Viking Invasion-Chapter 75 – Swordsmanship

"Stupid horse," Rurik murmured with a weary smile, running a gloved hand along the animal’s neck. "I hadn’t thought your senses so sharp. I should have heeded you more often."

He gave the gray a pat, then motioned it to stay back. The air was still, save for the faint rustle of the leaves. Rurik drew the Dragon’s Breath, the steel whispering free with a cold metallic sigh. The blade caught the waning light as he turned, fixing his gaze upon the Frankish rider across the clearing. He meant to end this quickly.

Steel rasped against steel as the Frankish knight, too, unsheathed his sword. Their eyes met—one sharp, cold, and unwavering; the other cautious, measuring, and grim. In that instant Rurik felt the weight of danger pressing upon his chest. His instincts prickled with warning.

Damnation. A seasoned fighter.

The man before him was no raw recruit or provincial levy. Beneath his nasal helm glinted a pair of pale gray eyes, steady and cruel. His mail shirt shimmered faintly under the drifting light, the links worked close and fine. By Frankish standards he was tall—perhaps one hundred seventy-six, seventy-eight centimeters—but still shorter than Rurik, though broader of chest and firmer of stance. His presence radiated experience, a kind of grounded menace that no mere bluster could feign.

Half a minute passed in tense silence before Rurik lunged.

He stepped forward in a sudden burst, muscles coiling, the Dragon’s Breath cutting upward and across toward the knight’s left shoulder. It was his favored opening: fast, heavy, and deceptive. Against common soldiers, it left no time to think—most either failed to parry at all or raised their blades too late, leaving their throats unguarded for the quick thrust that followed.

But this foe moved as if he’d read the motion in advance. The knight’s sword rose in time, meeting the descending stroke with perfect precision. The impact rang through the clearing, scattering the crows from the trees.

The blades locked for an instant—steel grinding, muscles straining. Rurik sensed the man’s strength was nearly equal to his own. He shifted his weight and twisted his wrist, sliding along the contact and arcing the sword toward the knight’s face. Yet again the Frank ducked low and slipped back, the attack slicing the air just above his brow.

"Quick hands," Rurik thought grimly. "What promise did Æthelwulf make to Charles the Bald to borrow such a swordsman?"

The two began to circle the clearing, each searching for an opening. Their boots crushed the grass in slow arcs. Every so often a feint flashed, a step forward, a twitch of the wrist—and each time the other read it, parried, or withdrew. Neither would yield.

A cool wind stirred the field, bringing the smell of sap and iron. For an instant a thin leaf whirled between them and brushed Rurik’s cheek. In that same moment, the Frank lunged.

He drove forward in a sudden rush, both hands on the hilt, the sword darting straight for Rurik’s throat. The movement was clean, disciplined, terrifyingly swift—the mark of a man who had killed with it many times. Years of fighting in Iberia, perhaps, against the Berber light infantry who darted and stabbed like vipers.

The point flashed toward him; cold, merciless light filled his vision. Rurik jerked back, the edge grazing close. The Frank pressed on relentlessly, knocking the Dragon’s Breath aside and closing the gap with another rapid thrust.

"What devilish technique is this?" Rurik thought, gritting his teeth.

He had no room left to retreat. As the knight drove in again, Rurik twisted right and bent low. A shriek of steel rasped against his helmet. Sparks flew; the blade scraped the iron, the jarring shock rattled through his skull.

Instinct saved him. He swung out and down in a desperate, slanted cut, forcing the knight to leap backward. They broke apart, both gasping for breath. For a few long seconds neither moved, their swords poised midair, their chests heaving.

The Frank straightened first. Sweat beaded on his short, well-kept beard, running down the edge of his jaw. He lifted his chin slightly, his tone calm but proud.

"Maurice de Montpellier."

The name hung between them.

"Rurik—of Tynnborg."

Rurik’s voice was steady, though his pulse thundered. That last exchange had nearly cost him his life. The knight’s thrusts—each a blur, delivered in perfect rhythm—had nearly broken through his guard. He knew then that ordinary swordcraft would fail him.

