Ch 75: Swordsmanship

“Foolish Steed, I didn’t expect your perception to be so sharp. I should have listened to your advice more often.”

Patting his mount’s neck, Vig signaled it to find a place to stay. He then drew the Dragon’s Breath Sword, intending to settle the Franks as quickly as possible.

Clang!

Both drew their longswords simultaneously. The instant their eyes met, Vig’s heart sank. He lowered his gaze to observe the other’s pace, a sense of foreboding washing over him.

Bad luck, I’ve run into a master.

Taking a deep breath, Vig sized up the knight, who wore a nasal helmet and chainmail. By Frankish standards, the man was considered tall, approximately 176-178cm, a few centimeters shorter than himself. His build was sturdy, his pace steady; he looked quite formidable.

After a tense half-minute, Vig abruptly stepped forward, gathering strength for a diagonal strike aimed at his opponent’s left shoulder.

This was his usual opening move. Ordinarily, common soldiers were either killed before they could react or their slow reactions left their blocks too late, allowing him to swiftly change his attack, running the sword point along their blade to thrust into their face.

However, this knight was no weakling; his reaction was surprisingly swift, easily parrying the incoming Dragon’s Breath Sword.

Discovering that the opponent’s strength was nearly equal to his own, Vig used the reactive force generated by the parried Dragon’s Breath Sword to quickly lift his blade, rotating his wrist, and following through with a strike aimed at the enemy’s right cheek. The Frank again anticipated the move, ducking and retreating to avoid the blow.

“What incredible speed. What conditions did Æthelwolf offer to borrow such a master from ‘Bald’ Charles?”

Vig and his opponent circled the edge of the open space, their blades flashing, their movements evasive, neither seeming to gain an advantage.

After a short while, a cool breeze swept by, carrying a few blades of grass that spiraled past them. As a fragment of grass landed on Vig’s face, the knight suddenly lunged forward, his longsword held with both hands, thrusting at Vig’s neck. Based on his years of combat experience in Spain, this move often dealt a heavy blow to the throat, even through chainmail. He had killed more than ten Berber soldiers with this technique.

Instantly, the cold, deadly gleam of steel came hurtling toward him. Vig quickly took a step back to evade. The Frank pressed his advantage, using the moment of his opponent’s imbalance to easily deflect the Dragon’s Breath Sword. Vig retreated again, and the Frank continued his advance, launching a second consecutive thrust, so fast that there was no time to react.

What a strange sword technique!

With nowhere left to retreat, Vig stepped backward as he angled his head to the right. He heard a sharp scraping sound as the sword point grazed his iron helmet. The force, even through the helmet, sent a jolt of dizziness through his brain.

Instinctively, he swung his right arm in a diagonal slash, forcing the knight to jump back to create distance. In just a few seconds, both had expended considerable stamina. They stood panting, staring at each other, unable to launch another attack for a long moment.

The knight lifted his chin, sweat trickling down his neatly trimmed beard. His lips curled into a slight smile, a mixture of regret and admiration. “Maurice de Montpellier.”

（Maurice of Montpellier, or Maurice de Montpellier）

“Vig, Tyne.”

Nearly killed by this swift and uncanny “consecutive thrust”, Vig was shocked, his chest heaving rapidly.

I can’t use my regular opening move anymore.

After a moment’s thought, he changed his stance from an overhead chop to a thrust, his knees slightly bent, preparing to fight for the center line with the knight. His arms were slightly longer, and his strength surpassed his opponent’s by a margin, making it feasible to seize the center line.

For the next few minutes, the scene fell into an eerie stalemate. The two stood in almost identical poses, five meters apart, their sword points aimed at each other’s faces.

“Sir!”

Suddenly, six Viking hunters armed with bow and arrow charged forward. Seeing this, Maurice grabbed a handful of dust and threw it, then executed a sideways roll into the dense bushes. The hunters loosed a volley of arrows, but unfortunately missed their target.

“Don’t chase, there are more Franks nearby.”

Vig stopped the hunters from pursuing, and together they left the dense forest.

As the moon rose, the group returned to Rathworth Castle. Vig carefully observed the atmosphere of the outer camp. It seemed reasonably calm, not like they’d suffered a defeat.

Castle Hall.

Seeing Vig return safely, the nobles looked up. Ragnar sighed in relief. “Where did you go? I was about to send more hunters into the forest to search for you.”

Hungry, Vig grabbed a piece of bread and ate while speaking. Ulf poured him a cup of honey wine.

“Burp, After surrounding the Frankish knight with light infantry, I was attacked by the enemy and forced to flee into the forest. Later, I encountered a knight with unparalleled swordsmanship.”

Vig removed his iron helmet, showing everyone the scratch marks on the top and described the Frankish knight’s signature swordsmanship.

“Consecutive multiple thrusts?” Ivar immediately perked up. “Wasn’t this man tall, with brown hair, a short beard, quite handsome—the kind of pretty boy Anglo-Saxon noblewomen love?”

“Yes, have you fought him before?”

As soon as Vig spoke, the hall fell silent. Someone pointed to Leonard, whose face was wrapped in bandages. “During the engagement, Lord Leeds was stabbed in the throat by this man and died instantly. Leonard rushed to the rescue but was nearly decapitated by a sword blow. Luckily, a shield-bearer reacted in time and saved him.”

According to intelligence gathered from prisoners, Maurice was the third son of a Frankish noble, ineligible to inherit the family castle, and had therefore spent years serving as a mercenary knight in Iberia, fighting against Berbers who had invaded from North Africa. Not long ago, he won the infantry combat championship at a tournament in Oxford.

Stroking the sword scratch on the top of the helmet, Ragnar softly admired, “To think that this champion knight could beat Vig like this. Perhaps I should hold tournaments regularly to select warriors with outstanding martial skills from the common folk.”

Vig, concerned about his reputation, immediately refuted, “Your Majesty, I didn’t lose! It was about 50/50, if the fight had continued, I would have had at least a 50% chance of killing him.”

“I understand, I’ll help you settle this next time,” Ivar put his arm around Vig’s right shoulder, giving a knowing smile. Vig was speechless. “Hey, that’s not fair, I really didn’t lose.”

After finishing his bread, he briefly reviewed the day’s battle situation:

The engagement was sudden, and neither side was fully prepared. While the Frankish cavalry fought desperately, the main Anglo-Saxon force did not arrive in time, giving the Viking army ample time to deploy its formation. The two sides then faced off for about ten minutes, then very mutually withdrew.

After listening to the accounts, Vig pondered. If I had a unit of shock cavalry, I would not have engaged so readily. Instead, I would have chosen the classic hammer-and-anvil tactic, using infantry to pin down the enemy’s front, then having the cavalry attack from the rear flank.

He secretly rejoiced, “In their first use of cavalry, Æthelwolf made a fatal mistake – not coordinating the infantry and archers with the cavalry’s offensive. After this battle, the enemy cavalry suffered heavy losses, making future engagements much easier.”