Casualties: five dead, twenty enemies slain.
For such an even exchange, Burlow showed little emotion.
"What of their arms?" he asked. "Any iron armor among them?"
"Their leader had armor. The rest only shields and short swords. The prisoners say we'll reach Lanark by sunset."
"Understood."
He sent the runner back to the company lines with orders to close the formation—tighten the distance between units.
By four in the afternoon, they crested a hill and spotted the Pictish settlement in the valley below, fields patchworked around it.
"Roughly a hundred households—five hundred souls," Burlow estimated.
He was just about to order a rest when the sound of cracking branches erupted from the brush ahead. Before he could raise his hand in warning, dozens of Picts burst from the thickets, brandishing short swords and charging straight for the command post.
A shrill toot! of a horn tore through the forest—then came a chaos of horns, flutes, and whistles, signals flying from every direction. The army was under assault on all sides. Only the two nearest Mandarin Duck formations reacted quickly enough to rush to the command post's aid.
"Loose at will!"
The thirty longbowmen attached to headquarters loosed a volley, felling the first wave of attackers—but it didn't stop the charge. As the distance closed, the archers' line of sight vanished behind the press of trees.
"Hrragh!"
The howling Picts slammed into the Viking shieldmen. The air filled with the thud of wood on steel, and splinters flew.
Then, from between two shields, a pair of trident-headed forks thrust outward. Their tangled prongs caught the Picts' short swords and wrenched them aside. Spears followed—two, three, four thrusts in a rhythm of death.
Bodies crumpled. The sounds of impact and guttural Pictish screams mingled. A startled grouse exploded from the canopy, scattering bright feathers that drifted down like violet petals through the beams of light.
Watching the fight unfold, Burlow couldn't help but admire the scene.
"As expected, the Duke's formation works beautifully in small engagements," he thought. "With proper coordination, each squad multiplies its strength. An enemy can parry one spear—but not the second, nor the third."
Seeing the fear in the attackers' indigo-painted faces, Burlow smiled thinly and had his interpreter shout:
"Surrender, fools! This is a new kind of war. We strike only at your lords and their chosen few. The rest may live."
The skirmish lasted less than five minutes. The Picts broke and fled.
Leaning against a tree, Burlow let out a long breath while his men tallied the results: forty enemies killed, fifteen captured, at the cost of three dead and six wounded.
After half an hour's rest, the column marched on, reaching Lanark by dusk.
The local lord had barely a dozen men left. Burlow gathered his armored troops for one final assault and took the settlement with ease.
It took a full day to register the population and farmland. He left fifty men to garrison the place, then marched north with his prisoners.
When word of the Mandarin Duck formation's first victory reached Vig, the Duke was delighted.
"Reward them," he ordered. "Ten casks of beer for the mountain infantry."
Burlow drank heartily that night. Foam laced his beard as he burped and asked, half-drunk:
"My lord, what's our next target?"
"No rush," Vig replied. "The siege engines at Glasgow are ready. Once we take that city, we'll control the entire Central Lowlands—the first stage of the campaign complete. After that begins the long work of rooting out bandits."
He unrolled his map, tapping the mark labeled Lanark with a quill.
"Tell me, Burlow—what do you make of that place?"
Burlow had learned from Vig to view each conquered land with an appraising eye—its soil, its yield, its profit.
"Not bad," he said after thinking. "About two thousand acres in total, with some gentle slopes good for grazing. There's a stream nearby—cut the timber, float it downstream to sell. You could make coin from that."
"Good." Vig wrote on the map: Lanark – 100 households, 2,000 acres.
He mounted his horse and rode toward Glasgow.
Only then did Burlow realize the question's true meaning.
"Wait—was he planning to grant Lanark to me?"
His stomach dropped.
"Damn it! I shouldn't have let the men run wild. The locals must hate me now!"
Panicked, he grabbed a spare horse and galloped after Vig.
"My lord! About Lanark—there's been… a misunderstanding with the locals. Please don't grant me that land!"
Two days later, Glasgow.
Banners whipped in the wind, spears glinting like a forest of steel. Four thousand soldiers stood in ranks east of the city, awaiting the final order.
Vig rode along the line on his gray horse, offering no speeches, no threats. With a flick of his left hand, the assault began.
From a hill to the northeast, Stein and his three hundred island raiders watched. They had hoped to join the attack and snatch some loot, but Vig had brushed them aside with contempt.
"Stay out of my way," he'd said coldly.
Knowing better than to provoke the Serpent of the North, Stein obeyed, sulking on the ridge while his men whispered at the sight before them.
Catapults. Siege towers. Shield carts. Ladders. Battering rams.
Under their thunderous work, the Vikings stormed the walls in less than an hour. The eastern gate fell first, and an iron tide poured into the city.
Behind him, one of Stein's young warriors gaped.
"Boss… Glasgow's fallen? Just like that?"
Since the Isles Alliance had formed, capturing Glasgow had been their dream. They'd tried everything—night raids, merchant disguises, bribes—and failed every time. Now, watching the city fall in a single morning, they felt not just envy but fear.
As Vig's black serpent banners rose over the battlements, one island chieftain sighed, turned his horse west, and began to withdraw. The rest followed silently. None dared test the victor's wrath.
Within the captured city, Vig's shamans and students catalogued supplies. Compared to Wessex or the Franks, Glasgow's wealth was modest—some silver, wool, and fur, quickly looted by the soldiers. Vig himself ended up with little but a few unwanted manuscripts.
That night, at the victory feast, he didn't spoil the men's joy. He waited until the campfire songs subsided, then rose, lifting his cup.
"To all who fought for me," he said. "For your valor, your blood, your loyalty."
As hundreds of eyes burned with pride and drunken fervor, Vig slowly unrolled a parchment scroll—and began to read.
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