He lowered his stance, switching from the overhand guard to a forward thrusting posture. His knees bent, his weight balanced. If they fought for control of the center line, he would have the longer reach and the stronger arm. That, perhaps, could decide it.

So they waited again—two predators poised at the edge of motion. Five long paces lay between them. The sunlight, dappled through branches, gleamed on both their blades.

A whisper of wind. The faint hiss of breath. Nothing else.

Then—

"My lord!"

The shout broke the spell. Six of Rurik’s hunters burst from the brush, bows drawn. The Frank turned his head, the faintest flicker of movement, and in that heartbeat seized a handful of dust and flung it wide. Rurik’s eyes stung; the world blurred. When he blinked clear, the knight had rolled aside and vanished into the undergrowth.

"Hold!" Rurik called sharply. "Don’t pursue. There’ll be more Franks nearby."

He sheathed his sword and motioned them to follow. Together they moved through the forest until the moon rose silver above the treetops.

By the time they reached the palisade of Ratworth Castle, the night was clear and cool. Fires burned low in the camp; the men’s voices were calm. It did not feel like defeat.

Inside the hall, the scent of tallow smoke and roasted barley hung thick in the air. When Rurik entered, every nobleman present turned to look.

"Gods be praised," said Ragnar with visible relief. "Where in Hel’s name did you go? I was about to send more hunters into the woods."

Rurik sank onto a bench, snatched up a loaf of bread, and tore into it. Ulf poured him a cup of mead.

"Was nearly surrounded," Rurik muttered between mouthfuls. "After we broke the Frankish riders, a pack of them came for me. I fled into the woods—and there met a swordsman unlike any I’ve faced."

He set down the bread and unfastened his helmet, showing the long scrape across the iron. "His thrusts came one upon another—so fast you’d think the air itself were striking."

"Multiple thrusts?" Ivar leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Tall fellow? Brown hair, short beard, face like one of those soft Frankish courtiers the Anglo women sigh over?"

Rurik looked up sharply. "Aye. You’ve fought him?"

A hush fell over the hall. Someone gestured toward Leonard, whose face was swathed in bandages. Ragnar spoke quietly. "Lord Lids was struck through the throat by that same knight. Leonard went to his aid and nearly lost his own life—his nose for certain. But for his shieldman’s quick arm, we’d have buried two that day."

The tale went on, drawn from prisoners’ tongues. Maurice, third son of a minor Frankish noble, without inheritance or land, had long made his living by the sword. Years in Iberia had hardened him—fighting Moorish raiders along the frontier, honing his craft among mercenaries. Not long ago, at the Oxford tourney, he had taken the prize for foot combat.

Ragnar studied the gash on Rurik’s helm, then nodded in grudging admiration. "To mark you so—that alone speaks for his skill. Perhaps we should hold our own tourneys, choose champions from among the men. Strength like his should never belong to the enemy alone."

Rurik bristled. "Majesty, I didn’t lose! It was even between us—fifty-fifty, I swear it. Another few moments, and I might’ve finished him."

"Of course," Ivar said with a grin, clapping his shoulder. "Next time I’ll help you finish him, eh?"

Rurik scowled. "That’s not what I meant."

He drained his cup and set it down with a thud. Then, as the talk turned to the day’s fighting, he listened closely.

The battle, it seemed, had been a confusion of half-formed plans. The Franks had fought savagely, their cavalry pressing hard before the Anglo host could arrive in strength. Yet in that chaos, the Norse lines had held long enough for their formation to spread, turning what might have been rout into stalemate. Within ten minutes, both sides had withdrawn, bloodied but unbroken.

Rurik’s mind turned over what he’d heard. Had he commanded a company of his own horsemen, he would never have charged headlong. A hammer-and-anvil strike—that was the way: fix the enemy front with infantry, then drive the riders into their flanks.

He took a slow breath, feeling the ache in his arms. "Æthelwulf made a fatal mistake," he thought. "He loosed his cavalry without support—no archers, no foot to follow. They broke themselves against our lines. From this day forward, they’ll think twice before trusting in their horses."

He smiled faintly. "And next time," he whispered, "Maurice de Montpellier will not walk away so easily."