In the blink of an eye, the shield wall of five hundred Norsemen collapsed. Many were crushed by the devastating charge, and once the slaughter reached a certain threshold, the line dissolved in panic.
"Like a mountain breaking apart… Damn it, how did Frankish reinforcements get here?"
Vig spurred north in wild retreat, his mind flashing back to the surcoats of the knights—most bore the golden fleur-de-lis, emblem of the Frankish kings.
His heart plunged into ice. They had come to fight Mercia, not France—yet "Charles the Bald" in distant Paris had intervened, sending four hundred seasoned cavalry at once. Nothing could have been worse.
Soon, Vig rode into Ivar's ranks. Word of Nils' rout spread quickly, and dread hung heavy; men glanced nervously at the woods, some half-ready to bolt before a single blow was struck.
We have no long spears… Axes and swords are useless against horsemen. We'll need another way.
Seeing Ivar bent on holding ground, Vig pushed northward until he found Gunnar and his hundred riders.
"We must destroy those Frankish horsemen—or it's all over."
Gunnar, still shaken from what he'd seen, nodded grimly. "How?"
"Cavalry relies on speed. When they crash through Ivar's lines and lose momentum, you strike with your horsemen. I'll bring footmen to surround them. Once bogged down, they'll die like any others."
As they spoke, the Frankish riders reformed their wedge. Vig's rough count showed they had lost fewer than fifty.
Plans set, Vig rode north for reinforcements, Gunnar pressed south with his band. By the time they arrived, the Franks were locked in a grinding melee with Ivar's men.
"Valhalla!"
Gunnar roared, sword drawn, heels driving his mount forward. His hundred thundered into the Franks—now slow, scattered, winded. In the crash, thirty knights toppled.
Both sides screamed their kings' names, hacking and slashing in the crush. The Frankish horses were tall and powerful, but after two charges, both beasts and riders were spent. Numbers still favored them, but for the moment, they could not break the Norse riders.
Steel rang, horses shrieked. Gunnar's raw talent shone, though his lack of training showed; he relied on brute strength alone. One rider lunged—a black blur. Gunnar ducked, shoving his sword crosswise, the steel catching his foe's blade. With the momentum of his charge, he forced the edge into the man's shoulder-gap. Blood gushed, dripping down to spatter the mud as the knight fell. Gunnar had claimed his fourth kill.
Time blurred. Norse riders dwindled, the formation on the verge of breaking—until Vig at last arrived, light-footed infantry at his heels.
"Armor's too strong—strike the horses first!"
Against cavalry robbed of speed, his men swarmed like wolves. Vig's voice was hard: even if it cost three footmen for one knight, it was worth it.
Trapped in the press, Frankish riders were dragged from their mounts. Mail hauberks saved them from axes, but daggers found softer targets—armpits, eyes, thighs.
"Well done!" Vig shouted from horseback, savage delight in his voice. "Every warrior has his weakness—that's how you break them!"
But his triumph drew eyes. Several knights spurred toward him, hoping to cut down the Norse commander.
No!
Vig's heart lurched. He had spent two years on Latin, not swordplay. Seeing the armored chargers bearing down, instinct seized him—he wheeled his horse and bolted into the western woods.
Light flickered through oak leaves, the fresh green whispering in the wind. Vig inhaled the forest's fragrance with relief.
Behind him came angry shouts in Frankish. He neither understood nor cared. He pressed deeper into the thickets.
Time passed; the curses grew faint. Suddenly his gray horse stumbled, nearly throwing him. Moss slicked the ground, forcing him to dismount and lead it by hand. Soon behind, he heard the crash of hooves—then the scream of a horse falling. More curses, then silence. He exhaled. He was free.
Relief left him drained. He slumped against a stump, resting. When he rose to return, dread struck—he had no idea which way led back.
"Old horse, do you know the road?"
The gray snorted indignantly, licking his face with a wet tongue.
"Stop that!" Vig shoved the muzzle aside, dug bread from his saddle, and shared it.
Climbing an oak, he used the sinking sun for bearings, then trudged on. Sweat soaked his linen shirt, and a chill wind made him sneeze—the sound echoing eerily among the trees.
Then, faint, the burble of water. His waterskin was flat; he followed the sound to a stream.
Man and horse drank deep. Suddenly, the gray shoved him hard, nearly toppling him into the current.
"You stupid beast—what's wrong now?"
But the horse kept pushing, forcing him into the brush. Moments later, across the stream, a handful of Frankish soldiers stooped to drink.
Gods… I've wandered into their lines.
He held his breath until they left. Then he climbed another oak, using the reddening sky to fix direction.
Alone, trudging on, boredom gnawed at him. He spoke to his horse for company.
"Tell me, fool horse—this way, yes? Neigh once for yes, twice for no."
"Neigh-neigh-neigh!"
The horse screamed. Vig froze. From the brush ahead stepped a Frankish knight, bloodied, weary, dragging a tall black stallion behind him.
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