Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 187: Unexpected Results

At three-thirty in the afternoon.

Receiving reinforcements, Ivar's tactics grew even more ferocious. He organized three fearless assault teams to continuously strike the weak points in the Frankish army's lines, aiming to cleave the seven-thousand-strong army before him in two.

While launching this fierce assault, Ivar dispatched his remaining forces to flank north. The enemy's vanguard was pinned down so tightly that they could not spare any hands to stop them.

Gazing out over the vast, boundless battlefield, he muttered in his heart, 'Half an hour to flank, and another half hour to completely crush the enemy forces. Wigg, you must hold out for one hour.'

On the southern side of the battlefield.

Upon receiving news that the main force was heading north, Wigg slowed his offensive. He withdrew the Swedish light infantry from the southernmost tip and then ordered his infantry regiments to form a pike phalanx. Two such formations were arranged, one facing north and the other south, spaced a hundred meters apart. A large group of mixed infantry filled the gap between them, adopting a posture of passively taking a beating.

Seeing the Vikings retreat, the Frankish commander breathed a sigh of relief. But before he could rejoice for long, a palace guard ran out from the city, ordering him to crush the Vikings at the front as quickly as possible, then flank around to cut off Ragnar's retreat.

"What the hell? Having these conscripted militias take the offensive?"

The commander was extremely displeased but had no choice but to comply. He ordered his units to switch from defense to offense, forming a shield wall to charge the Viking lines.

The sun scorched the rain-softened mud. Sludge swallowed their ankles, and with every step, the soldiers' cloth shoes felt as if they were being bitten by the earth. A gentle breeze brushed past their ears, carrying the damp, rotting stench of mold.After weathering over a dozen volleys of arrows, the Frankish shield wall clashed with the Viking spearmen. The first row of Viking soldiers leveled their spears and thrust, the iron tips striking the shields with a dull thud reminiscent of chopping wood.

Enduring the casualties, the shield wall continued to push forward. The second row of spearmen followed up with an attack. Guided by the squad officers' rhythmic chants, the soldiers gripped their spears, thrusting and retracting in unison.

"Thrust! Thrust! Thrust!" Every roar was accompanied by a synchronized stab. The Frankish casualties spiked sharply, and the originally sturdy shield wall began to retreat. Some who turned to flee were impaled through the back by spears.

Seeing the enemy formation faltering, Wigg, mounted on his horse, waved his left hand. Leif quickly pulled out a war horn, puffed his cheeks, and blew.

Bwoooom!

Hearing the signal to attack, the pike phalanx slowly arched forward, the spear tips rising and falling with the commands. The rear spearmen stepped in their comrades' footprints, boot soles crushing into the blood-soaked mud. Once the enemy banners began to pull back, they collectively let out a low, rumbling roar. The entire phalanx accelerated its advance, using discarded round shields and fallen bodies to pave a path through the muck. The few surviving shieldbearers were poked into a constant retreat until they finally dropped their weapons and staggered backward in flight.

With the attack failing, the Frankish commander was just preparing to organize a second wave when a noble suddenly rushed out of Béthune's south gate, shouting at the top of his lungs:

"Earl, in the name of the King, you are relieved of duty. I am taking over command."

'You dirty Viking barbarian, you dare steal my position?'

The commander cursed inwardly, his gaze sweeping over Gunnar's entire body as if to carve his appearance into his mind, before walking away without a word.

Taking over command, Gunnar did not rush to attack. He led a small group of guards forward, stopping two hundred meters away from the pike phalanx to carefully observe the composition of the Viking lines.

"Where on earth did Wigg learn this formation? It looks like a hedgehog covered in iron spikes, leaving no place to bite."

Gunnar profoundly realized just how difficult his old comrade was to deal with—perhaps even trickier than Ivar. Comparing the two, he could at least roughly guess Ivar's tactics; it was just a bit more troublesome to fight. 'He's just too difficult to deal with.'

After lamenting for a long while, Gunnar suddenly heard the blare of a war horn from the southern wall of Béthune, urging him to attack immediately.

Left with no choice, Gunnar returned to his main camp. Acting in his capacity as the Duke of Normandy and commander, he forcibly assembled five hundred knights equipped with chainmail to act as an infantry vanguard, tasked with tearing open the enemy lines.

Taking advantage of the Frankish army reorganizing their offensive, Wigg seized the time to adjust his troops. He swapped out the exhausted companies that had fought bitterly, bringing relatively fresh spearmen to the front lines.

After a brief respite, the second wave of the Frankish offensive surged forward. This time, the enemy no longer pursued a full-scale attack. Instead, they focused their assault on the southern pike phalanx, led by the five hundred well-equipped knights with a massive horde of conscripted militias trailing behind them.

"Vive la Charlemagne!"

The knights formed a shield wall to block the arrows fired by the crossbowmen. As the distance closed, they let out fierce howls and launched their charge. The knights at the very front were jabbed down by iron spears, but even more shields shoved their way between the spear shafts. Longswords carved silver arcs through the air, chopping the wooden poles in half. Having lost their primary weapons, the spearmen drew the short axes from their waists and roared, smashing them against the knights' iron helms.

Amidst the chaotic melee, some men lost their balance and tumbled, locking into desperate struggles in the filthy sludge. The Vikings swung their short axes while the Frankish knights drew their daggers. Since both sides were heavily armored with iron, they could only target exposed weak points. Once red-eyed with bloodlust, they even resorted to biting and strangling—tactics fit only for street ruffians.

With the southern end locked in a bitter struggle, Wigg ordered two thousand allied troops, who had been resting for quite some time, to strike from the flank to alleviate the pressure on the pike phalanx.

After over ten minutes of brutal slaughter, the exhausted chainmail knights gradually pulled back. Gunnar dispatched the militia to take over the assault. Unfortunately, the militia's combat effectiveness was simply too poor. Tangled up by the forces of Ulf, Pascal Jr., and the Swedish nobles, they couldn't focus their efforts on attacking the pike phalanx.

As time ticked by, the Frankish morale steadily plummeted, and the second wave of the offensive was forced to a halt.

"Damn it, this battle is impossible to fight."

Gunnar regrouped his forces and finally managed to persuade them to attack again. Unexpectedly, earth-shattering roars erupted from the northern flank. Following the sound, he saw the royal banner on the perimeter wall pulling back, looking as if they were preparing to flee.

"The northern line collapsed? What a bunch of useless trash."

He hesitated no longer, leading his remaining six thousand men in a retreat toward the south. Wigg's soldiers were completely exhausted and powerless to chase down the enemy, quietly sitting in the soft, filthy muck as they watched the backs of the Frankish army fade into the distance.

After drinking half a pouch of clean water, Wigg patiently explained to his nephew, "...To sum it up, this battle didn't involve much technique. It was like a brawl between street ruffians—a chaotic scramble that eventually decided the victor."

That night, the command echelon moved into Béthune. Various units tallied their losses, and the number of casualties amounted to only two thousand.

The Frankish losses were difficult to calculate. Aside from the massive casualties, two thousand sick and wounded men left behind in Béthune surrendered collectively, and there was also a massive number of deserters.

As for the spoils, the Vikings captured over seventy nobles, including the Earl of Orleans, along with thirteen hundred warhorses that hadn't been evacuated in time. The horses had been left out in the rain and were generally in terrible condition, requiring them to be sent back to Britain for long-term recovery, rendering them useless for this war.

Afterwards, the vast Viking army scattered to encamp in the nearby villages and manors. The warriors truly had no energy left to set up a proper camp, much less pursue the fleeing enemy. They rested continuously for over a week.