years, charcoal, not coal, was the lifeblood of metallurgy. True coking coal required processing techniques no one yet possessed. Fortunately, the land was sparsely populated and rich in trees—enough to last until the age of steam.
Shaking off his thoughts, Vig set to work.
Under his command, the soldiers felled trees, dug trenches, and built a fortified siege camp on the river's northern bank—supplied by waterway to avoid ambushes along the roads.
Within days, they ringed Stirling with earthworks and ditches, severing every road.
From atop the walls, Duncan watched the disciplined precision of the enemy and felt a cold weight settle in his chest.
These were no mere raiders. Their discipline, their engineering—it was like watching the Roman legions reborn.
Slamming a fist against the parapet, he muttered bitterly:
"Our strategy was a disaster. We should never have met them in open battle… and never trapped ourselves behind walls. We should have bled them with raids, one cut at a time."
Regret, fury, helplessness—all churned in his heart.
"If I could go back six months," he whispered, "I'd warn the alliance. Maybe the north wouldn't be doomed."
He stared westward, toward the lands of the Gaels.
"Let's hope they're smarter than I was," he said quietly. "If they repeat my mistakes, all of the north will fall."
~~--------------------------
Patreon Advanced Chapters:
patreon.com/YonkoSlayer