Viking Invasion-Chapter 88 – The Army

By March, the tempests of the North Sea had begun to wane. From every fjord and coastal inlet of the north, longships came slicing through the foam, their dragon prows rising from the mist like omens of a new age. They came to assemble for what would be the greatest raid in living memory.

The hosts swelled beyond counting. With men enough at last, Rurik wrote to Ragnar, requesting command over twelve hundred of the newcomers. Permission came swiftly, and he folded the chosen raiders into his own force, expanding his command to two thousand men. These he divided into two great formations—each composed of six hundred spearmen, two hundred shield-and-axe soldiers, and two hundred archers armed with powerful crossbows.

Weapons and stores were plentiful. For weeks Rurik drilled his men with relentless order—marching, forming ranks, and simulating siege and field maneuvers—until their movements rippled like one living creature. At last, on the tenth of April, Ragnar himself arrived at Londinium, leading the main host.

Beyond the walls of the ancient Roman city, the landscape was a sea of tents and standards. Banners of every northern lord danced in the wind—boar, raven, wolf, and serpent glinting under a pale sun. Ragnar, stepping down from his horse, turned to Rurik who had come to greet him.

"How many?" Ragnar asked, his voice half expectation, half disbelief.

"Counting your own men, ten thousand in all," Rurik replied. "And more still are coming. Within a fortnight, I wager, we’ll have yet greater numbers gathered."

"Ten thousand!" Ragnar’s eyes widened, his chest swelling with a confidence he had never known before. Never, since the first oar struck these western waters, had such a host been assembled.

"Word must have already reached West Francia," Ragnar said, scanning the sea of men and banners. "The longer we tarry, the better prepared they’ll be. Have we the baggage and ships ready?"

Rurik motioned to a shield-bearer, who stepped forward and presented a stack of ledgers bound in leather. "Supplies are complete, Majesty. We are ready to depart at your command."

Ragnar thumbed through a page or two, then let out a great, satisfied laugh that rolled like thunder across the encampment. "Three days, then! Three days hence we sail south for war."

Yet before the host could embark, a rider came thundering in from Mercia, his horse lathered and trembling. He brought ill news—the western Welsh had descended from their hills, plundering the border villages and seizing stores of grain.

"The mountain thieves dare to strike first?" Ragnar’s voice was incredulous. His eyes swept the gathered jarls and thanes, resting longest upon Ivar, Rurik, and Gunnar. Before he could speak, Halfdan stepped forward.

"Father," said the young man, his tone calm but his shoulders taut with restrained pride. "They are naught but forest vermin. Let me deal with them. The might of West Francia deserves the hands of greater men. Grant me the task, and I shall make the hills quiet again."

Halfdan knew his own standing well—his skill and fame were yet outshone by Ivar’s cunning and Rurik’s iron composure. In the grand invasion, he would be given little more than a supporting role. But if he could lead a conquest of his own—if he could bring the unruly Welsh to heel—then perhaps his father would grant him a fief, and he could at last step from the long shadow of the royal hall to shape his own dominion.

"You would lead an army?" Ragnar studied him for a moment, seeing not the reckless boy of years past but a man grown, broad-shouldered, fire-eyed, and certain of his will.

Lagertha, he thought bitterly, the son you fretted over most has become a warrior before I even noticed the years passing.

A faint ache stirred in his chest, half pride, half grief. Then he drew a deep breath and gave his verdict.

"Æthelwulf shall command the Welsh campaign," he declared. "Halfdan will serve as his lieutenant."

Halfdan’s jaw tensed. Æthelwulf—an ambitious Saxon noble whose loyalty was ever suspect—bowed low, his face unreadable. Ragnar, well aware of the man’s nature, had already accounted for treachery. To keep Æthelwulf’s ambitions leashed, he summoned three of the man’s sons to join him as royal hostages and accompany the main expedition to West Francia.

Æthelwulf’s bow deepened. "As you command, my king."

Halfdan’s lips pressed thin, his disappointment only half-hidden as he inclined his head. He had hoped for glory, yet was made a subordinate. Still, he swallowed his protest—Ragnar’s word was law.

