Viking Invasion-Chapter 74 – The Cavalry

The shield wall shattered in moments.

What had been a bulwark of five hundred Norse warriors collapsed like a rotted dam before the flood. The charge of the Franks struck with such annihilating force that courage itself gave way; one man’s fall unsteadied three more, and when that fragile line broke, it broke all at once.

"Damn it all," Rurik spat as he wheeled his horse northward, mud flying from the hooves. "Why in the name of Odin did the Franks come? Who called them here?"

His mind reeled with what he had seen in the mêlée — the fluttering surcoats of the enemy knights, dyed in varied hues but marked, most of them, with a single device: the golden fleur-de-lis. The royal emblem of Francia.

The sight of it chilled him to the marrow. They had come for Wessex’s aid — and the man behind this must be Charles the Bald, king of the western Franks. A distant monarch in Paris, yes — but his arm had reached across the sea with four hundred of his best-trained horsemen.

The thought was as suffocating as falling into ice.

He rode hard until he burst into Ivar’s lines. News of Nils’s rout had already spread, sowing unease among the ranks. Even before the enemy appeared, men were glancing nervously toward the western woods, hands tightening on axe hafts and shield rims.

Rurik saw it all — the fear, the trembling — and forced his voice steady.

"No spears," he muttered, half to himself. "Axes and short swords won’t stop a mounted charge. We’ll need another way."

He saw then that Ivar meant to hold the line, stubborn as bedrock. Rurik saluted briefly, then spurred north, seeking Gunnar’s cavalry troop — a hundred riders at most, but all that remained of the mounted force.

"We must destroy that Frankish wedge," he said without preamble, "or we lose the field, the king, and everything."

Gunnar’s face was grim, his beard matted with dust. "Agreed. How do you propose we do it?"

"When their charge slows — and it will — your horsemen strike from the flank. Hit them while they’re mired in Ivar’s ranks. My foot will encircle and cut them down once their speed’s gone."

"Risky," Gunnar said, but there was a spark in his eyes. "Better than waiting to die. Do it."

Even as they spoke, the Frankish riders were forming again — the wedge of steel and flesh glinting in the sun, their numbers scarcely reduced despite the slaughter.

Rurik turned his horse and galloped north for reinforcements; Gunnar and his hundred pressed south, toward the thick of the fight.

When they crested the ridge, the world below was chaos — Ivar’s men locked in desperate combat, the Frankish cavalry wheeling like wolves among them.

"Valhalla!" Gunnar roared.

He drew his sword, pressed his knees to his mount’s flanks, and charged. The Norse horses thundered down the slope. At that instant, the Franks’ own momentum faltered; their charge, spent by collision and confusion, slowed just enough for the counterblow to land.

Steel met steel with a sound like breaking ice. In seconds, thirty of the Franks were down — trampled, cut, or torn from their saddles.

Both sides cried the names of their kings and gods as they clashed — "Pour le roi!" answered by "For Odin!" — the din of tongues blending into one long scream.

The air was full of the smell of sweat, iron, and burning leather. Gunnar fought like a man born to the saddle, though his training had been brief and hard. His strength and instinct served where skill failed.

He cut one man down, then barely ducked the thrust of another. Reflex and raw fury guided him; he turned his sword crosswise, trapping the foe’s blade under his iron gauntlet, and drove the edge of his weapon into the joint of the man’s shoulder plate. The knight screamed. Blood sprayed hot across Gunnar’s arm, dripping into the churned mud.

The two horses passed each other, their riders’ swords drawing crimson arcs. When Gunnar turned, the Frank was already tumbling from his saddle — the fourth man to fall to his hand that day.

Time lost its meaning. The melee became a blur of iron and shouting. The Norse riders thinned, the lines fraying to nothing. When the last of them began to waver, Rurik finally returned — leading a band of swift-footed light infantry.

"Strike their mounts!" he shouted above the din. "The riders are iron-clad — kill the horses first!"

It was brutal, but it worked. A cavalryman without his horse was only another man in armor, slow and doomed.

