The biting wind of the English Channel slowly faded as the first faint rays of dawn cracked over the eastern horizon.

Bjorn hadn’t slept a single wink, his eyes burned from staring out into the misty southern fields for hours on end, waiting for the Frankish banners to appear.

All along the eastern and southern walls, the dockworkers and castle militia were finally resting.

Three hundred steel cannons were mounted on their carriages, their barrels pointing out toward the empty plains.

"My back is broken..." Hakon groaned loudly, climbing up the final stone step to the top of the wall.

"Are the powder vaults secured?" Bjorn asked, not taking his eyes off the horizon.

"Yes, yes," Hakon waved a hand, leaning against the parapet next to Bjorn. "Every single barrel is locked away. The young boy, Odo, is down in the courtyard right now. He has the infantry commanders running the loading drills with the repeating rifles. By the gods, Bjorn... hearing two thousand men click the iron bolts at the same time... it sounds like a dragon snapping its teeth."

Bjorn let out a tired hum of agreement. Before Bjorn could voice his thoughts, a horn blew from the western watchtower.

"Is it the vanguard?" Hakon yelled, squinting out toward the southern dirt roads. "Are the Franks here?"

"No," Bjorn frowned, turning his head toward the waters of the western channel. "The horn came from the sea watch."

Thus, the two northerners hurried across the wide walkway, pushing past the sleeping militia men to look over the western edge of the wall.

Cutting through the morning mist, riding the early tide, was a fleet of deep-hulled transport ships.

They were flying the stark white and black ermine banners of the Kingdom of Brittany.

"Bretons?" Hakon blinked, completely confused. "What in the name of the gods are King Salomon’s men doing sailing this far north? They are supposed to be holding the western border."

"Let’s go find out," Bjorn grunted, turning quickly and marching toward the stone stairs.

By the time Bjorn and Hakon reached the main docks, the first wave of Breton transport ships had already dropped their ramps.

The harbor, which had just barely recovered from the unloading of the steel cannons, was once again thrown into organized chaos.

Marching down the ramps in lines were thousands of hardened Breton soldiers... they wore thick gambesons and carried long steel pikes.

Waiting at the bottom of the main ramp was Gurvand, one of King Salomon’s most trusted and elite generals.

The Breton commander was an older man with a short gray beard and sharp brown eyes, wearing a highly polished iron breastplate.

"Lord Bjorn. Lord Hakon." Gurvand called out, raising a hand in greeting as he stepped onto the pier. "It is a damn good morning to kill some Franks, wouldn’t you agree?"

"Gurvand," Bjorn nodded respectfully, stepping forward to clasp the general’s forearm. "It is good to see you, but I am confused. Why are you here? The Frankish vanguard is marching on this city as we speak."

"That is why we are here, my friend." Gurvand grinned warmly, patting Bjorn’s shoulder. "We received a message from King Ragnar three days ago. He explicitly ordered us to pack our best men into the ships and sail to Calais to reinforce your position."

Hakon crossed his arms. "Ragnar ordered this? But what about Brittany? If Emperor Louis realizes your border is empty, he will march straight into your farmlands."

"Our lands are safe, Lord Hakon," Gurvand stated firmly, "We kept the full might of our heavy cavalry back home. The knights are patrolling the border roads."

"...Furthermore, we kept nearly three thousand and five hundred of the new musket men stationed inside our stone forts, fully backed by the wall cannons."

"So the western flank is holding tight," Bjorn muttered, "If the Franks try to attack Brittany, they will run face-first into heavy knights and thousands of musket balls."

"..." Gurvand nodded. "King Salomon knows Emperor Louis is obsessed with breaking Calais first. So, he sent the vanguard to help you break the Emperor’s teeth."

Gurvand turned around, "I have brought you six thousand of our best pike infantry, and more importantly... I have brought three thousand men armed with the Iron Kingdom’s muskets. They have enough black powder to shoot for a week straight."

"Wait... wait a minute," Hakon whispered, stepping closer to Bjorn.

He raised his fingers, "You have three thousand Breton musket men. Plus Gurvand’s six thousand pike infantry. Plus our own three thousand infantry..."

Bjorn slowly turned his head to look at Hakon, "Plus the two thousand and four hundred repeating riflemen we armed last night, and the twelve hundred local militia currently sitting behind three hundred heavy steel cannons on the walls."

Thus, the reality of their situation finally washed over the two commanders...

Between the elite Viking warriors, the heavily armed Breton reinforcements, the mass-produced muskets, the repeating rifles, and the devastating steel artillery...

They had a real army.

A highly advanced army of over fifteen thousand men, bristling with the most destructive technology the world had ever seen!

"Do not get ahead of yourself," Bjorn warned, though a rare smile finally spread across his face. "We still have twenty thousand Franks marching toward us to set up the siege camps. We need to get these new men organized and positioned on the walls immediately."

"I will handle the infantry lines, Lord Bjorn," Gurvand offered quickly. "My men know how to follow orders. Just tell us where you want the pikes and where you want the muskets."

"Put the Breton muskets on the lower battlements," Bjorn ordered sharply, "I want the repeating rifles on the highest towers where they have the best line of sight. Keep the pikes in the main courtyard as a rapid reaction force in case they somehow manage to breach the main gates."

For the next few hours, the city of Calais was a hive of intense military activity... the Breton reinforcements integrated with the Iron Kingdom defenders.

Bjorn finally felt like he was holding a proper shield.

By the time the sun fully crested the sky, burning away the last of the freezing mist, Bjorn was standing back on the highest point of the southern wall.

Hakon and Gurvand stood by his side.

Below them, thousands of men were quietly waiting.

"Lord Bjorn!" a lookout suddenly screamed from the western watchtower, pointing a finger out toward the southern dirt roads.

"The banners. I see the golden lions!"

Bjorn narrowed his eyes, slowly, cresting over the distant green hills, a sea of moving steel and flesh finally appeared.

It was the Frankish vanguard... twenty thousand men marching in tight formations.

"There they are." Hakon whispered, "The Emperor’s lapdogs."

"Should I order the lower walls to prepare a volley?" Gurvand muttered.

However, Bjorn didn’t answer right away... he kept staring at the marching column, a frown forming on his face.

Something was wrong...

Thousands of peasants were being whipped forward by the knights, dragging iron chains through the mud.

And attached to the end of those chains, being slowly pulled over the crest of the hill, was a massive object covered by a gigantic black canvas tarp.