Considering Halfdan’s youth and untested leadership, Ragnar allotted him only a thousand of his own warriors. Wessex itself could furnish another thousand from its levies; two thousand men in total—enough to scour the Welsh hills clean. 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝒆𝔀𝒆𝙗𝓷𝒐𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝓶

At dawn on the thirteenth of April, the fleet gathered at the docks of Londinium for the rites of departure. The priests of Odin and Thor slaughtered white bulls, sprinkling their blood across the prows of the ships as incense burned in iron braziers. The air smelled of salt, iron, and divine promise.

When the omens proved favorable, Ragnar strode aboard the largest longship, its prow carved into a dragon’s head painted black and gold. The oars dipped in unison, and the fleet began to move—five hundred and thirty longships in all. Of these, two hundred were heavy vessels laden with supplies, horses, and siege engines.

Looking back, the river itself seemed carpeted with ships, their sails glimmering like the scales of some enormous serpent. The masts stood close as trees in a forest, the banners cracking in the wind. It was as if an entire floating city had risen from the Thames.

High above, the weather-vane spun and whined. Ragnar tilted his head. The wind blew northeast. He smiled. "The gods favor us still."

With the wind at their backs, the fleet slipped from the mouth of the Thames and hugged the southern coast, reaching the chalk cliffs of Dover by nightfall.

Across the strait lay Calais, scarcely thirty kilometers away—the narrowest throat of the English Channel. In fair wind, the crossing would take but six to eight hours; against the wind, it could drag for days, sometimes forcing a retreat to port.

They rested the night beneath the white cliffs. The next morning, the fourteenth, the fleet set sail for the continent.

When the mists broke, sunlight poured over the sea. The towering cliffs gleamed pure as marble, the gold of dawn spilling over their faces like a blessing. Rurik stood upon the deck, gazing back toward the coast that had sheltered them.

"The White Cliffs of Dover," he murmured. "Strange that the fairest sight in Britain should be this. Ulf has fortune on his side, being granted such a land to govern."

The wind keened from the northeast, carrying them swiftly over the channel. By sundown, the Norsemen reached the sands of Calais.

A wooden fort rose alone on the distant slope, its bells tolling in warning. Ragnar spared it no thought; the tide of his ambition would not halt for a single outpost. He ordered the fleet to continue westward along the coast.

Yet even Ragnar knew his force—nine thousand men, however fierce—was too few to conquer West Francia outright. His true aim was Paris: to strike its wealth, break its spirit, and force Charles the Bald into a treaty that would buy the northmen five years of peace and plunder.

For four days they followed the twisting shoreline, pausing at coves to rest and gather water, until at last the fleet reached the mouth of the Seine.

There, upon the northern bank, watchfires blazed—one, then another, then a third. Thick plumes of smoke rose to the heavens, the signals of alarm spreading eastward like a chain of beacons.

Rurik’s heart sank. His fears were coming to pass.

Somewhere in Britain, before their departure, a treacherous hand had warned the Franks. And of all men, Æthelwulf seemed the likeliest snake. Should Ragnar’s invasion fail, Æthelwulf would sweep northward, claim the empty lands in the name of vengeance, and crown himself king of all the Anglo peoples.

"The king is too bold," Rurik muttered, his gaze hard upon the distant fires. "He should never have left Æthelwulf behind. Even with his sons as hostage, no leash is foolproof."

Up the Seine they rowed, the men straining against the current, the northeast wind tugging weakly at their sails. The journey was slow and silent; only the splash of oars and the rasp of ropes filled the air.

Two days upriver, a dark shape appeared ahead—a barrier stretched across the water, heavy chains glinting just beneath the surface. On the northern bank loomed a walled town, Rouen, its ramparts rising five meters high. To the south stood a smaller wooden fort, its watchtower still unfinished.

"By the gods," Rurik breathed. "A chain across the river?"

It was a feat of enormous labor—iron forged link by link, stretched to bar the current itself. "Charles the Bald must have known we were coming," Rurik murmured. "He’s spent the better part of a year building this."

Ragnar summoned his captains. The nobles crowded onto the flagship’s deck, voices low but determined. The decision was made quickly—strike first at the southern fort. It was small, unfinished, its defenses weak. Once it fell, they would break the chain and force their way to Rouen.

The oarsmen bent their backs. Drums began to pound. The longships angled toward the southern shore.

The invasion of Francia had begun.