After watching for a while, the bandit chief finally realized the enemy's cunning trick—those "dirty, ragged" men outside were actually wearing solid iron armor beneath their tattered cloaks.
"Stop shooting! Fall back to the stronghold!"
Facing overwhelming numbers and superior equipment, he ordered a retreat. When they regrouped, he found they had lost sixty men in the ambush.
"Damn those treacherous Norse bastards—four hundred armored warriors ambushing our camp!"
Cursing, the chief gulped down several mouthfuls of cold water and ordered everyone to pack up and flee. But when they reached the gate, they found more than twenty Vikings already blocking the way.
Panting heavily, the Norsemen stood shoulder to shoulder, shields locked tight. The Pictish chief, enraged, led eighty men forward, brandishing short swords and round shields marked with the Picts' distinctive blue swirls. They clashed with the gate guard, hacking and shouting for what felt like hours—but the Viking shield wall held firm.
"Boss! Their armor's too thick—we can't cut through!"
Minute by minute, the fight dragged on. Then, more Norsemen came jogging up the trail.
Seeing the gate still secure, Vig leaned on his knees, gasping for breath.
"Have some of our men circle around," he ordered. "Block the back exit—don't let a single one escape."
As more Vikings poured in from outside, the Picts' courage crumbled. They scattered, scrambling up the five-meter palisade to flee.
Some dropped their packs and weapons to climb faster—but as one man reached the top, several crossbow bolts hissed through the air, grazing his scalp. With a scream, he toppled backward, landing hard inside the compound.
In the end, only a handful managed to escape into the forest. The remaining one hundred and twenty surrendered and sat in the clearing, waiting for judgment.
Flanked by his shield guards, Vig stepped into the stronghold, studying it closely—it was his first look at a Pictish settlement.
In the center stood a massive stone monolith, carved with swirling spirals and stylized animal figures—serpents, wolves, and bears, if he guessed right.
He checked the storehouses next—piles of grain and furs filled the rooms. A thorough search turned up nothing suspicious.
Through an interpreter, Vig questioned the captives one by one in a small hut. After more than ten interrogations, the story was the same each time:
They all belonged to a small Pictish tribe that had lost its homeland in a feud. Forced southward, they turned to banditry—but had no ties to any northern noble.
That eased Vig's mind. But his relief was short-lived—one stray comment from a captive made him sit upright again.
"What did you just say? The Picts plan to form an alliance with the Gaels?"
Currently, the two major northern settlements were Edinburgh to the east, held by the Picts, and Glasgow to the west, held by the Gaels.
The two were less than forty miles apart. If they truly allied, they could form a united front.
"Why would they form an alliance?" Vig asked sharply.
The prisoner hesitated, then said,
"Because of the Viking raids, my lord. The attacks grow worse every year. The Gaels proposed the alliance first, hoping to stand together against invasion."
Vig swore aloud.
Damn it!
At once, he thought of the Isles Alliance off Scotland's northwest coast—those worthless raiders who constantly plundered Gaelic villages. Their endless raids had finally woken the Gaels from complacency—and now, thanks to their chaos, any future northern campaign of his would become far harder.
"A pack of useless fools… you'd better pray I never get my hands on you."
After spitting his curse, Vig ordered the stronghold burned to the ground. The prisoners were marched away as captives.
Two days later, as word spread that the lord had destroyed the bandits' den, villagers from all around came to gawk and cheer—shouting for the bandits to be executed.
Fat Harry, the squire, and a few local landowners called out in unison,
"My lord, are all the bandits truly gone?"
"Thirty or so got away," Vig replied. "The rest are dead or surrendered."
Harry's smile stiffened.
"Do you plan to continue clearing the mountains, then?"
"What kind of stupid question is that? I've got enough work already—I'm not dragging four hundred armored men through the woods again just for sport!"
In truth, Vig considered his work done—and more than fair. He'd borne the entire cost himself, without taxing or disturbing the nearby villages. Whatever people might say, his conscience was clean.
Taking a sip from his waterskin, he waved his hand dismissively.
"If you're worried about future raids, form a forty-man militia. Recruit from nearby villages, provide your own food. I'll donate some captured weapons and bows. For small bands of robbers, that'll be plenty."
To show goodwill, Vig ordered the captured gear dumped onto the ground—free of charge.
Then someone in the crowd called out timidly,
"Could we… have a few suits of armor too?"
Vig's eyes went cold. The man shrank back immediately, the crowd falling silent.
After settling the villagers, Vig rode out to survey the area. He decided to disperse the Pictish prisoners among construction teams, and to take sixty captured Viking pirates from those same crews to build a charcoal workshop on the forest's edge.
Tyne's growth had created a soaring demand for fuel—especially at the smithy, which devoured fine charcoal daily.
Until now, charcoal making had been a side trade for farmers during the off-season—output was low and quality unreliable. Vig's plan was to change that.
The new charcoal works would have dedicated roles: woodcutting, kiln-building, fire-tending, transport. Standardization and specialization would raise both quality and efficiency.
"Compared with the peat bogs north of York," Vig mused, "good charcoal burns hotter and cleaner. And we'll need much more of it in the coming years—unless we conquer the north and find a shallow coal seam."
Having decided, he dismissed most of the levies, keeping fifteen men on payroll as guards to prevent escapes.
Under supervision, the captives chopped timber, built huts, and dug earth kilns. Vig stayed five days to oversee the work, and once everything was running smoothly, he told the guard captain,
"Don't push for high output yet—focus on stability. If there's a breakout or mutiny, call the village militia for help."
With the bandit threat eliminated and the charcoal supply secured, Vig returned to Tyne to handle other affairs.
The domain's total population had now reached eighteen thousand, and food supplies were strong. He therefore relaxed settlement restrictions, encouraging more artisans to move to town.
Across the region, neither the Tees nor Derwent valleys had any towns centered on handicrafts, leaving Tyne without rivals. Development was smooth and prosperous; in a few years, Vig expected the town's population to exceed three thousand.
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