On his way forward, Vig encountered a small group of Anglo-Saxons fleeing in panic. He strictly forbade his soldiers to leave the detachment without permission and sent only archers to disperse the enemy.
More than half an hour later, the detachment arrived at the foot of the mountain. Vig jumped from the saddle and took a round shield from someone. "Follow me and prepare for battle!"
His guess soon came true. When he had almost reached the top, a group of Anglo-Saxons appeared in his field of vision. Seeing the fatigue of the enemy, bent over and breathing heavily, Vig no longer hesitated and decided to seize the commanding heights on the battlefield while the enemy was still not firmly established.
He rushed at the enemy detachment, brandishing a long sword, and a detachment of light infantry with axe-shields followed him. As for the shield-bearers in iron armour, due to severe physical exhaustion, this group of men was still struggling to climb the slope halfway, and it was not possible to count on them any time soon.
Unexpectedly, the English, inferior in numbers, did not retreat, but fought the Vikings to the last, and both sides found themselves embroiled in a fierce fight.
"Strange, the Mercian palace guard was completely lost in Tamworth, and the remaining militia would never have had such a strong detachment."
Knocking down an Englishman in an iron helmet, looking like a private commander, Vig stared at his light grey robe, on which was depicted a yellow dragon with wings on its back and bared claws.
No, this is the coat of arms of the royal family of Wessex!
Vig knew that the situation was not the best, but he was not going to retreat. He had to take this commanding height, observe the formation of the Wessex army, and then inform the large army led by Ragnar, so that he could gain more initiative.
"Follow me, the gods are watching us!"
Vig quickly rushed into the depths of the enemy camp. He used the edge of his shield to deflect a thrusting spear, and with the back of his hand he slit the enemy's throat, while the warm smell of rust hit his nose.
Under the cover of a group of Viking warriors, Vig, looking like a madman, reached the top of the mountain and cut down the commander next to the flagpole.
At his signal, a tall, strong Viking warrior slashed furiously with his axe. The flagpole broke with a crash in a shower of splinters, and the royal flag with its yellow flying dragon embroidered on it fell into the muddy mud.
The Wessex soldiers finally lost heart and retreated down the slope like a wave.
"Hoo, hoo."
Wig was breathing hard, his mail soaked with blood, and he could not tell whether it was the English or his own.
He stood on the mountaintop, looking south, and saw thousands of Wessex men emerging one by one from the forest path and forming up in the open.
"Report quickly to His Majesty that we have encountered the main force of Wessex, no less than 4,000 men!"
By choosing a clever young man to bring back the news, Vig had counted on a long war. He allowed the heavy shield-bearers, who were exhausted and late, to rest on the ground, while the rest of the army searched for equipment and prepared for a long defense.
…
After repelling two Anglian attacks, Ulf arrived with over 300 warriors to reinforce them.
"At least 4,000 men, and the number of heavy infantry exceeds 1,000. Hiss, Gunnar, that idiot, almost suffered from him."
After some cursing and complaining, Ulf discovered that hundreds of Anglian men were emerging from the forest again. They were dressed in mail and a cloak over the outermost layer. They led their horses on foot and advanced, forming a wedge on the western edge of the battlefield.
"So much cavalry?"
For half a year, Ulf had often heard Pascal, who was in charge of logistics, complain about the high cost of cavalry. One warhorse could eat the rations of seven men. Taking into account the rations of horsemen, smiths, blacksmiths, servants and others, the food needed by a cavalry of 100 men was equivalent to the rations of a thousand light infantry.
Thus, the number of Wessex cavalry exceeded 400 men, and the food consumption alone was equivalent to 4,000 ordinary infantry.
Ulf sighed, looking at the wealth of this southern country, and could not help but think that perhaps he should petition for the transfer of lands to Wessex.
Suddenly Vig interrupted his fantasies: "Damn it, when did the English learn to equip stirrups? And to form a wedge, convenient for attack. It's all over, it's all over, you stay here, and I'll go to His Majesty to change the arrangement, I hope you'll have time." "
A temporary change of formation? Are you crazy?"
Without waiting for Ulf to dissuade him, Vig ran down the slope as fast as he could and took the reins from the groom, but it was a pity he was a step too late. The ground shook continuously, as if a gigantic beast was turning over deep in the earth – the Anglo-Saxon cavalry was charging in groups!
But what was even more frightening was that most of their warriors were armed with round shields and short axes and could not withstand the cavalry charge.
Vig became alarmed and urged his warhorse to meet the nearest tribe of Nils, reminding his allies at the top of his voice:
"The enemy cavalry is coming, hide in the forest!"
The voice reached Nils's ears, leaving only a low hum. He did not hear anything and answered in a hoarse voice: "What did you say? I can't hear."
"...In the forest!"
This time Nils heard the last word clearly. He looked at the forest on the eastern side, thinking that the enemy had reminded him of the ambushes in the forest.
Not quite so, right? Several hunting parties have been sent out. Even if the Anglo-Saxons set up an ambush, the hunters will warn about it.
Looking at Vig, who was riding on horseback, Nils shook his head. The next moment, he suddenly saw countless horsemen with long swords and iron chain hammers rush out from behind a gentle slope, like a wave of anger.
"Deus adjuva (God, help me)!"
"Pour le roi (For the king)!"
Faced with the tsunami-like roar, Nils was shocked. He swallowed and ordered his 500 warriors to form a shield wall, with 100 heavy infantry in front and 400 light infantry behind.
The ground shook more and more violently, and the cavalry armor reflected the blinding silver-white sunlight. Iron hooves whistled in the terrified eyes of the front soldiers. Soon
the warhorse in front crashed into the slightly weakened shield wall, and two Vikings were knocked off their feet. Splinters and drops of blood still flew through the air. The cavalry in the back rank had already squeezed through the gap into the crowd.
Shouting the king's name, the Frankish knights slashed left and right with their long swords or swung their iron chain hammers furiously - weapons that were, of course, suitable for close combat: even if the enemy was wearing an iron helmet, he could cause significant damage with just one blunt blow. Infected
by this passionate and bloody atmosphere, the warhorses charged and kicked like crazy, and the Viking infantry standing in front of them reacted in different ways. Some were knocked down and trampled into the mud by the hooves of the heavy horses, while others fought back fearlessly. Sharp iron blades ripped open the soft bellies of the horses, and a large mass of smoking entrails fell onto the grass, which in turn fueled the ferocity of the warhorses. Driven by intense pain, these creatures lost all reason and continued to run into the crowd until they exhausted their last physical strength...