Since Geligiv gave birth to his second son, Whig's worries had eased. During his inspection tour of the four northern counties, order remained stable in Edinburgh and Stirling. However, when he arrived in Glasgow, he found the locals gathering at the gates of the Temple of the North. Hundreds of Gaels, armed with clubs and pitchforks, threatened to rebel at the slightest dissent.
Feeling humiliated by the unrest during his inspection, Shrike, the Sheriff of Glasgow, asked for troops to suppress the rebellion.
"Do not worry, my lord. Glasgow has a garrison of 200 men and a company of highland infantry. There are also 28 knightly estates nearby, each of which can provide at least eight militia if necessary."
After hearing the report, Vig felt relieved that his side had the advantage. "Take your time. Let us negotiate first. If we cannot negotiate, we can fight."
After sending Shrike to rally his troops, Vig entered the temple hall and ordered the guards to summon five elderly Gaels. He asked the translator to relay a message:
"I am the Duke of Tyneburg. What has happened?"
The illogical tale of the elderly Gaels unfolded as a dozen townspeople developed a strange illness that left them in constant pain and experiencing strange hallucinations, muttering blasphemies about demons and forest spirits.
Given the townspeople's hostility toward the Vikings, they instinctively suspected a Viking shaman using dark magic to kill them.
Magic?
Vig ignored this unrealistic assumption and asked about the victims, finding that all fifteen were from the poorest classes.
"No rich victims?"
The elder nodded. "No."
It seemed that it was not an infectious disease, but poisoning caused by eating moldy food.
Vig called the families together and instructed a scribe to write down how much food they had eaten during this period: bread, fish, and a few assorted vegetables.
"Is that all?" Vig ordered his men to pay a few silver pennies for all the food in the victims' homes and bring it to the temple for inspection.
He looked puzzled as he sorted through the wooden baskets of food.
"The only staple is rye bread, and all the loaves are the same size and shape. Um, are they from the same bakery?"
the elder explained. "Rye bread is the cheapest, and we usually dip it into fish or vegetable soup for dinner..."
Amidst the old man's ramblings, Vig found information about the bakery and ordered the guards to bring the owner and the ingredients.
The bread was baked from a large basket of rye mixed with a strange ergot. It was cylindrical, 12 centimeters long, with horned ends.
According to the corpulent owner, the ergot was already mixed into the rye when he bought it from the farmers.
"Really?" Wig, not knowing the exact effects of the ingredient, thought for a moment before ordering the shopkeeper to leave the temple and eat some rye bread he was selling to the public.
"Eat a little, I am treating you."
Looking around at the crowd of fierce warriors, the shopkeeper, with a sad expression on his face, tore off a small piece of bread and washed it down with water. About ten minutes later, he suddenly began to dance and tremble, falling into a strange, frantic state.
Seeing this, the Gaelic villagers raised an uproar, believing it to be a case of demonic possession. Two guards pinned the shopkeeper to the ground and poured water into him with wooden ladles, making him vomit until he regained consciousness.
"No, it is not my fault. It is those damned peasants. "It's none of my business..."
At this point, the Gaelic hostility gradually died down. Fearing the lord's vengeance, the most agile began to flee. The crowd, led by them, quickly thinned out, leaving only a few dozen families of the victims and five old men.
"Well, we've investigated. The deaths were caused by this strange ergot, not magic."
(Note: The substance is ergot, a toxic substance that usually attacks rye.)
Vig turned to the shopkeeper, not wanting to embarrass the villagers. "Take me to the peasants selling the poisoned rye. Perhaps you'll be saved."
By now, Shrike had gathered his forces. Leaving the garrison behind, Vig left Glasgow with his guards, highlanders, and knights, following the innkeeper to a village ten miles away.
Astride his grey horse, Vig surveyed the increasingly rugged countryside to the north. "Why don't you buy your rye in the suburbs?"
complained the portly innkeeper. "The local villagers have been visiting us, saying they have a good rye crop and a cheap price."
Visiting us?
Vig's eyes flashed and he instinctively jumped from the saddle, scanning the fields on either side of the road and the woods beyond for ambushes.
"The situation has changed, deploy to battle formation!"
Receiving the order, the four hundred men changed from a marching column to a horizontal formation. Vig gave the command: "Knights and mounted mercenaries, advance and seal off the perimeter of the target village. Do not charge head-on; wait for reinforcements!"
Forty warhorses roared past, and Vig ordered the fast mountain infantry to begin the march, quickly catching up with the cavalry.
The first two groups set out, and he followed with the remaining two hundred warriors, including fifty guardsmen and one hundred and fifty militiamen from the knight's estate.
After nearly three hours of marching along the road, Vig arrived at the designated village. Fifty bodies, including a small number of Indigo Raiders, lay scattered across the nearby fields.
"The two groups of rebels had united?"
He turned his gaze toward the village. Mountain infantry blocked the two narrow paths leading out of the village, and the main entrance, an open area, was guarded by cavalry.
Listening to the ragged breathing of the soldiers, Vig glanced at the sky. The autumn sun was setting, and there were less than three hours until nightfall.
Time was short, and he did not want to delay until nightfall. He took a quick half-hour rest, leaving the cavalry and militia to guard the crossroads while the guards and highlanders advanced.
With the support of their archers, the guards, holding round shields, advanced to the entrance of the village, successfully breaking through the enemy shield wall and began to cut down the scattered rebels house by house.
For some reason, the enemy's will to fight was incredibly stubborn. Minutes passed, and the enraged highlanders, consumed by rage, set fire to the courtyard, driving out the enemy with the flames before they were cut down one by one by spears and arrows.
Almost ninety percent of their comrades were killed, and the remaining twenty Gaelic rebels surrendered. Their commander, Lord Hughie of Glasgow, was killed by cavalry before the siege began.
"Is Hughie dead?"
Wig beamed. He had the prisoners identify the body, confirming the death of this fearsome figure. Then he looked at the cavalry. "Who did this?"
A young mounted mercenary stepped forward, calling himself Utgard, and publicly took credit.
"Very good, very good."
For the past year, the situation in Glasgow had been extremely unstable, with periodic unrest. The main reason was the survival of Lord Hughie. With his death, the remaining rebels retreated to the northern mountains, ushering in a period of peace and stability in Glasgow.