Viking Invasion-Chapter 66 — The Raid

Dawn broke faint and grey, a thin veil of mist rising from the frost-hardened earth. A hundred Norsemen and as many captives trudged toward the forest’s edge, axes slung over their shoulders, iron glinting dully in the half-light. The branches above were powdered with snow, and when the men set to work, the dull rhythm of axe heads biting into oak trunks echoed through the still air. Each blow rang out like a muffled heartbeat, and clouds of steam rose from their sweating backs, ghostly against the pale morning. The smell of fresh sap mingled with the iron tang of frost. A startled raven croaked and fled upward, its black wings scattering flakes into the dim canopy.

"Timber!" someone shouted.

With a last shuddering groan, an oak toppled, snapping branches as it fell, sending up a gust of white powder as it struck the ground. Men set to trimming the boughs, hacking and sawing until clean logs lay strewn like bones. Working in pairs, they dragged the timber toward the waiting sledges, their boots crunching over the snowpack.

Then came the sound — a taut, brief twang, almost delicate, like the pluck of a harp string.

A heartbeat later, a young Norseman stiffened. A black-fletched arrow jutted from between his shoulder blades. He stumbled, fell against a pile of logs, and lay still. Steam hissed from the wound as his blood melted the snow beneath him, eating dark holes into the whiteness.

"Ambush!"

Arrows fell like a storm of hail. They clattered off axes and sledges, thudded into bark, and bit through cloaks and flesh. The air filled with the hiss and whistle of shafts, the cries of men scrambling for cover, and the harsh commands of sergeants trying to rally their ranks. Those who lived pressed themselves behind the felled logs, clutching their shields over their heads.

The snow was trampled into a red slush.

Moments later, shapes emerged from the dark of the forest — the enemy. Mercian soldiers in leather and mail, advancing swiftly, their cries echoing between the trunks. Outnumbered, ill-prepared, the Norse woodcutting party had no choice but to fall back, dragging the wounded where they could, abandoning tools and sledges behind them.

In the northwestern camp, two nobles sat in warmth and comfort, playing a slow game of board-stones by the hearth. Ulf held a piece between his fingers, frowning in thought, when the door burst open with a gust of cold air and the word of disaster. His hand jerked; the piece slipped, scattering the whole array across the table.

"Gods curse them," he snarled, leaping to his feet. "Why can’t they harass someone else for once?"

He threw a black cloak over his shoulders and strode out, boots crunching the snow. Climbing the watchtower at the village’s edge, he looked northward. There, across the open white, he saw them — a few dozen of their men fleeing from the tree line, dark figures sprinting for their lives.

Beyond them, at the forest’s fringe, a swelling tide of enemy movement took form. Hundreds of men — perhaps seven or eight hundred by quick reckoning — militia bearing square shields, long spears, and even the crude forks of peasants pressed into war. Their formation sprawled across the snow, advancing with grim resolve.

"What do we do?" one of his lieutenants asked.

At his side, Rurik answered before Ulf could speak. "We take the field. Better to meet them in open ground than let that rabble into Tamworth."

A brief council followed. Rurik took command of four hundred men, including all sixty of their mailed warriors. Ulf remained behind with two hundred to guard the camp.

While his comrade gathered troops, Ulf ordered two thick columns of smoke to be lit upon the open ground — wolf-smoke signals — to summon aid from the eastern camp. He watched the dark plumes curl skyward and murmured, half to himself, "May the gods grant it’s not too late."

Rurik, meanwhile, led his detachment out across the snow, spears and axes glinting under the pale sun. Ahead, the Mercian militia advanced in loose ranks, shouting as they came.

When the distance between them had shrunk to two hundred paces, Rurik raised his sword. At the silent command, the shieldmen closed in, locking boards together edge to edge. The Norse line became a moving wall, advancing slowly, their feet crunching in perfect rhythm.

They had taken scarcely a dozen steps when a horn blared behind them — sharp, urgent. Rurik turned. On the tower above the camp, Ulf was waving both arms, shouting and pointing toward the south. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝕨𝕖𝗯𝚗𝚘𝕧𝕖𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝕞

Rurik followed his gesture — and saw, to his dismay, the northern gate of Tamworth yawning open. From it poured a fresh host of Mercian soldiers, shields bright, swords drawn, assembling into ranks under their officers’ cries.

"My lord, what do we do?" his guardsmen called, nervous glances flicking between the two enemy forces.

Rurik’s answer was steady, cold. "Ignore the ones behind us. Our task is to hold this host here — to keep them from breaking into Tamworth. No doubt His Majesty already knows. The reinforcements will come."

