Bjorn kept the spyglass glued to his right eye.

Far out in the choppy waters of the sea, he could barely make out the dark shapes of canvas sails.

Down in the fields, a detachment of Frankish knights was riding hard toward the coastal cliffs, waving brightly colored flags to signal the incoming ships.

"Apparently, no one is doing his fucking job around here," Bjorn growled, slowly lowering the tube.

He glared at the empty southern coastal road where his forward scouts were supposed to be perfectly positioned.

"What do you mean?" Hakon asked, "What is out there?"

"A fleet," Bjorn muttered bitterly, wiping a drop of sweat from his brow. "A small Frankish naval detachment, maybe resupply ships or a flanking force, slipping past our outer pickets. If I hadn’t looked just now, they would have landed right on our western beaches without us even knowing."

He was standing on a broken stone wall, commanding an elite army of fifteen thousand men, and he was the only person who could actually see the battlefield clearly...

Bjorn looked down at the small brass spyglass resting in his hand.

It was a beautiful masterpiece of City Titan engineering, a personal gift from King Ragnar himself... but right now, it felt entirely inadequate. He couldn’t be everywhere at once.

"Leif!" Bjorn roared, turning back toward the master artillery engineer. "Forget the main supply train for a moment. I want those cannons to see the men riding toward the cliffs and shoot them before they can signal those ships!"

"Right away, Lord Bjorn!" Leif shouted, scrambling to angle the barrels. "But... Commander, we cannot see them! The morning mist is still entirely too thick near the coast!"

After hearing such words, Bjorn let out a frustrated sigh. "They are riding past the old ruined watchtower! Just aim slightly left of the dead oak tree!"

Leif squinted hard, "Which dead tree, my Lord?! There are dozens of them out there!"

It was clearly impossible... trying to verbally direct an entire battery of heavy artillery while looking through a single, narrow spyglass was incredibly stupid.

The delay between Bjorn spotting the moving target and the engineers actually adjusting the heavy wooden wedges was far too long.

The Frankish knights were simply moving too fast.

This spyglass problem was not as good as he initially thought... having superior vision meant nothing if he couldn’t instantly share it with the men pulling the triggers.

"Hold your fire on the coast, Leif," Bjorn finally ordered, shaking his head. "Just keep the main batteries aimed directly at their central camp. Wait for my mark."

"Understood!" Leif nodded, clearly relieved that he didn’t have to blindly guess where to shoot.

Even so, Bjorn knew he had to fix this terrible bottleneck... he turned to the giant merchant standing beside him.

"Hakon," Bjorn snapped, "I need you to go down to the lower courtyard right now. Look through the local militia or the young Breton recruits. Name me a young man with sharp eyes. Someone who isn’t entirely blind or stupid."

"A young man?" Hakon raised a eyebrow, confused. "we are about to get into a bloody artillery duel. We need strong backs to haul the heavy powder kegs, not young boys to stand around and watch."

"I need a spotter, damn it," Bjorn explained, shoving the precious spyglass into Hakon’s chest.

"I cannot command the infantry, manage the wall repairs, and constantly stare through this little tube at the exact same time.

Find a sharp-eyed boy, give him the glass, and tell him his only job in this world is to stand on the highest tower and yell out what the Franks are doing."

After hearing such words, Hakon’s expression slowly melted into a deeply understanding grin.

"Ah, I see~" Hakon chuckled, "That is actually a brilliant trick, Bjorn. You are learning! I will find the sharpest-eyed rat in Calais and stick him on the high tower immediately."

"Do it fast," Bjorn grunted, rubbing his face. "And Hakon? Remind me to export some more of these spyglasses to the southern army once this is over. Every single artillery captain on this wall needs one of these things bolted directly to their face."

"I will add it to the royal ledger." Hakon promised.

With the spotting issue temporarily handed off, Bjorn quickly walked over to a sturdy supply crate resting near the intact section of the wall.

He needed to update the King before the battle truly began. He pulled a crisp piece of parchment, a small bottle of black ink, and a feathered quill from his belt pouch.

He didn’t have a proper desk, so he just flattened the parchment over the rough wood of the crate, ignoring the wind that threatened to blow it away.

He dipped the quill and began to write quickly.

Ragnar,

The Franks arrived with their full vanguard. We broke their giant experimental bombard, but they just rolled up hundreds of standard bronze cannons. Apparently, the southern Emperor finally learned how to copy your toys. We are currently holding the line at Calais, but a stray boulder entirely shattered a forty-foot section of my southern wall.

Bjorn paused for a second, dipping the quill again, his brow furrowing.

I am writing to tell you what I am planning to do. I will use the Breton muskets to hold the breach, and I will use the steel cannons to bleed their artillery dry. But they have another small fleet moving in the channel, and my forward scouts are completely failing me.

What should I do about the ships? More importantly, what are you planning to do? You have four different armies marching across the map, and I am blind to your grand strategy. Do not leave me sitting in the dark, I need to know your next move.

Also, I am running dangerously low on certain things. Give me more supplies the moment the sea is clear. I need more explosive black powder, a thousand fresh iron shells, and for the love of the gods, send me a full crate of spyglasses. I cannot fight a war while squinting through the mist.

He quickly rolled the parchment into a tight cylinder, tying it off with a small leather string.

"Odo!" Bjorn shouted without turning around.

The young Frankish assistant, who had been hiding behind a stack of empty powder kegs, jumped up and scrambled over.

"Y-Yes, Lord Bjorn?" Odo stammered, wiping his dirty face.

"Take this," Bjorn ordered, "Run down to the docks. Find the fastest courier ship we have left in the harbor and tell the captain to sail for City Titan. If the wind dies, tell them to row until their arms fall off."

"Right away, Commander!" Odo nodded, clutching the message to his chest as he ran toward the stairs.

However, before Odo could even reach the first stone step, a deafening roar shattered the peaceful morning air.

Bjorn spun around. Down in the fields, the Frankish artillery line had finally finished setting up.

They didn’t wait for the Viking cannons to shoot first... Marshal Hugh had given the order.

Dozens of freshly cast bronze cannons spat clouds of black smoke and bright orange fire.

Heavy iron balls whistled through the air, crossing the two-mile gap in mere seconds.

One of the iron balls slammed into the wall just ten feet away from Bjorn, shaking the structure and sending a shower of sharp stone splinters raining down on the defenders.

Another heavy ball flew right through the forty-foot breach, smashing into the dirt courtyard below and killing a fully armored Breton pikeman.

"Take cover!" General Gurvand screamed, diving behind a stone parapet as the iron rained down around them.

The Franks began exchanging fire in earnest, and the sheer volume of their bronze cannons was terrifying.

Bjorn didn’t have his spyglass anymore, but he didn’t need it to see the massive cloud of orange fire erupting from the enemy camp.

"Leif!" Bjorn roared, "Return fire! Give them absolute hell!"

As the choking smoke thickened and the noise grew deafening, Bjorn couldn’t help but look out toward the gray channel one last time, wondering about that mysterious fleet.