On the march, Vig encountered a few scattered Saxon fugitives. He forbade his men from breaking formation, ordering only the archers to drive them off.
Half an hour later, they reached the foot of the hill. Vig leapt from his saddle, seized a round shield from a retainer's hand, and shouted:
"Up with me! Ready yourselves for battle!"
His suspicions proved true. As they neared the crest, a host of Saxons appeared—bent, panting, weary. Without hesitation, Vig chose to strike while they were still unsteady, seizing the high ground before them.
He hurled himself into their midst, sword flashing. Light-armed warriors with shields and axes pressed behind him, while the heavy shield-bearers, slowed by fatigue, struggled halfway up the slope and could not yet join the fray.
Yet to his surprise, the Saxons did not break. Outnumbered, they still fought ferociously, and the clash bogged into a brutal melee.
Strange… Mercia's household guard was broken at Tamworth. How could mere levies fight with such skill?
Vig struck down a helmed commander. On his surcoat, pale gray fabric bore the image of a yellow dragon with spread wings.
No… that is the royal crest of Wessex!
Dread tightened his chest, but retreat was unthinkable. He had to seize the hilltop, to spy Wessex's dispositions and send word to Ragnar's host.
"Forward! The gods are watching us!"
He plunged deeper. A spearpoint scraped his shield's rim; he twisted, slashing a throat. The stench of iron filled his nostrils.
Shielded by his men, half-mad with battle, Vig stormed to the summit. He struck down the officer by the banner-pole. At his signal, a burly Norseman hacked with his axe until the wood split. The yellow dragon flag toppled into the mud.
At last the Wessex soldiers broke, fleeing like a tide down the slope.
Panting, Vig stood drenched in blood, his mail soaked through—whether Saxon or his own, he could no longer tell.
Looking south, his heart froze. Thousands of Wessex soldiers were marching out of the woods, forming ranks upon the clearing.
"Quick! To the king! Tell him the enemy's main force is here—no less than four thousand strong!"
He sent a nimble youth running with the message. Expecting a long struggle, Vig ordered his exhausted heavy infantry to rest where they sat, while the others scavenged weapons and prepared to hold the height.
After repulsing two Saxon assaults, Ulf arrived with three hundred more.
"Four thousand at least—and over a thousand in heavy mail! Damn that fool Gunnar, he nearly doomed us all!"
Cursing, he caught sight of a new threat: from the woods marched hundreds more, clad in chainmail surcoats, leading their horses. On the far west they drew up in a wedge.
"So many cavalry?"
Ulf recalled months of complaints from Pascas, the quartermaster—how a single warhorse ate as much as seven men, and for every hundred riders there must be smiths, servants, and grooms, consuming the food of a thousand foot.
If Wessex fielded four hundred cavalry, their upkeep equaled that of four thousand men. Truly, the southern kingdom was wealthy beyond reckoning. A dangerous thought crept into him—perhaps I should seek lands here, in Wessex…
"Damnation!" Vig cut him short. "They have stirrups—and they form a wedge for the charge. We are finished. Hold here—I must warn the king, pray we still have time."
"Change formation now? You're mad!"
But Vig did not wait. He ran for his horse, snatched the reins—too late. The ground shook, as if some monster stirred beneath the earth. The Saxon cavalry were in full charge.
Worse still, his men carried round shields and short axes—ill-suited to meet horsemen.
Desperate, Vig spurred straight toward Nils' battalion, shouting with all his breath:
"Cavalry! Into the woods!"
But distance stole his words. To Nils' ears came only a faint murmur.
"What? Speak up!" he bellowed back.
"—Woods!"
At last the word reached him. He glanced at the trees to the east and thought Vig warned of an ambush hidden there.
Impossible. Hunters had already scouted it. If Saxons lay in wait, they would have sounded the alarm.
Shaking his head at the onrushing Vig, Nils suddenly froze. From behind the slope surged a torrent of riders, swords and flails flashing in the sun.
"Deus adjuva!" — God help us!
"Pour le roi!" — For the king!
The cries thundered like the sea. Nils' mouth went dry. He forced out the order: form a shield wall—five hundred men, one hundred heavy in front, four hundred light behind.
The earth heaved, sunlight glinted off mail, hooves thundered closer.
Then the wedge struck. Horses smashed through, hurling warriors skyward, shields splintering, blood spraying in the air. Riders burst into the gap, cutting with longswords or swinging brutal chain-flails—blunt force crushing even through helmets.
The frenzy spread to the mounts themselves. Horses trampled screaming men, while others, wounded and gutted, still charged on in agony, entrails spilling, blind with pain and rage, until they collapsed among the dying.
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