Rhodri's garrison
was about to surrender. Vig ordered the crossbowmen to cease fire temporarily.
Soon the fire died down, and a well-dressed middle-aged man came out of the gate and offered to negotiate with the commander in Latin.
"My name is Rhodri, King of Powys. May I know who your lordship is?"
Vig replied in Latin: "Vig, Lord of Tyneburg."
When Rhodri learned that this trim young man was the infamous "Snake of the North," he expressed great dismay.
After a long pause, his voice rasped:
"Since you command, my defeat is not unjust. What do you want?"
"Welsh raiders have plundered the villages of Mercia and wounded Halfdan. Your Majesty is deeply disturbed, so he has ordered me to lead an army to attack Wales until all the nobles have submitted."
Sensing the naked greed and bloodlust of the soldiers around him, Rhodri made a condition:
Povis will formally swear fealty to Ragnar and pay an annual fee of twenty deer hides. He will not be obliged to report to Londinium or answer the call in wartime.
When he finished, Vig looked at Rhodri for a long time, until beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. Suddenly Vig forced a friendly smile. "No problem, agreed. But you must participate in the next operation and convince the remaining lords to surrender."
"Convince them to surrender? They will not listen to me."
Feeling the other soldier's resistance, Vig took the crossbow from him and demonstrated how it worked.
He pressed the front of the crossbow to the ground, stepped on the metal with his left foot, and used both hands to pull the bowstring back until it clicked.
Vig then pulled an arrow and placed it in his quiver, the fletchings of the arrow snug against the nock of the bowstring.
After loading the crossbow, he aimed at the cart fifty yards away, using the weight of the crossbow as a guide, and lifted it slightly.
"Look, Lord Rhodri,"
he said. Vig used his index finger to press the metal trigger, instantly releasing the kinetic energy in the crossbow's handle and hurling the arrow straight at the cart.
To the cheers of the soldiers, Vig handed the crossbow to Rhodri and gave him step-by-step instructions.
At first, Rhodri did not understand the former's intentions until he pulled the trigger and watched the arrow fly into the grass nearby. Then he suddenly understood and spoke quickly:
"How much does a crossbow cost? How long does it take to make one?"
Vig: "Carpenters make the arrows and the crossbow frame, blacksmiths make the metal parts, and then assemble them. The cost is about ten silver pennies, and the production time is two weeks. It is best suited for equipping an army in large quantities. The heavy crossbow is a little more difficult - 40-60 pennies.
Once the crossbow is made, the training takes only twenty days. I can train even an ordinary person who has never held a bow and arrow in his hands to be a crossbowman. How long will it take your archers? Five years, ten?"
Ignoring Rhodri's pale face, Vig handed the crossbow back to the soldier: "Yesterday, you sent a group of archers to shoot at my heavy crossbowmen. It seems you lost twenty men. In comparison, eleven crossbowmen were shot in their weak spots, nine were wounded, and two were killed. Do you think it's worth it?"
Obviously, archers with ten years of experience and heavy crossbowmen trained in twenty days are bound to suffer losses.
With a bitter smile, Rhodri did not pursue the matter further, but instead asked one last question:
"I admit that in battle formation, archers cannot defeat heavy crossbowmen, but we do not need to fight head-on. We can retreat into the mountains and fight for a long time. In this difficult and unfamiliar environment, your losses will increase dramatically." "My Lord, you are wrong again." In response to this plausible argument, Vig presented his latest strategy:
Assuming that the Welsh natives would retreat into the mountains, he would not pursue them recklessly. Instead, he would build castles in strategic locations. In May,
when the winter wheat was ripe, he would send troops to harvest the wheat from the Welsh natives, forcing them into a decisive battle.
"As High King of Britain, Ragnar has vast lands, men, and resources to fight you. Ultimately, he just wants to save face. And since you started the war, he is lucky to have it this way."
Silenced, Rhodri agreed to surrender and join the Vikings in their next campaign.
After three days' rest, the army moved north to the mouth of the River Dee, then moved west along the coast, aiming for Llanfirth, the capital of Gwynedd.
This town in northwest Wales was spurred on by rumors of a major Viking invasion and had raised a militia of 1,500 men, determined to destroy the pagan army.
Early in the morning, fog swirled along the wooden walls with the salty sea breeze. King Sivir walked to the western wall and looked out to sea.
The tidal flats were like moldy wool blankets. Waves crashed against the rocks, throwing up streams of white foam. Poor people were collecting shellfish in backpacks. Suddenly his right eyelid fluttered violently, and as he rubbed it, he noticed dark spots on the horizon.
At first Sivir thought they were crows or seagulls, but they grew larger, revealing the outlines of ships.
"Fifty, no, a hundred Viking ships, ring the bells and gather the troops!"
The flotilla was breaking through the morning mist. A black dragon flag was flying from the mast of the leading warship, and the fierce ship was racing towards the shore.
The bronze bell of the monastery rang, and the poor people who were gathering shellfish on the mudflats stopped for a moment, threw down their baskets and ran to Lanfers, the shellfish scattering across the ground.
A few minutes later, the eastern gate of the city slowly closed, leaving only a muddy dock behind.
The captain of the guard approached and said, "Your Majesty, is it not time for us to leave the city to fight as planned?" Sivir swallowed, shivering from the cold, took out a flask of wine and sipped some mead. "The situation is bad
.
This is not Halfdan's oak flag, but a flag with a black snake. Damn it, it's the "Northern Serpent"!"
More than two months had passed since the Battle of the Seine, and Sivir had heard about the battle from many merchants. Some said that the Northern Serpent had magically turned the river and carried away thousands of Frankish warriors, while others said that the Northern Serpent had thrown all 6,000 captives into the sea as a sacrifice to the gods.
Combining these different versions of the story, Sivir came to a relatively reasonable conclusion:
Vig had defeated Charlemagne's grandson and routed a Frankish army numbering tens of thousands.
Putting the flask of wine in her pocket, Sivir complained to the guards behind her, "Ragnar is not to be trifled with. I told you not to plunder Mercia, but those idiots did not listen, and now they have done us great harm."
Before the Viking army reached the shore, Sivir decided to send envoys from the city to negotiate.
"Look, I am willing to submit to Ragnar only formally and pay a small tribute of salted herring and reindeer skins every year, but I will never visit the king often or participate in his wars. Besides, those vile Nordic shamans are forbidden to invade my territory."