Ch 73: Deluge

During his advance, Vig encountered a small group of Anglo-Saxon scattered soldiers fleeing in disorder. He strictly forbade his soldiers from deserting their ranks, only dispatching archers to disperse the enemy.

After more than half an hour, the troops arrived at the mountain foot. Vig dismounted, taking a round shield from someone nearby. “Follow me! Prepare for battle!”

Soon, his guess was confirmed. As they neared the summit, a group of Anglo-Saxons appeared in his view. Seeing their weary state, bent over and gasping for breath, Vig hesitated no longer, intending to seize the high ground while the enemy was still unsteady.

He charged into the enemy crowd, wielding his longsword, followed closely by a group of light infantry armed with shield axes. As for the shield-bearers in iron armor, their stamina severely depleted, they were still struggling up the hillside halfway up the mountain; they couldn’t be relied upon in the short term.

Unexpectedly, the Anglo-Saxons, outnumbered, did not retreat but instead fought fiercely with the Viking warriors, both sides locked in a bitter struggle.

“Strange. The Mercia Royal Guard was almost completely wiped out at Tamworth. The remaining conscripted militia could never possess such fighting ability.”

After stabbing an Anglo-Saxon wearing an iron helmet, who seemed to be a low-level commander, Vig stared at his light gray robe. On it was depicted a yellow dragon with double wings, its claws outstretched and teeth bared.

Not good. This is the Wessex Royal Family’s coat of arms!

Vig knew the situation was bad, but he had no intention of retreating. He had to take this high ground, observe the Wessex army’s formation, and then inform Ragnar’s main force, striving to gain more initiative.

“Follow me! The Gods watch over us!”

In a moment of urgency, Vig charged straight into the deeper parts of the enemy formation. He used the rim of his shield to block a spear thrust at him, then backhanded the enemy’s throat, the warm taste of blood entering his nostrils.

Under the cover of the Viking warriors, Vig, frenziedly fighting, reached the mountain peak and casually cut down the commander next to the flagpole.

At his signal, a tall and strong Viking warrior swung his axe fiercely. With wood shavings flying, the flagpole snapped, and the royal banner, embroidered with the yellow dragon, fell to the dirty mud.

The Wessex soldiers finally collapsed, retreating down the hillside like a tide.

“Huff, huff.”

Vig panted, his chainmail soaked in blood, indistinguishable whether it was Anglo-Saxon or his own.

Standing on the mountain peak overlooking the south side, he found thousands of Wessex men emerging one after another from the forest path, forming their formations in the open space.

“Quickly, inform Your Majesty, that we’ve encountered the main force of Wessex, at least four thousand men!”

Picking out a nimble youth to run back and report, Vig estimated that the war would last a long time. He had the exhausted heavy infantry shield-bearers, who arrived late, sit on the ground to rest while the others collected equipment, preparing for a long defense.

After repelling two consecutive Anglo-Saxon attacks, Ulf arrived with over three hundred men he had gathered as reinforcements.

“At least four thousand men, over a thousand heavy infantry. Hmph, Gunnar, that fool, almost got us all killed.”

Muttering and complaining, Ulf noticed hundreds more Anglo-Saxons emerging from the forest. They wore chainmail, with robes over the top, leading their warhorses, advancing on foot, forming a wedge formation at the westernmost end of the battlefield.

“So many cavalry?”

For the past six months, Ulf had often heard Pascal, in charge of logistics, complaining about the high cost of cavalry. One warhorse could consume the rations of seven men, and counting the rider, the blacksmith shoeing horses, and servants and their food and drink, a hundred-man cavalry required as much grain as a thousand light infantry.

It seemed that the Wessex cavalry numbered over four hundred, and the grain consumption alone was equivalent to four thousand ordinary infantry?

Ulf marveled at the wealth of this southern kingdom, and an idea occurred to him: perhaps he should apply for a transfer to lands in Wessex.

Suddenly, Vig interrupted his illusion. “Damn it! When did the Anglo-Saxons learn to use stirrups? And they’re in a wedge formation suitable for a charge. It’s over, it’s completely over. You stay here, I’ll go find His Majesty to change the deployment. Hopefully, it’s not too late.”

“Change formations now? Are you mad?”

Before Ulf could dissuade him, Vig ran down the mountain at top speed, taking the reins from a groom. Unfortunately, he was too late. A continuous tremor ran through the ground, like a giant beast turning over in the depths of the soil – the Anglo-Saxon cavalry was in a mass charge!

Even worse, most of their own soldiers were equipped with round shields and short axes, lacking the ability to withstand a cavalry charge.

Vig’s heart burned with anxiety. He urged his warhorse towards Niels’ unit, the closest to him, warning his allies with the loudest voice:

“The enemy cavalry is coming, get into the forest!”

By the time the sound reached Niels’ ears, only a faint murmur remained. He hadn’t heard anything clearly and shouted back, “What did you say? I can’t hear you!”

“…Forest!”

This time, Niels heard the last word. Looking at the forest to the east, he thought Vig was warning him about an ambush in the woods.

Surely not? Several hunting parties had already been sent in. Even if there was an Anglo-Saxon ambush, the hunters would have given warning.

Looking at Vig riding towards him, Niels shook his head. The next moment, he suddenly saw countless riders wielding longswords and chain hammers rushing out from behind the slope, like a raging tide sweeping towards them.

“Deus adjuva（God help us）!”

“Pour le roi（For the King）!”

Faced with this earth-shattering roar, Niels was shocked. He swallowed with difficulty, ordering his five hundred men to form a shield wall, one hundred heavy infantry in front, four hundred light infantry behind.

The ground trembled more and more violently. The scales of the cavalry reflected the dazzling white sunlight. Under the fearful eyes of the front-line soldiers, the iron hooves whistled towards them.

Soon, the leading warhorses crashed violently into the somewhat loose shield wall. Two Viking warriors were thrown into the air, splintered wood and blood still flying in mid-air, and the rear cavalry were already squeezing into the crowd through the gap.

Shouting the King’s name, the Frankish knights swung their longswords left and right, or wildly wielded their chain hammers – weapons naturally suited for melee combat. Even if the enemy wore iron helmets, the blunt force alone could inflict considerable damage.

Infected by this fervent and bloody atmosphere, the warhorses charged and kicked frantically. The Viking infantry in front of them reacted differently. Some were knocked down and trampled into the mud by the heavy hooves, while others fought back fearlessly, their sharp iron weapons slicing open the soft bellies of the horses. A large mass of steaming entrails fell onto the grassland, which only further enraged the warhorses. Driven by severe pain, these creatures lost all reason, continuing to charge into the crowd until they exhausted their last bit of stamina.