Under the guidance of Ragnar's flagship, the longship fleet pressed noisily toward the southern bank. Though many ships drifted in confusion, Rurik's command—the two thousand he had drilled for weeks on the fields of Londinium—was the first to regain order. Seeing the disarray among the rest, he quickly took command of the defense.
"Form ranks on the southern meadow—three hundred meters from the shore!"
The horns sounded. Men scrambled ashore, boots sinking into wet sand, their shields clattering against mail. Within minutes, two dense blocks of spearmen and crossbowmen were arrayed upon the slope, their formation a living fortress of wood and iron.
Rurik mounted his gray horse and rode to a nearby rise to survey the field. What he saw there made him draw a sharp breath.
