Vig jogged back into camp, searching for Ragnar. He found him not drinking, but calmly hunched over a board ga.
"Thank the gods," Vig thought with relief. "At least he's sober. There's still a chance."
When Ragnar noticed him, he raised a hand, silencing whatever Vig ant to say. First the ga—then talk.
The ga was hnefatafl, board chess of the North. The rules were simple: the defender had a king and twelve warriors, their goal to escort the king to a corner square. The attacker fielded twenty-four pieces, tasked with trapping the king.
"Hmm. Careless of … I've dood myself. No hope of saving this one."
After hesitating, Ragnar conceded with a laugh, flicked two silver coins to his opponent, and turned toward Vig.
"You co to while the others drown in ad and won. What's this—begging for silver?"
"Not at all." Vig's expression was grave. He waved away the offered coin. "I've thought of a way to break tomorrow's battle. But I need you to summon the jarls."
Ragnar grinned knowingly. "A night raid? Forget it. I pulled that trick on Ælla six winters ago—stole his crown in the chaos. He'll never live that down." Ragnar's laugh rang loud. But his face soon soured at the mory of once losing to such a fool of a king. With a scowl, he waved Vig away.
But Vig stood firm, setting pieces on the board.
"These fifteen—Ælla's fifteen hundred. These ten—our thousand."
"We both fight in shieldwall. But head-on we'll break first. So—we mass our best on the south flank. Smash their line quickly. Seize the southern slope. Then our archers fire down into Ælla's center."
Ragnar's eyes glead brighter with every word. He leapt up to summon the other nobles.
But the jarls were deep in their own "last night" indulgences.
Lennart was busy with two shieldmaidens.
Ulf slept drunkenly under a tree, clutching a half-empty jug.
Ivar and Björn bellowed at each other over whether Jörmungandr could best Thor.
In the frenzy of dood n feasting, drinking, and rutting before death, Ragnar and Vig spent the night dragging jarls from chaos, hamring out adjustnts until near dawn.
May 5, 843. Morning.
The battle began.
On the left flank, every iron-clad Viking took his place. Shields locked, they pounded their weapons rhythmically on the wood, advancing step by step through the mist.
Thoom. Thoom. Thoom.
Across the fog, the Anglian line appeared—over a thousand square shields. They too struck in unison, their wall echoing the Norsen's. Two wooden cliffs crept closer, crashing waves about to et.
At a hundred paces, arrows whistled out from behind the Anglian wall, hailing down on Viking heads. Screams broke through the steady drumbeat.
The ironclad front ranks weathered the storm well, pressing on. But the center and right slowed under the losses. The Norse line skewed, forming a slanted wall with the left wing jutting forward.
Nils and his hundred archers did not answer. They conserved every shaft, letting the Angles believe the Vikings had run dry.
Thirty paces. Breath heavy, steps dragging. Vig glared at the man opposite him, who shouted a stream of insults in harsh, alien English. Vig understood nothing—so the curses slid off harmlessly.
Then wood slamd wood. Shieldwall crashed against shieldwall. Vig thrust in an instant, slicing a deep gash across his foe's cheek. As the man reeled, Vig ramd his blade into his throat.
No triumph—another shadow lood. A burly soldier battered Vig's shield with an axe, blow after blow rattling his bones. Spotting inexperience in the man's eyes, Vig feinted, then stabbed low, skewering the Anglian's leg. Another corpse fell.
"Valhalla!" a roar exploded to Vig's left. Berserkers draped in bear hides hacked furiously, axes biting into the Anglian line. A gap tore open. Vikings poured through. The southern flank buckled, then collapsed.
"Now!"
From the rear, Nils and his archers surged up the southern hill. Bows bent, strings snapped. Three volleys poured down upon the mounted figure in the center—crown glinting in the dawn.
Horse and rider toppled. Arrows fell like rain.
Nils loosed until his thirty shafts were gone, fingers raw and bleeding. His bowstring glead crimson. Gasping, he collapsed to the ground.
Far off, the impact was clear. Three thousand arrows had shredded the king's retinue. A white warhorse lay bristling with shafts, like a monstrous spiked hog.
"Struck so many tis… he can't have survived," Nils muttered, binding his bleeding hand.
But then he saw the Angles drag a wounded figure onto a fresh mount, shielding him with their bodies as they fled.
Ælla—alive or dead, none could say.
His soldiers, though, were broken. The shieldwall disintegrated in monts. The royal guard cast away shields, swords, helms—anything heavy—in desperate flight. Even the striped banner of the Northumbrian king was seized by Ivar's hands.
Surveying the ruin, Nils whispered:
"This ti, Vig's plan saved us all. I wonder what reward Ragnar will grant him…"
~~--------------------------
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