Bjorn stood near the jagged edge of the broken stones, he slowly raised the spyglass to his right eye.
The Frankish camp was quiet... there were no massive bonfires, no loud singing, and no drunken cheers.
The bombard was still resting face-down in the mud, abandoned by the engineers.
"What are they doing?" Bjorn whispered to himself, adjusting the brass focus ring.
Instead of huddling together for warmth or sleeping off the terror of the Viking artillery barrage, the Frankish vanguard was alert.
Bjorn could clearly see hundreds of burning torches moving in overlapping circles around the perimeter of the enemy camp.
They were running strict military patrols.
"...the old southern dogs are finally learning some new tricks," Bjorn muttered, his eyes narrowing in deep suspicion.
"Learning what?" Hakon grunted, "Please tell me you see them packing up their tents to run back to Paris,"
