Hours passed in the freezing dark. Since the tactical meeting concluded in the Great Hall, Bjorn had organized the laborers to haul two massive, brass-trimmed field cannons from the ironclad's hold all the way to the highest rocky outcropping overlooking the village's narrow valley entrance.
Grunting under the immense weight of the iron barrels, the men hauled the thick hemp ropes over their broad shoulders, their boots slipping in the icy mud as they fought the steep incline of the fjord.
At the moment, Ragnar stood atop the ridge, leaning heavily on his iron-tipped cane while watching his gun crews anchor the artillery carriages securely into the frozen dirt.
Four men were assigned to each gun, expertly checking the steam-pressure valves and ramming the heavy canister shot down the barrels with long wooden poles.
Eventually, the heavy weapons were locked into position, their dark muzzles pointing down into the muddy thoroughfare of the village.
