Viking Invasion-Chapter 73 – The Torrent

The march down the slopes began under a gray, restless sky. Ahead of Rurik’s column, a scattering of Anglo-Saxon fugitives broke from the thickets, their shields cast aside, their flight wild and uncoordinated.

"Hold formation," Rurik ordered sharply. "Archers only — drive them off. No one breaks ranks."

The brief clash ended as quickly as it began. The fugitives vanished into the folds of the hills, leaving behind only the smell of trampled grass and fear. Half an hour later, Rurik’s men reached the foot of the main rise — a broad, sweeping hill that commanded the surrounding valleys.

He dismounted, seized a round shield from a nearby soldier, and raised his voice. "Up the slope! Keep your shields ready — we’ll take the crest before they do!"

The men obeyed with the weary eagerness of veterans, boots crunching on the gravel path that wound upward. Rurik’s instincts had rarely failed him, and this time was no different. As they neared the summit, the enemy came into view — a knot of Anglo-Saxon soldiers, bent double from exhaustion, gasping for breath at the ridge line.

Now was the moment.

Rurik did not hesitate. He charged, sword flashing, his shield angled to deflect the first volley of spears. The lighter infantry — men armed with axes and short blades — followed at his heels, their war cries echoing against the slopes. The heavy shield-bearers, weighed down by iron and fatigue, lagged behind, laboring up the hill with curses on their lips.

Yet the enemy did not scatter. Though outnumbered, the Saxons fought with desperate resolve, meeting the Norse assault blow for blow.

"This isn’t right," Rurik thought grimly, parrying a downward strike. "Mercia’s royal guard was shattered at Tamworth. The levies left behind shouldn’t fight like this."

He drove his sword through the throat of a man who wore a polished helm — likely an officer — and as the man fell, Rurik caught sight of the insignia stitched onto his gray surcoat: a yellow dragon, wings spread wide, fangs bared.

His blood ran cold. The dragon of Wessex.

"So, it’s the West Saxon army..." he muttered, realization dawning.

This was no remnant of Mercia’s broken troops — this was the vanguard of Æthelwulf’s host. Yet retreat was unthinkable. Whoever held this hill would command the field. If the Vikings lost it, they would be blind before the storm that was gathering.

"Up! Take the height!" he roared. "The gods are watching — make them proud!"

Then he plunged into the fray once more. His sword caught the haft of a spear, twisting it aside, and his return stroke tore through the man’s throat. The scent of blood — hot and metallic — filled his lungs. Around him, the hilltop became a writhing knot of men locked in hand-to-hand combat.

Driven by sheer will, Rurik broke through the final line and reached the crest. There, beside a banner pole fluttering with the yellow dragon, stood the enemy commander. Rurik’s blade flashed once, twice — and the man crumpled to the earth.

"Cut it down!" Rurik shouted.

A burly Norseman swung his axe in great hewing strokes. With a splintering crack, the banner staff gave way, and the flag of Wessex tumbled into the dirt.

That was enough. The Saxons’ courage broke like a levee. They fled down the southern slope in a flood of mail and panic.

Rurik stood panting on the crest, his chainmail soaked in blood so thickly that its color was no longer discernible. The wind carried the smell of iron and sweat. He turned southward — and what he saw turned his triumph to dread.

From the forests beyond, they were emerging — line after line of soldiers in ordered ranks, banners gleaming. Four thousand, perhaps more, marching from the trees into the open ground below.

"Send word to His Majesty!" Rurik barked. "Tell him we’ve met the main host of Wessex — no fewer than four thousand strong!"

A nimble youth was chosen and dispatched down the slope at once. Rurik meanwhile ordered the exhausted shield-bearers to rest where they stood, while the lighter troops scavenged weapons and armor from the fallen.

"We’ll hold this ground as long as we can," he said quietly, half to himself.

They repelled two probing attacks before help arrived — Ulf at the head of three hundred men, their armor still dusted with frost and mud.

