Viking Invasion-Chapter 91 — Along the Seine (Part I)

At ten in the morning, the weather was clear, the breeze gentle. Nearly twenty thousand men had taken their positions along the banks of the Seine, the line stretching more than a kilometer from north to south. The grand formation drew scores of Parisians to the southern bridgehead to watch the coming battle.

On a low hill to the west, the Vikings had built a platform six meters high. Rurik stumbled up the long ladder to its summit, from where the entire battlefield unfolded beneath him like a living map.

Commanding an army of ten thousand was no simple task. Only three were fit for it — Rurik, Ivar, and Gunnar. Ivar preferred to lead his own thousand heavy infantry; Gunnar had to command the cavalry. Thus, overall command naturally fell to Rurik.

Before him stretched a sea of heads and a forest of rippling banners. He drew several deep breaths, his chest heaving, unable to calm the excitement surging in his heart.

"Never thought I’d live to see this day," he murmured.

Across the field, the Frankish host stood arrayed in disciplined ranks. A thousand of their horsemen were being redeployed toward the southern end of the field, where the ground opened wide — ideal for a massed charge.

To counter this most dangerous of enemy forces, Rurik reached into a wicker basket, drew out two small red flags, and waved them vigorously toward the south.

At once, two Viking pike formations began to move. They advanced like slowly shifting groves of trees, one behind the other, pressing gradually toward the Frankish cavalry’s position.

The Frankish horsemen, who had already tasted the bite of those bristling pikes, paid no heed to the sluggishly advancing "tortoises." They kept edging southeast, wary but unafraid.

To free his cavalry from pursuit, Charles the Bald sent his guards galloping to the southern line, ordering the Frankish infantry there to press forward.

As the enemy infantry began to move, Rurik shouted from the platform to a messenger below,

"Tell Ulf and Bjorn’s units to advance! Deal with the conscripts facing them!"

The use of mounted messengers was simple necessity. Aside from the two thousand men in his direct pike formations — and the clever Ivar and Gunnar — few could yet read the flag signals. For most, the primitive method of horseback relays remained essential.

Soon, under the banners of the River Fish (Ulf) and the Seagull (Bjorn), fifteen hundred Vikings formed their shield wall and advanced toward the enemy line.

The battle was joined.

For generations, the West Franks had poured their wealth into their cavalry, leaving their infantry as expendable fodder. Once engaged, the Frankish foot soldiers were pushed back step by step. Ulf and Bjorn, surprised by how easily the enemy gave ground, hesitated — suspecting a trap.

After a few uncertain minutes, the River Fish and Seagull banners moved forward again, closing in upon the reeling Frankish line.

At the southeastern flank, the Frankish cavalry — long in retreat — grew restless at the sight of their comrades faltering. Their tactics had always been brutally simple: dense formation, full-speed charge. Maneuvering and delay were alien to them. Spurred on by a handful of reckless knights, some riders wheeled their horses and galloped back into the fray.

Time slipped by. More and more cavalrymen, acting on their own, broke formation. When their commander finally realized what was happening, barely fifty men remained at his side.

"Fools," he muttered bitterly. "They’ll get us all killed."

Forcing their exhausted mounts onward, the Frankish riders sought to circle the pike blocks and strike at Ulf and Bjorn’s flanks. But before they had covered half the distance, the world shifted.

"Valhalla!"

From the west, four hundred Viking horsemen emerged one after another from behind the hill, forming three loose lines. Beneath a white banner emblazoned with a snarling brown bear, they charged straight toward the distant Frankish cavalry.

Across the grasslands, the drumming of hooves merged into a single thunderous roar, like the roll of approaching stormclouds.

Caught off guard, the Franks spurred their horses in reply. Swords and flails gleamed as they hurtled forward to meet the oncoming lances.

The distance closed rapidly. Both sides reached full speed. At the front of the Viking line, Gunnar leveled his lance, its point quivering with the rhythm of his galloping horse.

Fifty meters.

Thirty.

Ten.

A dark shape loomed before him — a knight’s armored breast. At the final instant, Gunnar drove his lance forward with all his might. It pierced the enemy’s mail clean through. He released the shaft, drew his sword from the saddle, and caught another rider’s downward strike in a flash of steel.

Blades clashed; horses passed within inches. Gunnar wheeled, slashing across his foe’s exposed back. A heavy thud sounded behind him, but he did not look back — a charging horseman can only drive onward, arrowlike, through the blur of motion and blood.

Parry. Strike. Another enemy. And another. His sword edge grew jagged with notches. He hurled it into a nearby foe and drew his second blade. A horse burst from his flank — he jerked the reins aside, narrowly dodging, then swung the pommel of his sword into the attacker’s face, shattering his nose.

The stench of iron thickened in the air; the ground grew slick beneath the pounding hooves. After countless blows deflected and returned, a sudden brightness opened before him — the enemy cavalry was gone.

Panting, Gunnar wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand. Ahead, the pike formations and the troops of Ulf and Bjorn were advancing at full speed.

"Break the enemy cavalry at the outset," he said to himself, "and we’ve six chances in ten of victory."

Around him, Viking riders regrouped. Someone passed him a wineskin. He drank deeply — half a pouch of honeyed mead. The cool sweetness slid down his throat, washing away his fatigue.

"Ah... splendid!"

He belched, then looked toward the command platform. Rurik stood there, waving two small flags — one red, one white. Gunnar understood at once: he was being ordered to withdraw, to let the cavalry rest before striking again when the moment was ripe.

By now the pike formations had spread into a solid line, blocking every route of escape. Crossbowmen loosed volleys at the slowed Frankish riders, while the spearmen advanced in rhythm, their cold, gleaming tips sending the war-horses rearing back in panic.

The Frankish cavalry was trapped.

Seeing this, the retreating Frankish infantry turned back westward, desperate to rescue their encircled knights.

When the survivors had finally regrouped, a daring idea struck Gunnar. With so many enemy footmen moving south to aid the cavalry, a wide gap had opened between the Frankish center and their left flank.

Thud-thud. Thud-thud.

His heart pounded. This was the moment. He glanced up once more at Rurik’s distant platform — then made his choice.

"Wait for the perfect moment?" he thought. "There’ll be no better moment than this."

He looked left and right at his men.

"I’m going through that gap," he called. "Anyone who wishes to turn back — speak now!"

No one answered.

Their eyes burned with the same fierce light. Gunnar raised his sword.

"Then follow me — to the world’s end!"

The wind rose suddenly, whipping up the grass at their feet. Two hundred riders drew their swords as one.

"To the world’s end!"

They thundered after their commander’s back, riding headlong into the dark, heaving sea of men ahead.