The shieldwall trudged onward, arrows beginning to fall among them. Shafts thudded into the broad linden boards with a rhythm like woodpeckers tapping trunks — thunk, thunk, thunk. A few men went down, but the wall held, moving forward through the storm of missiles.

Seventy paces.

Fifty.

Thirty.

Ten.

Then — a tremor through the ground, faint at first, then gathering. The men on the right flank looked eastward — and a cry went up.

A hundred horsemen were charging across the snow, banners streaming behind them — and foremost among them flew Ragnar’s royal standard. Their hooves thundered like drums of doom, scattering the snow in plumes. Behind the cavalry ran a wave of light infantry, following at a jog, weapons glinting.

"Our riders! The king’s horsemen!"

The cry rippled through the ranks, spreading like fire. Strength and fervor surged back into weary arms. Rurik’s voice rang over the din — "Inn!" — calling upon Odin’s name. With a roar, the Norse shieldwall broke into a run, crashing into the Mercian line with irresistible force.

The collision was cataclysmic. Shields splintered, men screamed, and the field became a whirl of motion and sound — steel clanging, flesh tearing, snow churned red beneath stamping feet.

Then, from the flank, Gunnar’s riders struck. The warhorses — massive by local measure, though smaller than those of the east — plunged into the melee, their weight alone breaking the Mercian ranks. Men fell crushed or hurled aside. The riders swung their iron blades down on either side, cutting through helms and shoulders alike.

The Mercian left wing folded almost instantly, and panic spread through the host like fire in dry grass. They dropped shields and weapons, shoving each other in their haste to flee. Within minutes, what had been an army was a mob, fleeing into the forest whence they’d come.

"Don’t chase them," Rurik ordered, breathing hard. "Form up — turn south!"

The men obeyed, wheeling the battered shieldwall toward Tamworth. The town’s gate lay less than two hundred paces away. Five hundred Mercian soldiers had marched out to aid their fellows — but seeing the rout of their comrades, they halted in confusion, uncertain whether to advance or retreat.

Then a horn blared atop the city walls. The Mercian captain made his decision. The gate yawned wider, and his men ran for it, vanishing within.

Rurik led his warriors forward in pursuit, but the archers on the wall loosed a sudden volley. Arrows hissed and fell among the Norse ranks. A dozen men went down, and Rurik was forced to call the retreat.

By sunset, the field was theirs.

Rurik spent the remainder of the day scouring the nearby woods, cutting down scattered fugitives, and gathering the wounded. The snow was trampled and red where the battle had raged, and the crows had already begun their work.

That night, by firelight, he spoke to Ulf and Gunnar.

"Thank the gods for Ragnar’s swift command. Even raw riders were enough — a single charge of horse can scatter ten times their number of militia."

Indeed, the entire host possessed only a hundred horsemen, the king’s own guard. Yet among them were three commanders — Gunnar, Nils, and Om — men who had fought on the steppes of the east, where cavalry ruled and stirrups made kings. They had insisted every horseman be fitted with proper iron stirrups, and thus even these makeshift riders fought with a strength unknown to the native Anglo horsemen.

The problem lay with the horses themselves. British breeds were small, bred for plough and cart, their legs thick, their chests broad but lacking the sheer power for a full cavalry charge. The impact of their assault, though fierce, was a pale echo of what true destriers could do.

Nor did they yet have proper instructors. Most of the Norsemen rode with enthusiasm but little grace. During the fight that day, Rurik had seen more than half dismount in the press of battle, choosing to fight on foot — horsemen turned into mounted infantry by habit and fear alike.

Still, he could not deny what he had seen.

"The advantage of cavalry," he said, "is too great to ignore. When this war is done, we must hire masters of the art, buy fine horses from the Continent, and build a true striking force."

He had dreamt of it before — a regiment of mailed riders, their lances gleaming like a wall of silver — but dreams were costly. The previous year he had even inquired with certain wool merchants about the price of Frankish steeds. The answer had been sobering: more than two pounds of silver for an ordinary warhorse. And when he sought to purchase through back channels, every prudent merchant refused him outright. Selling warhorses to pagan raiders was no small crime. Only one reckless trader had agreed to try — but at a ruinous price.

Five pounds of silver for a broodmare.

Ten for a prime stallion.

An impossible sum, unless victory itself were to pay the cost.

Rurik looked into the fire and said nothing. The flames danced, their glow mirrored in his eyes — the light of a man who knew that to rule, one must build not only ships and spears, but the thunder of hooves that could shatter kingdoms.