Thousands of Frankish peasants and heavily armored knights worked together to unhitch the carts.

They were frantically hauling the artillery pieces into a long firing line just out of the reach of the Viking rifles.

"Keep them moving, you lazy dogs!" Hugh roared loudly, "I want those barrels pointed at that hole in their wall! Today, we bleed the northmen dry!"

Count Boso rode up beside the Marshal, "Marshal Hugh," Boso grinned. "The priests from Paris arrived with the supply train this morning. They are walking through the ranks right now, blessing the cannons with holy water and praying for a glorious slaughter."

Hugh let out a laugh. "Let them pray, Boso. The Church knows exactly who the real enemy is. King Ragnar and his iron demons are a plague upon this earth."

After all, if the Pope supported this Frankish marshal, then clearly God must be on his side, or so he thought.

Though he might be outnumbered in terms of raw tactical genius, Hugh firmly believed that the divine will of the heavens would shatter the Iron Kingdom’s invincible aura.

Even so, the reality up on the high stone battlements of Calais was different from the Marshal’s holy fantasies.

Bjorn stood near the edge of the forty-foot breach in the southern wall, his ice-blue eyes cold.

He wasn’t praying, and he certainly wasn’t panicking... In reality, Bjorn now made his plan.

"Look at them." Hakon grumbled, "They are parading those bronze toys around like they already won the war. Hundreds of cannons, hundreds."

"I can see them," Bjorn replied, not raising his voice.

"Should I order the Breton musket men to form a firing line in the courtyard?" General Gurvand asked, walking up to the two northern commanders.

The older Breton veteran looked highly concerned. "If they focus all those bronze cannons on this single breach, they will widen the hole. Then, they will march their muskets right through our front door."

Technically, Bjorn had all kinds of things to make him win... obviously, that was entirely clear.

The Iron Kingdom had vastly superior steel cannons that could shoot further and hit harder.

They had two thousand repeating rifles that could fire ten rounds before a Frankish soldier could even reload a primitive musket once.

They had heavily fortified stone walls, highly disciplined veteran infantry, and an endless supply of ammunition safely locked in the dry vaults beneath the city.

Of course, the ears knew it... the network of spies operating across the continent had already reported the vast technological gap.

And maybe half of the population of Francia secretly knew that the Iron Kingdom had the absolute upper hand in this brutal conflict.

However, why were things that hard for Bjorn?

If he had the best weapons, the best walls, and the best men... why was he standing on a broken wall, his stomach tied in tight knots, entirely worried about losing this city?

Bjorn slowly lowered his spyglass, letting out a long sigh.

"Do you want to know the truth, Gurvand?" Bjorn asked quietly, looking at the Breton general. "Do you want to know why this is so difficult?"

"Please enlighten me, Lord Bjorn," Gurvand nodded.

"Look down there at that camp. Marshal Hugh has twenty thousand men, plus hundreds of cannons."

"If I order our artillery to open fire right now in a massive duel, we will easily destroy half of their bronze guns."

"We will slaughter thousands of their peasants." Bjorn stated firmly.

"That sounds like a perfect victory to me~" Hakon chimed in, highly confused.

"But they will shoot back," Bjorn snapped, "Their bronze cannons are inferior, yes. But if they fire three hundred iron balls at this city, some of them are going to hit. And every time they hit, a Viking rifleman dies. A Breton veteran dies."

Bjorn pointed a finger down at the endless sea of Frankish tents.

"Emperor Louis doesn’t care if twenty thousand peasants die in the mud today, If we wipe this vanguard out, but lose five thousand of our own elite brothers in the process."

"...the Emperor will just buy another thirty thousand mercenaries tomorrow. He will keep throwing cheap southern bodies at us until our repeating rifles are empty and our best men are dead."

"..."

"So we cannot trade blows with them... If we bleed even a little bit, we lose the grand strategy."

"That is why I refuse to let them dictate the pace of this battle. We are not going to trade cannonballs with Marshal Hugh."

After hearing such words, Leif, the master artillery engineer, jogged over from the intact western battery.

"Lord Bjorn." Leif saluted sharply. "The men are fully rested, and the powder kegs are prepped. Just give the word, and we will turn their new bronze battery into complete slag!"

"Hold your fire, Leif," Bjorn ordered.

"Hold... hold our fire, my Lord?" Leif blinked, "But they are lining up to shoot the walls."

"I know," Bjorn smirked, "I want you to let them finish lining up. But I want you to change the targets for every single steel cannon on this wall."

Bjorn grabbed Leif by the shoulder and pointed out toward the rear of the Frankish camp.

"Do not aim at their shiny new bronze cannons, look past the artillery line, Leif. What do you see?"

Leif squinted through the morning mist. "I see... the supply carts, my Lord. And thousands of oxen and warhorses tethered near the tree line."

"Precisely," Bjorn grinned. "Marshal Hugh marched his cannons up here in a massive rush to save his vanguard. That means all of his explosive black powder, all of his heavy iron balls, and all of his draft animals are currently packed together in the rear supply train."

"..!" Hakon laughed loudly, slapping his thigh. "You are an absolute bastard! If we destroy their powder and their horses, they will just be heavy paperweights sinking into the mud. They won’t be able to shoot them, and they won’t be able to drag them away!"

"Leif,"

"Angle the barrels for maximum distance. I want you to blanket their supply train in fire."

"It will be a slaughter, Lord Bjorn!" Leif cheered. "I will re-aim the batteries right now!"

The master engineer turned and sprinted back down the wall, screaming orders at the motivated artillery crews.

The wedges were frantically hammered into new positions, shifting the steel barrels slightly higher and away from the front lines of the enemy camp.

Bjorn stood tall, watching the Frankish army scramble... however, as Bjorn watched the enemy camp, waiting for Leif to signal the volley, something caught his attention.

The Frankish commander was sitting on his black stallion, ignoring the city of Calais.

Instead, Hugh was pointing his steel sword toward the western horizon, shouting orders at his heavy cavalry.

Bjorn frowned, adjusting the focus ring on his glass.

Thousands of Frankish knights were entirely abandoning the camp, spurring their warhorses into a full gallop.

They were riding hard toward the distant coastal cliffs overlooking the choppy English Channel.

"What in the name of the gods are they doing?" Hakon asked, "Why is their cavalry riding toward the empty beaches? There is nothing out there but salt and sand."

Bjorn swung the brass spyglass away from the Frankish camp, tracking the direction the knights were charging.

The spyglass nearly slipped from his hands.

"Bjorn?" Gurvand asked nervously.

Bjorn slowly lowered the spyglass. "How did a fleet slip past our southern scouts?"