Ch 74: Cavalry

In a moment, the shield wall formed by five hundred Viking warriors collapsed. Many were demoralized by the devastating charge, and when casualties reached a critical point, the shield wall scattered.

“Defeat is like a landslide. Damn it, why did we attract Frankish reinforcements?”

Vig rode north, fleeing frantically. He kept recalling the robes worn by those knights; the robes were of various colors, but most were printed with golden fleur-de-lis.

Undoubtedly, the fleur-de-lis was the emblematic coat of arms of the Frankish royal family. His heart sank, but he was helpless. The initial plan was only to attack Mercia. Who could have imagined that Charles the Bald in Paris would suddenly intervene, sending four hundred highly trained cavalry at once!

Soon, Vig fled into Ivar’s ranks. Witnessing Niels’s defeat, Ivar’s troops were terrified. Before the battle even began, some soldiers’ eyes were wandering, glancing towards the west side of the forest from time to time.

“We lack spears. Ordinary iron swords and iron axes are insufficient against cavalry. We must change our tactics.”

After a moment of consideration, Vig realized that Ivar was determined to defend their position. He continued riding north to join Gunnar’s hundred-man cavalry.

“We must eliminate this Frankish cavalry, or else everything is over.”

Having witnessed the previous scene, Gunnar agreed, “What do you intend to do?”

“In mounted combat, speed is key. When the enemy breaks through Ivar’s lines and their speed slows, you lead the cavalry to grapple with them. Then let our infantry surround them with numerical superiority and annihilate them completely.”

While they were talking, the Frankish cavalry reformed into a wedge formation. At a glance, they were only about fifty fewer in number.

After their discussion, Vig sought reinforcements to the north, while Gunnar led his cavalry south. When they arrived, the Frankish cavalry was grappling with Ivar’s troops.

“Vahalla!”

Drawing his longsword, Gunnar squeezed his legs tightly against his warhorse’s belly and urged it forward at top speed to collide with the enemy. The Frankish cavalry was exhausted, their formation scattered. Faced with this sudden charge, more than thirty were instantly cut down.

Shouting their respective kings’ names, both sides engaged in fierce combat. The Franks’ warhorses were tall and majestic, but after two consecutive charges, the riders and their mounts were significantly depleted. Even with their numerical superiority, they couldn’t defeat the Vikings in the short term.

Warhorses neighed, blades clashed. Gunnar’s horsemanship far surpassed that of commoners, but his mounted combat experience was lacking. He could only rely on brute force to grapple with his enemies.

After cutting down one man, a black shadow suddenly charged forward. Gunnar instinctively ducked to avoid the thrust. In response, he thrust his sword horizontally, the iron gauntlet’s wrist guard catching the opponent’s hilt. Using the momentum of his charging warhorse, he forced the sword blade into the enemy’s crevice in his shoulder armor. Crimson blood flowed down the blade, mixing with sweat and dripping onto the mud.

The two horses passed each other, and Gunnar pulled out his blade. The enemy’s body fell to the ground, becoming his fourth kill of the battle.

After what seemed like a long time, the number of Viking riders dwindled. Just as their cavalry was about to collapse, Vig finally arrived with a group of agile light infantry.

“The Franks are wearing iron armor. Prioritize attacking their mounts.”

Cavalry without speed posed a significantly reduced threat. Vig commanded his infantry to surround them. He was ruthless; even if it cost three light infantrymen for every one knight, it was still to their advantage.

Surrounded, Frankish knights fell from their horses one by one. Instinctively, they tried to get up, but were pinned down by groups of Vikings. Since many knights wore finely crafted chainmail, the Vikings opted to thrust their daggers into weak points such as armpits, eye sockets, and inner thighs.

“Well done, haha! Every troop type has weaknesses. That’s how you deal with them!”

Seeing this, Vig, on horseback, shouted his praise. However, this gleeful attitude attracted much hatred. Several Frankish knights charged towards him, attempting to kill the enemy commander and salvage the situation.

No!

Vig had spent the past two years studying Latin and had little time to practice his horsemanship. Seeing five ferocious Frankish knights charging, he instinctively turned his horse and darted into the western forest.

The light in the forest flickered. Newly sprouted oak leaves rustled in the wind. Vig inhaled the fragrant air with delight.

Then, he heard angry shouts from behind. He didn’t understand Frankish and had no interest in fighting these knights to the death; he continued deeper into the dense, vast forest.

As time passed, the pursuers’ scolding drew nearer and farther. Suddenly, the grey horse stumbled, nearly throwing Vig to the ground.

Looking down, he saw the roadside covered with wet moss. He sighed and dismounted, leading his horse by the reins. After a while, he heard the shrill neighing of horses slipping behind him. The scolding came intermittently and finally vanished. Vig let out a long sigh; he had finally shaken them off.

Much of the pressure that had built up inside him dissipated. A deep tiredness surged through his body. Vig leaned against a tree stump to rest for a while. He intended to follow the same road back, only to discover a grim truth—he seemed to be lost.

“Old horses know the way. Do you remember the road back?”

“Huff, huff.” The grey horse shook its head, snorted discontentedly, indicating that it was still young, not one of those gloomy old fellows. Then it stuck out its wet tongue and licked its master’s cheek.

“Stop that!” Vig pushed the grey horse’s head away and took a bag of rations from his saddle. He and his mount shared the food.

Then, he climbed a treetop, using the sunlight to roughly identify his direction, and led the horse along at a slow pace. After working hard for half a day, Vig’s linen shirt was soaked with sweat. A cool breeze blew, and he couldn’t help but sneeze. The sound spread and echoed through the dense forest.

Soon, he heard the faint sound of running water. Vig looked at the empty waterskin on his saddle and decided to go find some water.

By the stream, he and his horse drank their fill. Suddenly, the grey horse pushed Vig with its head, nearly knocking him into the water.

“Foolish Steed, are you crazy? What have I ever done to you?”

The grey horse didn’t stop, pushing its master into the bushes behind them. After half a minute, a small group of Frankish soldiers appeared on the other side of the stream, also lowering their waterskins to take water.

What’s going on? How did I end up in enemy-controlled territory?

Vig held his breath. After those Frankish soldiers left, he climbed another oak tree, using the fading sunlight to confirm his direction once again.

Walking alone in the deep, quiet forest, more than ten minutes passed, and Vig became increasingly bored. He could only talk to his mount to distract himself:

“Foolish Steed, what do you think of this direction? If you agree, make one sound; if you disagree, make two.”

“Huff, huff, huff.”

The grey horse neighed frantically. The next moment, a Frankish knight emerged from behind the bushes, covered in bloodstains, his face tired, leading a large, strong black horse.