With the city's defenses badly damaged, the Vikings pushed forward fifteen towering, cumbersome siege towers, inching them toward the northern wall of Rennes.
Facing these machines, the defenders could think of only one countermeasure—fire arrows. Archers rushed onto the exposed ramparts, desperately trying to ignite the advancing towers.
Under constant fire from Viking bows and crossbows, the defenders managed to burn five siege towers, but the price was steep. More than two hundred archers were killed or wounded, and the survivors' morale collapsed. No one was willing to climb back onto the walls to continue fighting.
Moments later, wooden ramps slammed down from the remaining towers. Armored warriors surged onto the battlements, overwhelming the defenders through sheer numbers. The gates were seized, and the main force poured into the city.
The battle was over.
Vig summoned representatives of the local population and asked where the Breton nobles had gone.
One man replied, "Those lords? The Franks frightened them half to death. Some were captured, some surrendered, and only a few fled into the mountains to hide."
Vig motioned for his men to bring out a tray of silver coins.
"Take me to them. I have business."
Seeing the wary looks around him, Vig added calmly, "King Ragnar has no intention of occupying Brittany. He plans to return it to its rightful owners. Tell them to come quickly—first come, first served."
By noon the next day, a noble in his forties hurried to see Vig. He introduced himself as Salomon of the House of Poher, claiming undisputed authority over all of Brittany.
After boasting at length about his family's ancient lineage, Salomon finally got to the point and asked what the Vikings wanted.
Vig replied simply, "Fight the Franks. Supply my army."
Salomon's expression stiffened. "I'm willing to rally the people against the Franks, and I can sell grain at a low price. But I cannot join your army, nor can I swear allegiance to Ragnar. Please understand—among the common folk, the Franks are invaders, but you Vikings are no better. You are seen as pagan raiders."
Vig showed no irritation. He ordered his men to bring out the captured shields and iron swords, instructing Salomon to arm his followers and attack the Frankish garrisons in the Breton interior.
"Prove your worth," Vig said coolly. "Then I'll consider handing Rennes over to you."
After Salomon left, Ulf and the other nobles immediately gathered around. Unable to understand Latin, they could only guess based on the expressions they had seen.
"It's settled," Vig said. "Salomon will attack the Frankish garrisons. When he succeeds, Rennes will be his. If he dies, we'll simply find another noble to take his place."
"That's all?" Ulf stared. "He's not even going to fight alongside us?"
Vig explained patiently, "The Franks share religion with the locals but differ in culture. We Vikings differ in both religion and culture. The locals resent us even more. Even if we forced them to join us, we'd only get a crowd of freeloaders."
Better soldiers matter more than more soldiers.
That was a lesson Vig had learned through years of war. Letting the Bretons fight the Franks on their own soil would yield far better results.
Over the next week, Brittany fell into chaos. Local forces launched widespread attacks on Frankish garrisons across the region. Once Vig confirmed the situation had fully ignited, he left five hundred men to hold Rennes and led the rest of his army south.
Three days later, they reached the mouth of the Loire River. The terrain here was flat, the river hundreds of meters wide, bordered by vast marshlands thick with reeds.
Vig sent scouts ahead and soon discovered a ruined settlement.
More than a decade earlier, a Viking raid had sacked Nantes, devastating the surrounding area. The town never recovered and lacked even the resources to repair its broken wooden palisade.
When the army arrived, the inhabitants fled, leaving behind crumbling walls and streets choked with weeds.
"What a desolate place," Ulf sighed. Judging by the state of it, there would be little worth looting.
After gathering the few usable boats, Vig left three hundred men in Nantes to repair the defenses. The main force crossed the Loire and advanced deeper into the heart of West Francia.
As the march continued, Little Pascal grew increasingly uneasy. Watching the dense forests lining the eastern side of the road, he felt as if ambushes lurked behind every tree.
He urged his horse forward until he rode beside Vig.
"My lord… are we really marching on Bordeaux?"
Vig replied dully, "It's the king's order. What choice do I have? Besides, the south produces wine and wealth—perfect for the men to make a killing."
Ulf added from the left, "He's right. Lately we've been raiding baronial estates and captured over three hundred warhorses, not to mention grain, wine, and wool. Beating up country nobles is far better than smashing ourselves against Charles the Bald's main army. Kid, stick with us—you should be happy."
Little Pascal said nothing and instead turned his attention to the First Infantry Regiment ahead.
The soldiers marched in four-column formation, silent and disciplined. Junior officers kept the ranks straight, while a company commander at the front carried a banner-spear. A small black triangular flag hung from its tip, marked with unfamiliar symbols: "1-8."
Pascal learned that the symbols were Eastern numerals, denoting 1st Infantry Regiment, 8th Company.
Behind each company followed six supply wagons, carrying water barrels, black bread for lunch, shovels, and the soldiers' armor.
After many campaigns, the First Infantry Regiment had reached an 80 percent armor rate. The armor varied widely in style and often weighed more than twenty-five jin. To avoid heat exhaustion, the men marched wearing only thin linen shirts.
It was high summer. Sweat streamed down their necks, soaking the linen. Occasionally a soldier would drink from his flask, reseal it, and continue marching—without speaking.
By contrast, the center of the column was utter chaos. Two thousand men wandered in loose formation, laughing loudly. Their officers not only failed to stop them, but joined in the chatter, like peasants heading to a fair.
"Do these people have no sense of shame?" Pascal thought bitterly.
But reserved by nature and only eighteen years old, he lacked the nerve to scold them. He kept his face stiff and endured until midday.
The army halted in a dense elm grove. Guided by scouts, the First Infantry Regiment fetched water from the nearby river in orderly turns, then returned to chew on black bread.
After resting for two hours, the march resumed.
As the sun dipped low, Vig chose a gentle slope for camp. Soldiers swung shovels, driving sharpened wooden stakes into the soil to form a standard rectangular fortification. Fires were lit, salted meat porridge was cooked, and another exhausting day finally came to an end.
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