Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 186: All or Nothing

"Over ten thousand pounds? Have I done all of this just for such a trifling profit?"

Ragnar laughed in sheer anger. Drawing upon the commanding presence he had cultivated over years of rule, he suppressed the murmurs of discontent. His expression was resolute. "How could Odin's warriors ever retreat? Attack! The entire army will march on Béthune and settle this once and for all with Charles the Bald!"

In just a few short seconds, Wigg deduced the monarch's intentions.

The continuous heavy rain was detrimental to both sides. Aside from the diseases spreading through the camp, it had turned the ground into a muddy mire, drastically weakening the charging power of cavalry. With the cavalry forces of both armies effectively crippled, the advantage actually shifted to the Vikings.

After breakfast, Ragnar left behind over two thousand soldiers who were in poor condition and led the remaining seventeen thousand men straight toward Béthune.

The scorching sun beat down on the muddy dirt roads, and a thick, suffocating humidity hung over the marching columns. The Vikings trudged heavily through the sludge. Before long, they lost even the energy to complain, silently shuffling forward as they followed the backs of the men ahead of them.

To boost morale, Ragnar dismounted and marched alongside his soldiers, occasionally cracking a crude joke to elicit a laugh.

"Hey, brothers, pick up the pace! Don't let an old man in his fifties leave you in the dust!"

As time wore on, the aging Ragnar began to lose his stamina. He stripped off his armor and his gold-embroidered robes, leaving only a linen shirt, and pressed on by using a spear as a walking stick.

In Ragnar's mind, everything was riding on this war. He had wagered the entire kingdom's treasury of silver, the prestige he had spent a lifetime building, and the lives of the commanders and veterans who had stood by his side for years. As long as they could vanquish the enemy, what did a little physical exhaustion matter?In the early afternoon, the exhausted Vikings paused for a brief rest. Inside a nearby barn, a squad of Frankish scouts spotted the massive pagan army, their faces instantly draining of color.

"These Vikings are insane! They actually chose to march out in this weather!"

Under normal circumstances, the scouting range of these mounted riders would exceed fifteen kilometers. However, the muddy roads had severely slowed their horses. After riding a short distance, the scouts had simply found an abandoned barn to slack off. If the noble lords were holed up in the town drinking and making merry, why should they break their backs in the wilderness without a moment's rest?

The scouts never expected the Vikings to abandon all their supply wagons and baggage, lunging straight for Béthune with the fierce desperation of men ready to trade their lives for victory.

"Fall back!"

Following their captain, the nine scouts spurred their mounts and bolted from the barn. The war cries behind them drew closer and closer, but their horses simply could not build up speed in the muck.

One of the scouts glanced over his shoulder, only to see over a hundred Vikings charging through the sludge in pursuit. They wore no iron armor, their coarse linen trousers rolled up to their knees, exposing bulging, knotty calves. They looked like a herd of wild boars rampaging through a swamp.

Once within range, a group of archers began to loose their arrows. The piercing shrieks of the shafts tearing through the air shattered the scouts' nerves. As their surviving comrades dropped one by one, the final five scouts scattered and fled for their lives, abandoning any thought of returning to camp to deliver a warning.

By two in the afternoon, the vast Viking army was still on the march. As they crested a low hill, the towering roof of the Béthune Church faintly emerged on the southeastern horizon.

Amidst the cheers of his soldiers, Ragnar summoned his commanders. "Ivar will take the left flank, and I will strike the enemy's center. Wigg, you are in charge of the right wing. Find Charles the Bald! Capture him, or kill him!"

"Understood!"

Wigg returned to his ranks and made a rough headcount. Over seven hundred men had fallen behind, leaving him with only four thousand five hundred under his direct command. Furthermore, his armored troops had suffered severe stamina drain and were in desperate need of rest.

In contrast, the forces belonging to the seven Swedish nobles had a much lower armor rate, meaning their soldiers were relatively fresh. Therefore, they were assigned to the first wave of the vanguard.

