Keeping close behind the fleeing rebels, Vig crossed the ridge to the northwest.
Below lay a broad, open river valley with nearly a hundred low farmhouses, surrounded by well-tended oat fields.
"Good spot," Vig muttered. "Perfect for building a timber fort once we're done."
He left 200 levied men to guard the prisoners and tend to the wounded.
The rest continued westward, determined to wipe out the rebellion at its roots.
As for the hundred-plus Highlanders retreating northeast, Vig couldn't be bothered—he would "greet" them properly later.
The Trail Goes Cold
More than five hundred Norsemen slogged down the muddy trail, chasing the scattered remnants.
They occasionally caught stragglers. Vig refused to execute such "valuable labor," sending them back under guard to be added to his future land-reclamation teams.
That night, the army slept on a patch of dry ground.
At midnight, fire flared in the southern sky. Judging by the direction, that was Jorunn's left column.
At dawn, Vig ate half a piece of hardtack and continued following the rebels' footprints.
By mid-morning, the tracks led to a desolate beach
"Where are they?"
The tide was high; white waves rolled endlessly ashore.
The beach was empty except for seabirds pecking at shellfish.
With no better option, Vig split his force—one group north, one south—to search along the coast.
Two days passed. No trace.
It was as if the Picts had evaporated.
Left and Right Columns Report In
At last, a yuanyang-formation patrol from Jorunn's left column found him.
"How did the left flank fare?"
The patrol leader bowed.
"A bit over a hundred rebels. We killed or captured eighty-three. A dozen escaped. The baron's camp is close—would you like to rest there, my lord?"
After days of mountain marching, Vig's legs were numb and his body near its limits.
He reluctantly ended the pursuit.
Soon after linking up with Jorunn, a messenger arrived from Shrike: the right column had also succeeded—of two hundred Pictish rebels, only five escaped.
A near-total victory.
Vig's face darkened.
"Left and right have done their part. Only my center met the main force… and let over a hundred escape. Trouble. That ember of rebellion survives. One day it may flare up again."
Morale sagged.
After further fruitless searching, Vig withdrew toward Glasgow County.
Along the road, Connor approached him quietly.
"My lord, after counting corpses and prisoners, we discovered one undercover agent is missing. He may have fled among the remnants."
Curious, Vig asked who.
"His name is Gwyn—a freedman, three-quarters Norse by blood," Connor said.
On Connor's insistence, Vig did not disband the troops.
They encamped outside Glasgow, resting while they waited for any word from this missing agent.
Meanwhile — On North Uist Island
"Boy! Find a whetstone and sharpen these daggers!"
"Yes, sir."
Gwyn picked up five rusted short-swords and scrubbed away at their corroded edges.
A week earlier, he had fled with the last remnants of the rebels, certain his career as an undercover agent was over.
To his shock, rebel leader Morgan had long been in contact with the local Norse—specifically the Isles Alliance.
Morgan had three hidden longships on a remote beach and used them to ferry his people safely to the island of North Uist.
Once ashore, the Viking chieftain of the island sheltered them in a secluded cove, providing supplies and forbidding them to wander.
Thanks to his fluency in Old Norse, Gwyn overheard conversations:
the island's lord was Steinn, the very man who controlled the Isles Alliance.
"For ten years, the Isles Vikings ravaged the Picts.
And now they're allies? Incredible…"
This intelligence was priceless. Gwyn's heart pounded.
"I must find a way back to the mainland. If I complete this mission… promotions and rewards are guaranteed."
Because of his small stature, Gwyn had always been assigned menial chores—cooking, cleaning—the perfect cover for eavesdropping but useless for influencing decisions.
He could only wait for opportunity.
Life on the Island
Over the next days, the rebels grew accustomed to island life—sleeping until noon, then gathering seafood at low tide.
Gwyn fetched oysters, mussels, and velvet crabs, checked fish traps, and delivered mackerel, haddock, and trout to satisfy Morgan's appetite.
"These oysters are excellent raw," Morgan said, slurping down a pair before cracking open a velvet crab's shell and savoring the soft meat.
Halfway through dinner, Steinn arrived with jars of salt and a jug of mead.
Seeing how relaxed the rebels had become, a surge of unease rose within him.
If they grow too comfortable, they might try to settle here permanently! That cannot happen.
He sat down casually and grabbed an oyster.
Then, seemingly offhand:
"So—what's your next move?"
Morgan poked at a mackerel on the grill.
"No idea. Lay low until things cool off, then return to the mainland and continue the fight."
Steinn leaned closer and lowered his voice.
"I have… a better idea."
The two spoke in hushed tones for a long time.
Afterward, they gathered the ninety-five remaining rebels, announcing a plan:
They would select a handful to disguise themselves as fishmongers, land on the mainland, contact surviving sympathizers, and coordinate a major operation.
Big men with fierce looks were ruled out.
Steinn and Morgan scanned the group and chose four men—Gwyn among them.
Gwyn's mind froze.
What? Me?
He and the other three were loaded onto a small fishing boat with several barrels of seafood.
Steinn even assigned a trusted helmsman to ensure they reached shore safely.
With the northwest wind at their backs, the boat slipped into Glasgow's harbor without incident.
As planned, Gwyn—posing as a simple fish seller—was sent to gather information in the marketplace.
The other three disappeared into the countryside to contact surviving gentry.
The moment he was out of sight, Gwyn ran—not to the market, but straight toward the county hall.
And there, to his astonishment, both Vig and Connor were already waiting.
—------------------------------
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