In late July, Bjorn sailed north, bringing news from York.
"I've seen the cavalry drills myself," he said. "They're impressive, I'll give them that. Father's planning a campaign to West Francia next year. Ha! I only hope I make it in time to see a full cavalry charge with my own eyes."
After a day's rest, his ships—loaded with woolen cloth, ale, and fifty slaves purchased in York—departed the harbor.
When the fleet was gone, Vig headed southwest to the blacksmiths' quarter of Tyne.
Thanks to the influx of Norse refugees, the number of smiths had risen to twelve, each with two apprentices, bringing the total workforce to thirty-six. Among them, eight smiths—including Kadel, the master smith—were employed directly by Vig. Kadel oversaw the production and repair of weapons and armor, though his forge also handled civilian orders. The most common request was for the iron plowshares used in Saxon wheeled plows.
Vig stepped into the brick-and-stone smithy. A wave of heat laced with ash struck him immediately. The forge roared at the center, bellows pumping furiously, while hammers, tongs, and chisels lay scattered across the dirt floor.
"My lord?" Kadel wiped the sweat from his brow with a rag, handing his tools to an apprentice. "What do you need today?"
"How many of the two hundred damaged suits of armor are serviceable?"
"Eighty-five repaired so far. Do you need the rest urgently?"
"By September at the latest," Vig replied. "And make fifty more crossbows—the stores are running low."
To the northwest of Tyne Fortress stretched rolling hills, running all the way toward Edinburgh. Lately, villagers from the foothills had come to complain that bandits were growing bolder—stealing sheep and even harvesting their grain. Vig planned to launch a suppression campaign before the outlaws could grow into a real threat.
He waved Kadel back to work and sat in a shaded spot to observe the smiths at their craft.
Before forging began, apprentices worked the bellows, heating pig iron until it glowed white-hot. The smiths drew it out with tongs and hammered it to expel impurities.
When making plowshares, the metal was folded and beaten repeatedly to improve its toughness. Swordsmithing, by contrast, used the "clad steel" technique—two layers of soft iron enclosing a high-carbon steel core—to prevent breakage. The complexity of the process made iron swords costly.
Most of the forge's current output went into repairing iron scale armor—small overlapping plates riveted onto leather or cloth backing.
Damage came in two main forms:
– Plates cracked or bent from axe blows.
– Plates that had simply fallen off after long use.
If the lining was intact, smiths could simply replace the damaged plates and stitch them back on with linen thread. But if the inner padding was torn beyond use, the whole set had to be stripped and reassembled on fresh leather.
Compared with chainmail, scale armor was far easier to produce and repair—perfect for equipping large numbers of men. Including repaired suits and those already in storage, Vig now had three hundred and fifty suits of iron armor in total, counting those worn by his shield guards.
"Attacking Edinburgh might be overambitious," he murmured. "But for a pack of mountain bandits, this should be more than enough."
After some time, the stifling heat drove him out of the forge. He wiped his sweat just as a wagon pulled up outside, unloading ingots of iron from the north.
The raw material came from the Picts, mined in open pits near Stirling, northwest of Edinburgh. The locals smelted reddish-brown ore into crude pig iron, which traders then shipped south to Britain and Scandinavia.
Vig recalled from memory that in the later Victorian era, Scotland would become famous for its coal and iron industries. Perhaps someday, he thought, when we conquer the north, it'll make a fine industrial base.
By September, bandit raids had become intolerable. Villagers from the hill country came daily to petition at the manor.
Once Kadel delivered the new armor and crossbows, Vig mustered four hundred men for a week of training, then marched northwest under the hopeful gaze of his townsfolk.
"My lord, thank the gods you've come!"
A stout landholder named Harry rushed up to Vig's gray warhorse, nearly in tears. Ten of his sheep had been stolen, and the bandits had grown so brazen they now reaped crops by night. When no one resisted, they began demanding tribute openly.
They demanded a share of wealth from every landholder—noble or commoner—according to the size of their fields, threatening to attack anyone who refused.
As one of the wealthier gentry, Harry had been ordered to pay an impossible sum: three hundred bushels of wheat. If Vig had delayed any longer, the man would have had no choice but to form his own militia and fight to the death.
Vig's anger flared instantly.
"Collecting protection fees on my land? Do they think I'm dead?"
After resting one night, he chose three agile hunters as guides. At dawn, the four hundred men entered the rugged forests.
The September mountain wind carried a chill, brushing against their faces. Bushes along the trail were dotted with clusters of red berries, and Vig glimpsed a few grouse in the underbrush.
After two hours of climbing, the path vanished entirely, forcing the vanguard to hack through with axes. Progress slowed to a crawl.
"How much farther?" Vig asked.
The lead hunter hesitated. "Three more ridges, my lord. With the men wearing armor, we won't reach the camp before midday tomorrow."
Vig scanned the birch forest across the valley. "What do you know of these bandits?"
The hunter shuddered at the memory. "Two to three hundred of them. Some paint their skin with blue dye—they look… frightening."
At the mention of blue dye, Vig realized who they were—Picts. Their very name came from the Latin Picti, meaning the Painted Ones.
Were these raiders simply a rogue band, or a probing attack by northern nobles?
That night they camped on a plateau halfway up the mountain. At dawn they advanced again—and before long, the hiss of bowstrings split the air.
Whsst—whsst!
Hundreds of arrows flew from both sides of the path. Painted figures flickered between the trees, howling to intimidate their foes.
But what happened next took the Picts completely by surprise.
The arrow storm tore into the Norse ranks—but the iron scale armor absorbed most of the damage. A few men were stuck with five or six arrows and still stood dumbly where they were.
Furious at their sluggishness, Vig bellowed,
"What are you standing there for? Shoot back!"
At once, two hundred crossbowmen raised their weapons and fired, bolts cutting through the mountain air.
Within minutes, the Pictish ambush collapsed. Their losses were heavy; the Norse had only five casualties—two killed outright by face shots, and three others wounded but very much alive, screaming loud enough to prove it.
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