The Norsemen swarmed in from all sides. Axes hacked at fetlocks and bellies; when horses fell screaming, their riders were dragged down beneath the press of bodies. The Vikings fought like wolves around a carcass — three, four, five to a man — stabbing through the weak points in mail and plate: the armpits, the eye sockets, the inside of the thigh.

"Good!" Rurik cried from his saddle, elation rising with the smell of blood. "Every beast has its weakness — that’s how you hunt them!"

His shout drew eyes — and rage. Several Frankish knights, seeing their comrades torn apart, spurred toward him in fury.

Too late, Rurik realized his peril. He had spent the last two years studying Latin, not warhorse drill. The sight of five armored knights bearing down upon him froze his blood.

He turned his horse without thinking and bolted for the woods.

Branches whipped his cloak and face; the forest swallowed him in green shadow. Sunlight flickered between the leaves, and the scent of oak sap and damp moss filled his lungs. He drew in a deep, involuntary breath — and laughed once, raggedly.

Then came the voices — harsh, angry shouts in the Frankish tongue, closing behind him. He neither understood nor cared to. He pressed on, deeper into the maze of trees.

Time blurred. The pounding hooves behind him grew faint, then nearer again, then faint once more. His gray horse stumbled, nearly throwing him. Rurik caught the reins and glanced down: the path was slick with moss, the ground soft.

He dismounted, leading the horse by hand. Somewhere behind, a rider cursed, a horse screamed — the sound of a fall. Then, silence.

Rurik exhaled long and slow. The chase was over.

Fatigue hit him like a tide. He leaned against the trunk of an oak, letting his weight sink into the earth. The stillness of the forest pressed close, filled only by the sigh of wind and the beat of his heart.

After a time, he spoke aloud to the gray. "You old beast — do you remember the way back?"

The horse snorted indignantly, ears flicking.

Rurik chuckled. "Ah. Not an old one yet, are you?"

The gray stretched its neck and licked his cheek with a wet, rough tongue.

"Stop that, you fool!" Rurik shoved it gently away, then fetched a small sack of rations from the saddle. Man and beast ate in silence.

When they had finished, he climbed a nearby tree, squinting at the dimming sunlight to get his bearings. Then he descended, tugging gently at the reins, and the two resumed their slow march.

By now his linen shirt was soaked with sweat, clinging to his back. A chill wind slipped between the trees, and he sneezed. The sound echoed through the hush of the forest like the call of some strange bird.

After a while, he heard something else — a faint murmur of running water. His throat was parched; his waterskin, flat. He followed the sound until he reached a narrow stream, its surface bright as glass.

He knelt and drank deeply. Beside him, the gray horse lowered its muzzle and drank as if it had been born there.

Then, suddenly, the animal snorted, jerking its head — pushing at Rurik’s shoulder hard enough to unbalance him.

"What is it now?" Rurik muttered, regaining his stance. "Have I ever treated you badly?"

The horse pushed harder, forcing him back into the brush.

A moment later, Rurik understood why.

Across the stream, three Frankish soldiers emerged from the trees, laughing softly as they dipped their waterskins. 𝒻𝑟𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝑛𝘰𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝘤𝘰𝘮

Rurik froze, barely breathing.

"How in Hel’s name—?" he thought. "I’ve wandered straight into their territory."

He waited until the Franks moved off, then crept back to his horse. Climbing another oak, he used the setting sun to fix his direction once more. North by west — the way he had come.

He set off again, deeper into the gloaming forest. The air grew cooler, heavy with the smell of damp soil. Loneliness gnawed at him, so he began speaking aloud just to fill the silence.

"Fool horse," he said. "Do you think this way’s better? Whinny once for yes, twice for no."

"Hrff—hrff—hrff!"

The gray let out three loud snorts, stamping the ground.

"What—? Quiet, damn you!" Rurik hissed — but it was too late.

From the thicket ahead came a rustle. Then a man stepped forth — a Frankish knight, blood-streaked and exhausted, leading a great black destrier by the reins.

Their eyes met across the narrow glade.

The forest held its breath.