The Frankish and Danish combined army, now numbering a staggering 38,000 thousand men with their recent maritime reinforcements, froze.
Down in the trenches, the proud knights of Emperor Louis, the hardened musketeers, and the fierce Danish mercenaries stopped fighting.
Lord Lothair stood behind his wooden barricade, his southern armor covered in a layer of mud and the fresh blood of his own personal guard.
His tactical genius, the brilliant, adaptable mind that had elevated him to First Marshal before the age of forty, shut down.
He was looking at impossibility...
Breaching the morning mist, dwarfing the traditional wooden longships of the Danish fleet, were the three ironclads.
"What the hell is this...?"Lothair whispered.
However, the ironclads did not arrive just to put on a grand display... they were floating fortresses of industrialized death, designed by Ragnar's sovereign intellect to dominate the seas.
