By mid-July, thousands of Vikings marched thunderously upon Glasgow, the great settlement on the north bank of the River Clyde. Vig planned to take it within a month.
They spent several days digging ditches and building siege camps, after which Vig assigned Jorlen to oversee construction of siege engines. As for himself, he intended to lead two thousand men to pacify the smaller settlements in the region.
Just as he was about to depart, an unexpected visitor arrived—Helgi, emissary of the Isles Alliance, and Vig's brother-in-law.
Outside the camp gate, Helgi and twenty retainers waited, wide-eyed at the sight of such a massive army.
"So many men in iron armor… The Serpent of the North must be swimming in silver."
"Look at their horses! Twice the size of ours. Gods, what a sight to ride one!"
Listening to their chatter, Helgi flushed with embarrassment. He shut his single eye and stared at the ground until Vig emerged from his tent to greet him.
"Welcome, brother," Vig said with an easy smile. "The supply ships brought plenty of beer—a new brew, far better than the old malt ale. Try some."
He ushered Helgi and his boisterous companions into the command tent. Food and drink were served. As they ate, Vig quietly observed them, easily guessing their purpose.
Of course the Isles Alliance had heard of the northern war and come sniffing for spoils. Yet they feared the reputation of the Serpent of the North, and so sent Helgi to test the waters.
So it's these sea-rats again, Vig thought darkly. Their raids along the western coast forced the Gaels into alliance with the Picts. They made this campaign twice as bloody—and now they come to bargain for rewards?
He said nothing, swirling his cup. Eventually Helgi coughed and managed an awkward smile.
"The chieftains of the Isles heard you were conquering the north. They stand ready to help—only we feared there might be… misunderstandings. So I came to speak in person."
Vig set down his cup and sighed.
"What do the islanders want, Helgi? Or should I say—what does Stein want?"
When Helgi hesitated, Vig's eyes hardened.
"My goal is simple—to claim all the north. If Stein wants to seize a few villages and plunder some spoils while I wage war, I won't stop him. But he will take no land. When autumn comes, he returns to his islands. If he ever raids my coast again, the only reward he'll find is death."
He leaned forward, voice low and cold.
"Tell Stein that from me—word for word."
After years of campaigns, Vig no longer saw the Isles Alliance as a threat. They could barely muster five hundred warriors—a nuisance at best. If Stein dared make trouble, Vig would sweep the islands clean, sparing only Helgi's own Skye before sending the rest of the prisoners to dig ore at Stirling.
Helgi nodded stiffly.
The tension eased as Vig asked about his sister Britta and young nephew Leif. When he heard they were well, he tried again to draw his brother-in-law to safer ground.
"South of here, in Ayr, there's good land and a fine harbor—rich soil, open plains. Move your family there, Helgi. You could start anew."
"Hmm… I'll think about it," Helgi muttered, pride warring with prudence.
Seeing he would not commit, Vig pressed no further. He sent him away with gifts of jewelry and wine, and a message for Britta and the boy.
In the days that followed, Vig swept through the countryside, subduing smaller lordships that refused to yield. He spared peasants and slaves, striking only at the lords themselves, seizing their estates and treasuries.
It would, of course, shake the region's fragile stability—and likely sow the seeds of rebellion. But Vig saw no alternative.
After the war, men like Jorlen, Bavus, Micham, and Torga would all need lands and titles. So would the soldiers promoted to knighthood. Their rise would inevitably displace the old nobility. Better to break the system now than let unrest fester later.
As each village fell, Vig sent his shamans and fifth-year students to record its population and acreage—preparing the first census for taxation and enfeoffment.
"The Central Lowlands are the heart of Scotland," he mused aloud. "Perhaps… three counties would do."
The longer the campaign lasted, the better he came to understand the land. Once the Lowlands were secure, he dispatched a relief force to Edinburgh to replace Burlow, ordering the Welsh commander and his mountain troops to report for new assignments.
After three months of training, Burlow's men had become a full mountain infantry battalion:
3 companies of 9 squads each (140 soldiers total),
plus 20 armored guards, 30 longbowmen, and 30 supply troops—around 500 in all, with twenty sturdy ponies for rough terrain.
Vig watched their drill with satisfaction. He pointed at a small mark on the map spread before them.
"The Lowlands are nearly pacified. Time to test you in the hills. Here—Lanark, a valley in the southern uplands. Take it. Show me what your mountain soldiers can do."
Burlow studied the scrawled parchment map, then bowed silently and accepted.
At dawn the next day, five hundred mountain troops set out southward. The land grew rougher by the hour, blanketed in endless forest. Wind whispered through the leaves like the breath of a vast green sea.
"Spread the formation," Burlow ordered.
A soldier lifted a horn and blew.
The column split into twenty-seven squads, each peeling off into the woods.
The air was hot and damp; sunlight filtered through tangled branches, casting restless patches of gold on the mossy ground. Heather bloomed in purple clusters, and the occasional grouse burst skyward, startling the men.
Every ten minutes, Burlow had the horn blown again to check positions. Each company commander replied on a flute; each squad leader with a bronze whistle.
Horn, flute, whistle—the strange music echoed across the slopes, scattering birds and beasts, filling the forest with a tense, ominous rhythm.
After lunch, they pressed deeper. Crossing a small stream, Burlow suddenly heard an urgent whistle from the east flank—the signal for "under attack."
Moments later came a flute call: the company commander ordering the ambushed squad to hold while nearby squads reinforced.
At once, Burlow sounded his horn again—three short blasts—commanding the rest to converge toward the center and prepare for a larger fight.
Tense minutes passed before a messenger arrived, panting.
"Enemy repelled, my lord! Twenty slain. We lost one man, four wounded."
Burlow exhaled, gripping the hilt of his sword. The hills of the south were stirring—but his new mountain warriors had drawn first blood.
~------------------------------------------------------------------
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