"Four thousand," Ulf muttered as he dismounted, catching his breath. "And a thousand of them heavy infantry. By the gods, if it weren’t for that fool Gunnar’s blundering, we’d have walked straight into an ambush."

His complaint died on his lips as movement stirred again at the tree line. From the shadowed woods emerged several hundred more men — but these walked beside horses, leading them carefully by the reins. Their chainmail glittered; over it they wore surcoats marked with the dragon of Wessex.

"Horsemen?" Ulf’s voice cracked. "That many?"

For months he had listened to Pascal, the logistician, grumble about the burden of cavalry — how each horse ate as much as seven men, how a company of a hundred drained the supplies of a thousand foot soldiers.

By that reckoning, this sight was staggering. Four hundred riders — perhaps more. Their upkeep alone spoke of a kingdom rich beyond measure.

"So this is the wealth of the south," Ulf murmured, almost admiringly. "Maybe I should ask for land there when the war’s done."

Rurik’s sharp voice cut through his reverie. "Look at their formation — and their saddles! They have stirrups!"

Ulf blinked. "Stirrups?"

"Gods help us," Rurik whispered. "They’ve learned the Frankish wedge."

Panic clenched his gut. He turned to Ulf. "Hold this position! I’ll find the king — we need to change formation now, or we’re finished!"

"You’re mad!" Ulf shouted after him. "You can’t—"

But Rurik was already gone, sprinting down the hill. He reached the base just as the earth began to tremble beneath his feet — a deep, rhythmic quaking, as if some great beast stirred beneath the soil. Then came the sound: the rising thunder of hooves.

The charge had begun.

And the Vikings were not ready. Their shields were small, their axes short, their ranks loose — no wall could withstand what was coming.

Rurik flung himself into the saddle, spurred his horse toward the nearest division — Nils’s men — and bellowed with every ounce of his strength:

"Cavalry! Get to the woods — into the trees!"

The wind tore the words apart. By the time they reached Nils, they were no more than a distant whisper.

"What?" Nils shouted back, cupping his hand to his ear. "I can’t hear you!"

"—The woods!" Rurik roared again, his throat raw.

Nils caught only the final word. His gaze flicked toward the forest on his right and misunderstanding seized him. 𝚏𝕣𝕖𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚗𝐨𝐯𝕖𝕝.𝕔𝐨𝕞

The woods? he thought. Is he saying there are Saxons hiding there?

He hesitated. They had sent hunters through earlier — there had been no sign of ambush. But doubt crept in. He turned back toward Rurik — and then he saw it.

From beyond the ridge, they came.

Hundreds of riders, steel flashing, voices raised in a single exultant cry:

"Deus adjuva!" — "Pour le roi!"

For God and for the King.

The air itself seemed to split beneath that roar. Nils felt his stomach turn to ice. Still, he raised his sword and shouted, "Shield wall! Form up!"

Five hundred men scrambled into position — one hundred heavy infantry in front, four hundred light behind.

The ground shook. The sun caught on the cavalry’s armor, turning them into a tide of silver. The first rank of horses struck the shield wall like a hammer on glass.

The impact hurled men into the air. Wood splintered, blood spattered in red arcs. Through the shattered line, the second and third ranks of horsemen drove forward, crushing bodies beneath their hooves.

"Pour le roi!" they screamed again, cutting, slashing, swinging chain-maces that crushed skulls through iron helms.

The battlefield dissolved into madness — a maelstrom of metal and flesh.

Some of the Norse broke and ran. Others stood their ground, hacking at the horses’ bellies with axes. Hot entrails spilled onto the grass; the beasts screamed, their agony feeding their frenzy. Even mortally wounded, they trampled on, lashing out in blind terror until they collapsed amid the carnage they had wrought.

Over it all rose the roar of war — the pounding of hooves, the clash of steel, the cries of dying men — a single, all-consuming torrent sweeping the field from end to end.