"Listen closely, here is the deployment plan." The town of Béthune was small, forcing the vast majority of the soldiers to camp outside its borders. Wigg was responsible for the right flank, which meant attacking the enemy forces positioned on the town's southern side.

Under his orders, twelve hundred Swedish light infantrymen swung wide toward the southernmost edge of the battlefield to draw the enemy's attention. Given the current muddy conditions that completely nullified the cavalry of both sides, there was no need to worry about being flanked by Frankish riders.

Following that maneuver, Wigg formed his remaining three thousand-plus men into a line formation and slowly advanced on the Frankish camp. Two consecutive days of terrible weather had left the Frankish forces exhausted. They hadn't even bothered to construct an outer palisade. To make matters worse, the camp's layout was a chaotic mess. Soldiers had spontaneously moved their tents to higher ground to avoid the mud, resulting in extremely overcrowded elevated areas while the lower, waterlogged sections were left practically bare.

"The Vikings are here! Fall in, everyone!"

Thanks to the laziness of their scouts, the twenty thousand Franks didn't realize what was happening until the massive Viking army was practically right on top of them. Soldiers scrambled out of their tents, clutching their weapons as they ran blindly through the camp.

Taking advantage of the total breakdown in order, the conscripted militiamen stationed on the fringes of the camp began to flee. Some of the commanding officers, unable to stop their subordinates, simply joined the retreating tide.

To the utter shock of the knights, over three thousand militiamen bolted for the rear. Several knights attempted to intercept them, but their warhorses sank deep into the mire, completely immobilized. They could only watch helplessly as the deserters vanished into the dense woods.

"A bunch of cowards! May God punish your wretched souls!"

By three o'clock, the Frankish army had hastily slapped together a crude defensive line. Centered around Béthune, they deployed seven thousand men to the north and another seven thousand to the south. Charles the Bald personally led three thousand men—including two thousand sick and ailing soldiers—to hold the town proper, relying on its walls to repel the enemy assault.

Accompanied by the frantic tolling of the church bell, the Viking light infantry on both the northern and southern flanks formed shield walls, slowly creeping toward the enemy lines.

Braving a hail of arrows, the shield walls advanced a hundred paces before the two armies finally clashed. While the Vikings were physically more imposing, the Franks had the advantage of resting in place and conserving their stamina. The two sides butchered one another for a dozen minutes, neither able to gain the upper hand.

At that moment, the Frankish knights fell back on their traditional tactics, urging their horses to charge the Viking flanks. Unfortunately for them, their momentum was completely smothered by the thick mud, turning them into slow-moving target practice for the enemy archers.

Enraged by what they considered to be a cowardly and dishonorable tactic, the Frankish knights roared in fury. They vaulted off their mounts, tossed aside their cumbersome three-meter lances, and charged at the enemy on foot with swords and shields raised.

In the center, Ragnar gazed toward the palisade protecting Béthune, hesitating between three distinct choices:

First: a direct assault on Béthune. The chances of success were simply too low, so he immediately discarded the idea.

Second: split his forces and reinforce both the northern and southern flanks simultaneously.

Third: abandon one flank entirely, leading the central army to reinforce the other side and crush one of the enemy wings before they could react. This option carried massive risks. If their weakened flank collapsed first, the Franks could easily maneuver around and encircle the remaining Viking troops.

To be safe, Ragnar dispatched messengers to seek the opinions of Ivar and Wigg.

Ivar's reply was a demand for reinforcements, swearing to obliterate the northern enemy forces before sunset.

Wigg's response was that he could either attack or defend. If the main central force went to reinforce the north, he could organize a pike phalanx and hold the line until dusk without issue.

Ultimately, Ragnar decided to leave one thousand heavily fatigued armored soldiers behind to monitor the town walls, while he led his remaining five thousand men to reinforce the left flank.