Through the lens of his spyglass, Ragnar stared at the impossible sight unfolding on the horizon.
His jaw tightened, and silence fell over him, ignoring the roar of the Steam Chariots blasting the Frankish trenches to his right.
"King Ragnar?" Richard inquired, his voice strained with anxiety as he stood beside the iron boiler of the chariot.
The southern scholar could clearly see the sheer tension radiating from his sovereign's broad shoulders.
"What is it? Are the wooden ships not in position to fire?"
Ragnar slowly lowered the spyglass.
"The wooden ships are in position," Ragnar muttered. "However, it appears my reserve captains have decided to take matters into their own hands. The ironclads have arrived."
Richard's eyes went wide, and he immediately snapped his gaze toward the distant waters of the bay.
From this vantage point, even without the spyglass, the unnatural plumes of black coal smoke rising into the gray winter sky were unmistakable...
