At dawn, a hundred Norsen and an equal number of captives marched into the forest to fell timber. Snow dusted the branches overhead. Axes bit into oak trunks, steam rising from sweating bodies, the dull thuds startling flocks of ravens into flight.
"Tree's coming down!"
With each warning shout, another oak crashed to the ground. Vikings lopped away the branches and dragged the logs toward sledges. Suddenly—the sharp hum of bowstrings cut the air.
An arrow slamd into the back of a young man. He collapsed across the logs, his blood burning red holes into the thin snow.
"Ambush!"
Arrows rained down like hail. The survivors scrambled behind cover, pinned. Minutes later, a host of rcians poured from the trees—outnumbering and outarming the loggers. The detachnt had no choice but to retreat.
In the northwest camp, two nobles had just finished breakfast and were playing chess in a warm room. Ulf held a pawn in thought when news of the attack reached him. Startled, he "accidentally" overturned the board.
"Damn them! Why us, and not the others?" Cursing, Ulf threw on his black cloak and climbed the watchtower. From the northern woods, dozens of Vikings ca sprinting over the snow.
Monts later, a swarm of ard peasants surged from the tree line—rectangular shields, spears, and pitchforks in hand. Rough count: seven to eight hundred.
"What now?"
Vig stood beside him, calm. "What else? Better to break them here in the open than let them into Tamworth."
A decision made, Vig marched out with four hundred n—including all sixty armored warriors—while Ulf kept two hundred to guard the camp.
Before moving, Ulf ordered two smoke beacons lit in the open, signaling the eastern camp for aid.
"Let's hope we're not too late," he muttered, watching Vig advance against an enemy twice their number.
At two hundred paces, Vig drew his sword and signaled his n to form a shield wall around him, pressing forward step by step.
After a few dozen strides, a horn blared from the camp. Vig turned to see Ulf on the watchtower, waving frantically toward Tamworth.
The city's northern gate was opening. Rank after rank of rcian soldiers with sword and shield marched out, forming lines under their officers' shouts.
"My lord, what now?" the flanking shield-bearers asked. Vig did not waver.
"Forget the rear. Our task is to pin these n, keep them from entering Tamworth. The king will have heard—reinforcents are coming."
The shield wall pressed on.
Seventy paces.
Arrows rained from the enemy line. Thunk—thunk—thunk—shafts hamred into shields overhead, like a thousand woodpeckers pecking at trunks.
Fifty paces.
Thirty.
Ten.
Just as the clash neared, the ground trembled. n at the flanks glanced eastward—and there they ca: a hundred horsen, Ragnar's banner high, thundering straight for the rcians' side. Behind them, waves of light infantry jogged in support.
"Our cavalry is here!"
Cheers rippled down the shield wall, their spirits surging. Vig roared Odin's na—"Inn!"—and drove the line forward into twice their number.
The crash was deafening. Screams tore the air. Then Gunnar's horsen smashed into the rcian flank. Hooves crushed n like stalks, the charge plowing deep until montum waned. From horseback, the riders hacked left and right with iron blades.
The rcian left wing collapsed. Panic spread like fire. Within monts, the militia broke, tossing shields and comrades aside as they fled into the trees.
"Do not pursue! Turn south!" Vig ordered.
The shield wall wheeled toward Tamworth. Barely two hundred paces away, five hundred rcian soldiers stood frozen—half out the gate, half in. They had watched their reinforcents shatter, stunned into indecision.
The horns atop Tamworth's walls broke the spell. The garrison scrambled back inside, slamming the gates shut. Vig gave chase, but too late. Arrows from the battlents dropped a dozen of his n, forcing him to pull back.
For the rest of the day, Vig led his force through the woods, hunting down scattered fugitives. By sundown they returned to camp.
"Fortunate that Ragnar sent the horsen in ti. Even untrained riders can devastate militia."
That single hundred-strong troop was part of the royal guard.
Because of their campaigns on the eastern steppe, Gunnar, Nils, and Orm had learned the value of the iron stirrup. Thus, every rider was equipped, making them deadlier than any Anglo-Saxon cavalry.
Yet Britain's horses were small, bred for plowing and hauling, not shock charges. Their lack of size blunted the impact. Worse, the troop lacked proper riding masters. Vig had seen it himself—half the horsen dismounted in battle, fighting on foot like mounted infantry.
"The advantage of cavalry is too great. Once this war is done, we must hire instructors, buy stallions from the Continent, and form a true shock cavalry!"
Vig had long dread of such a force. Last year he had even asked wool rchants about prices, only to learn that Frankish warhorses cost over two pounds of silver each.
And rchants feared selling steeds to "pagan barbarians." Several had refused outright. Only one dared agree—but his price was ruinous:
Five pounds of silver for a mare. Ten for a pri stallion.
Impossible. Unless Vig captured enormous spoils in this campaign, his cavalry would remain a dream for years to co.
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