"Stupid horse… I didn't expect your senses to be this sharp. I should have listened to you more often."
Vig patted the animal's neck, signaling it to stay put, then drew the Dragon's Breath sword, determined to end the Frank swiftly.
Clang!
Steel rang as both men unsheathed their blades. Their eyes locked—Vig felt a sinking weight in his chest. He lowered his gaze to study the man's footwork. A chill of warning prickled.
Damn. A real swordsman.
The Frank wore a nasal-guard helm, mail glinting under the forest light. By Frankish standards he was tall—perhaps 176 or 178 centimeters, shorter than Vig by a few, but broad-shouldered, steady, formidable.
For half a minute they circled in silence. Then Vig lunged, his sword cleaving toward the man's left shoulder.
It was his familiar opener. Against common rabble, the blow usually struck true; if blocked, he would flow into a thrust along their blade to pierce the face.
But this knight was no rabble. He caught the strike with startling speed and strength.
Finding the man's power close to his own, Vig twisted the rebound into a rising cut at his opponent's cheek. Again, the Frank slipped back, avoiding the edge.
"So quick… What promises did Æthelwulf make to borrow such a fighter from Charles the Bald?"
They circled the clearing, trading feints, neither gaining ground.
A cool wind stirred. Grass blades spun through the air. As one brushed Vig's cheek, the knight lunged, both hands driving a thrust straight for his throat. In Spain, this technique had felled Berber warriors by the dozen, punching through mail to crush windpipes.
Cold death flashed in Vig's eyes. He staggered back just in time. The Frank pressed forward, easily knocking aside the Dragon's Breath, then drove in another thrust.
What strange swordplay!
Retreat ended—Vig twisted his head as the point screeched across his helmet. Pain rang in his skull, dizziness clouded his vision. Instinct lashed—he swept his blade sideways, forcing the knight back.
Seconds stretched. Both men gasped, sweat dripping, too drained for a fresh attack.
The knight tilted his chin, sweat streaking his neat short beard. His lips curved, regret and respect mingled.
"Maurice de Montpellier."
"Vig of Tynemouth."
The name struck him hard—he had barely survived Maurice's relentless thrusts.
No more conventional openers…
He shifted, lowering his stance, blade poised for a thrust. His arms were longer, his strength greater—if he seized the center line, he could win.
Minutes crawled. They mirrored each other, blades leveled at face height, five paces apart, neither willing to yield.
"My lord!"
Six Norse hunters burst onto the scene, bows drawn. Maurice snatched a fistful of dirt, flung it, then rolled into the brush. Arrows hissed after him, finding only leaves.
"Hold! Don't chase—there are more Franks nearby."
Vig stopped them, then followed out of the woods.
Moonlight crowned the return to Ratwulf's Castle. The camp outside still thrummed with life, not the despair of a rout.
In the hall, nobles rose as Vig entered. Ragnar exhaled. "Where in Hel's name were you? I nearly sent more hunters."
Hungry, Vig snatched bread, chewing as Ulf poured him mead.
"Burp. After surrounding the Frankish horse with light infantry, I was swarmed. I had to flee into the woods—and there I met a knight with terrifying skill."
He removed his helm, showing the scar scored across the iron. He described the Frank's signature swordplay.
"Multiple thrusts in sequence?" Ivar's eyes lit. "Tall, brown-haired, short beard, pretty face? The sort that makes Anglo women swoon?"
"Yes. You've met him?"
Silence fell. A noble pointed at Leonard, his face swathed in bandages.
"In battle, Lord Leod had his throat pierced by that man, dying on the spot. Leonard rushed to help, and nearly lost his nose—saved only by the shield-bearers."
Prisoners confirmed it: Maurice was the third son of a Frankish lord. With no claim to inherit, he had fought for years as a mercenary in Iberia, against Berbers from across the sea. At the Oxford tourney, he had won the melee championship.
Ragnar touched Vig's scarred helm, murmuring, "To think the champion knight could drive even Vig to this… Perhaps I should host tourneys of my own, to seek hidden talent among our people."
"My king, I didn't lose!" Vig snapped, pride stung. "It was even—half chance I'd have slain him had we continued."
"I see. Next time, I'll deal with him for you," Ivar said, clapping his shoulder with a sly grin.
Vig groaned. "Hel's teeth, I really didn't lose…"
After bread and mead, he listened to the day's report. The clash had been rushed, neither side fully prepared. While Frankish horse fought desperately, Mercia's main force failed to arrive, giving the Norse time to form lines. After ten tense minutes, both armies withdrew by unspoken truce.
Inwardly, Vig mused: If I had true shock cavalry, I would not waste them so. I'd use hammer-and-anvil—pin with infantry, strike from flank or rear with horse.
Relief washed over him. Æthelwulf had erred fatally: he had unleashed cavalry without infantry or archers to support them. Their losses were grievous—future battles would be far easier.
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