Ever since Herligev gave birth to their second son, Vig's lingering anxieties had finally eased. He set out to inspect the Four Northern Shires.
Edinburgh and Stirling were orderly enough, but when he reached Glasgow, he found a crowd gathered before the Norse temple. Hundreds of Gaels stood there gripping clubs and pitchforks, looking very much as though a riot could break out at any moment.
Embarrassed that such a scene had occurred during the duke's inspection, Glasgow's reeve—the Lark—requested permission to muster troops to "put down the rebellion."
"My lord, there is nothing to fear. Glasgow has two hundred garrison soldiers and a full company of mountain infantry. There are also twenty-eight knightly manors nearby, and each can provide at least eight militiamen whenever needed."
Hearing the report, Vig realized the advantage was firmly on his side. He calmed a little.
"No hurry. Talk first. If that fails, then we fight."
Sending the Lark away to assemble the troops, Vig entered the temple hall and ordered five elderly Gaels inside. With a translator present, he asked:
"I am the Duke of Tyne Town. What exactly is happening here?"
What followed was a confused, rambling explanation: more than a dozen townsfolk had fallen ill with a strange affliction—severe body pain accompanied by bizarre hallucinations. They babbled about demons and forest spirits, muttering blasphemous nonsense.
Given their long-standing hostility toward the Norse, the Gaels instinctively suspected that a Norse shaman had used "dark magic" to curse them.
Magic?
Vig dismissed the idea outright. Instead, he questioned them about the victims. All fifteen were from the poorest households.
"No wealthy families among the sick?"
The lead elder shook his head. "None."
That suggested this was not an infectious disease but food poisoning, likely from some moldy ingredient.
Vig summoned the families and had clerks record everything the victims had eaten lately—bread, fish, a few vegetables.
"That's all?"
He ordered his men to buy all the remaining food in these homes and bring it to the temple for inspection.
Sorting through the baskets of food, Vig frowned slightly.
"The only staple here is rye bread—and the loaves are all the same size and shape. All from the same bakery?"
The elder explained, "Rye bread is cheapest. We usually dip it in fish broth or vegetable soup for supper."
Amid the elder's rambling, Vig finally got the bakery's name. He ordered guards to fetch the baker and all of his ingredients.
The bakery's flour bin was filled with rye—and mixed among it were odd, horn-shaped black growths, cylindrical and about one to two centimeters long.
Ergot.
According to the chubby baker, these had been mixed into the grain before he purchased it from local farmers.
"That so?" Vig didn't know the precise symptoms of ergot poisoning, but after thinking a moment, he gave the baker a simple order:
"Step outside the temple and eat some of your own bread. A small piece—think of it as my treat."
Faced with dozens of armored warriors glaring at him, the baker wept as he tore off a small bite, swallowed it with water—
Ten minutes later, he began flailing wildly, overcome by grotesque hallucinations.
The Gaels cried out in terror, certain that a demon had possessed him. Two guards pinned him down and forced water into his mouth until he vomited, eventually regaining his senses.
"It—it wasn't my fault! Those cursed farmers mixed it in, I swear! I'm innocent—"
At that point, the Gaels' hostility began to fade. Fearful of punishment, a few sharp-witted troublemakers slipped away, and once one group left, the rest followed. Soon, only a few dozen victim families and the five elders remained.
"Well then. The matter is settled. This strange fungus caused the illness—no magic."
(Note: The substance is ergot, a toxic fungus that often infects rye.)
Vig had no interest in punishing the frightened townsfolk. Instead, he turned to the baker.
"Lead the way. Take us to the farmers who sold you the tainted grain. Do so, and you may yet earn a pardon."
By now, the Lark had assembled the garrison. Vig ordered the troops to remain behind, then took his household guards, the mountain infantry company, and the nearby knights, and set off toward a village ten miles away.
Riding a gray horse, he studied the increasingly rugged terrain.
"Why didn't you buy rye from the outskirts of Glasgow?"
The baker sobbed, "Those villagers approached me first, my lord. They said their rye harvest was abundant and offered a cheap price."
Approached him first?
Vig's expression sharpened. He dropped from his saddle and scanned the fields on either side of the road and the tree line behind them—searching for hidden ambushers.
"Something's wrong. Form battle lines!"
At his command, the four hundred men shifted from marching column to a wide battle formation.
"Knights and mounted retainers—move ahead and surround the village. Do not charge. Wait for the rest of us!"
Forty warhorses thundered down the road. Vig then ordered the mountain infantry to advance at a rapid pace to support the cavalry.
Finally, he followed with the remaining two hundred men—fifty armored household guards and a hundred fifty militia from the knightly manors.
After nearly three hours on the road, Vig reached the village. The surrounding fields were littered with fifty corpses, including a few wearing the distinctive indigo dye of the Blue Raiders.
"Two rebel groups working together?"
He turned his gaze toward the village. The mountain infantry had sealed the two side paths, while the cavalry held the broad main road at the entrance.
Soldiers panted heavily; the autumn sun was sinking. Less than three hours of daylight remained.
No time to delay.
After a brief rest, Vig ordered the cavalry and militia to hold the exits and sent his armored guards and mountain infantry to storm the village.
Under covering fire from archers, the armored guards advanced behind their shields and shattered the rebels' shield wall. House by house, they cleared out the defenders.
For some reason, the rebels fought with fanatical determination. Within minutes, the mountain infantry had resorted to burning out homes—forcing the defenders into the open, where thrown spears and arrows finished them.
When nearly ninety percent had fallen, the remaining twenty Gaels surrendered. Their commander was the lord of Glasgow—Hugh—who had been killed by the cavalry just before the assault began.
"Hugh is dead?"
Vig's eyes lit up. He had the prisoners identify the body. Once confirmed, he turned to the cavalry.
"Who killed him?"
A young mounted retainer stepped forward, giving his name as Utgard, claiming the credit.
"Good. Very good."
For the past year, Glasgow had been the most unstable region in the North. Troubles erupted constantly—and the root of the unrest had always been the survival of Lord Hugh. With him dead, the remaining rebels would scatter into the northern mountains.
At last, Glasgow would know peace.
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