Under the lead of Ragnar's flagship, the Viking fleet clumsily rowed toward the southern bank. Thanks to his months of formation drills, Vig's two thousand men were the first to assemble in order. Seeing the confusion among the rest of the army, he quickly ordered his troops to form a defensive line three hundred meters south of the river beach, covering the disembarking allies.
Mounted on his gray horse, Vig rode up a small slope—and the sight before him made his breath catch.
Across the golden wheatfields, three thousand Frankish infantry were spreading out from a marching column into a broad battle line fit for attack. At their center flew a blue banner embroidered with golden fleurs-de-lis.
Beyond the scattered ranks of conscripted peasants, seven hundred Frankish cavalry had gathered on a southeastern hillside. Their chainmail gleamed beneath tabards of blue, yellow, and red—so that from a distance, they looked like a field of wildflowers blooming in the wind.
There was no time to lose. Vig sent a shield-bearer galloping back toward the shore:
"Tell His Majesty—four thousand Franks are advancing on us, including seven hundred horsemen!"
As uneasy eyes turned to him, Vig drew the Dragon's Breath Sword and shouted orders. Following their drills, his men spread out on the grass and formed two spear-and-pike phalanxes, iron tips gleaming like a hedge of thorns.
Noticing the Vikings' swift organization, the Frankish cavalry grew impatient. Abandoning their slow, disordered infantry, they spurred into motion.
The horsemen began a steady descent from the hill, their lines shifting subtly with practiced precision—three loose ranks aligning into shape.
Then, the pace quickened. The ground began to tremble with a sound like distant thunder. Sunlight flashed across sword edges and flails; fear whitened the faces of the crossbowmen at the front of Vig's phalanx as they waited for the signal.
Five hundred meters.
Three hundred.
One hundred.
Within range.
At the officer's shout, the front-line crossbowmen fired in a hurried volley, then ducked back through the gaps in the formation.
From his saddle, Vig watched the storm of bolts streak outward like a swarm of locusts. Most missed; others struck shields or glanced off armor. Only a few found soft targets—horses screamed and stumbled.
Then came the roar of hooves. The Franks kicked their mounts hard, closing the final distance with raised swords and flails, shouting in unison—
"Vive la Charlemagne!"
Though the great emperor had been dead thirty-four years, they still charged in his name.
The first Viking ranks wavered at the sight of the towering warhorses barreling toward them.
Vig bellowed over the rising thunder:
"As in training! Kneel low—plant your spear butts in the earth—tilt the points upward! Aim for the horses!"
The order steadied them. The distance vanished in a heartbeat. The leading riders crashed straight into the hedge of steel—men and beasts impaled together, dying instantly.
Seeing their companions struck down, the rest of the horses balked. No amount of kicking or shouting could drive them forward into the deadly bristle of spears.
Soon their charge slowed, faltered, and broke. Driven by sheer survival instinct, the horses began circling the formation instead of striking it.
Their riders cursed and flailed helplessly. Inside the phalanx, the crossbowmen recovered and began firing upward at close range, while the front rows of spearmen hurled axes toward the riders.
The chaotic skirmish dragged on for several minutes before reinforcements from the riverbank arrived. Realizing they risked encirclement, the Frankish cavalry finally broke off and withdrew.
Far to the rear, a kilometer away, the Frankish militia still hadn't managed to form ranks. Facing the now massed Vikings—ten thousand strong—their commander ordered a retreat.
"Where's Gunnar? Have our horsemen pursue them!" shouted Bjorn, eager for glory.
Ivar rolled his eyes.
"The horses hate motion on ships. After days at sea, they're exhausted—they'll need rest before they can fight."
"Damn shame," Bjorn muttered. "Letting that army escape will cause trouble later."
As he grumbled, the Viking host regrouped—five thousand kept watch against any counterattack, while four thousand others surrounded the small riverside fort.
The siege was brutal and swift. Under a storm of close-range crossbow fire, the defenders dared not show themselves. Vikings carrying ladders rushed forward; armored infantry climbed the walls under a hail of arrows. After hours of savage combat, they captured the wooden fort before nightfall.
The garrison had been small—over two hundred killed, another two hundred taken prisoner.
That night, Ragnar interrogated the Frankish commander through a translator.
"How did 'Charles the Bald' know we were coming?"
The man was pale and weary.
"Since last autumn," he confessed, "messengers from across the sea—Anglo men—came to Paris again and again. At first, the king ignored them. But there were so many—more than forty."
He continued, voice shaking.
"So His Majesty spent heavily, and at his smiths' urging, ordered the great iron chain built across the Seine… to stop you from catching him unprepared."
"Wait—did he say more than forty informants?" Ragnar asked, stunned.
The translator repeated it. Ragnar sat frozen.
A few spies were one thing—but over forty?
That meant not just Æthelwulf, Theowulf, or Edmund—even the minor nobles and landowners were betraying him, risking death to warn the Franks.
A chill ran down Ragnar's spine. His realm, he realized, was a great thatched hall full of holes—so fragile that it could collapse with a single kick. Or perhaps… it didn't even need that. It might collapse on its own.
Sensing his ruler's suspicion, Theowulf quickly swore,
"Your Majesty, I swear before every god I know—I sent no messengers to the Franks!"
"Be at ease, Duke," Ragnar sighed. "I've never doubted your loyalty."
In truth, he barely cared anymore. Theowulf, Duke of Mercia, was hated by his own people, his power thin as mist. He'd brought barely a thousand men from Nottingham and held only Oxford securely; the local lords followed him in name only. At the first sign of weakness, they would surely turn coat.
When I return, I must focus on internal affairs, Ragnar thought grimly.
The interrogation continued.
From the prisoner's account, the West Frankish kingdom was already torn by civil strife—Pippin II of Aquitaine had declared himself king, claiming equality with his uncle, Charles the Bald.
Because of this, much of the royal army remained in the south.
At last, the captive slumped in despair.
"Our king thought you numbered only four or five thousand," he said hoarsely. "He never imagined… you'd bring over ten."
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