Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 259: The White Raven of Genutz

Following their commander's banner, the Frankish cavalry surged forward. The heavy thud of hooves striking the ground melded into a muffled roar of thunder, making the very earth seem to tremble beneath them.

Mid-charge, the commander noticed the enemy had discarded numerous leather bags filled with fuel, leaving them to burn on the snow. A flicker of bewilderment crossed his mind.

"What is the meaning of this? Scattering some caltrops would have been more effective," he muttered.

The cavalry pressed their pursuit, charging across the open ground littered with the abandoned oil bags. Suddenly, a grating, nerve-wracking crack echoed from the ground beneath them.

'Not good, this is a frozen lake,' he realized.

"Halt!" The commander's terrified roar barely left his throat before the world before him abruptly collapsed.

It was as if an invisible, giant axe had brutally cleaved the ground. Fissures spiderwebbed outward like a crazily expanding black net, and the deafening crash of collapsing ice drowned out all other noise.

In the very next moment, the Frankish commander plummeted into the lake. The freezing water swallowed his body whole, leaving him with nothing but bone-chilling cold and endless darkness.

Above the water, the surface of the lake had become a purgatory. Warhorses let out shrill, desperate neighs on the unstable ice while fractured chunks violently churned and collided. The submerged knights flailed their arms in vain, desperately pleading for their comrades to save them.

"Attack. Do not let them escape."On the opposite shore of the frozen lake, Niels ordered his subordinates to fan out and flank along the banks. He then stood in absolute silence, coldly observing the desperate plight of the Franks. There was no wild joy in his eyes, only an indifference as frigid as the ice itself.

Receiving their orders, the archers ambushing from the pine forests on both sides of the lake drew their bows. Arrows rained down like a deadly hailstorm, ruthlessly homing in on the survivors struggling at the edges of the ice, crushing the Frankish army's final slivers of hope.

It was unknown how much time had passed before the frozen lake finally returned to a dead silence. Shattered blocks of ice drifted and bumped against one another on the pale crimson water. A few riderless warhorses lingered at the edge of the intact ice floes, frozen beads of water tumbling from their manes.

Niels stepped forward and unhooked a leather waterskin from the saddle of one of the warhorses. Unsurprisingly, it was filled with beer. Tilting his head back, he drained it in one long gulp.

The liquid was freezing and bitter, carrying a faint trace of sourness, yet it was the finest drink he had ever tasted in his life. Its flavor surpassed the mead of Northern Europe, the retsina of Constantinople—a traditional Greek white wine infused with pine resin—the ale of Britain, and the red wine of Francia.

Gripping the deflated leather pouch, Niels lowered his head to gaze at his reflection in the lake. He then slowly looked up, his eyes sweeping over the broken armor and snapped spears floating on the water's surface, before finally settling on the distant, leaden sky.

"I finally understand how Wigg felt on the banks of the Seine all those years ago," he whispered.

With the battle concluded, the Vikings scavenged the armor and warhorses left behind by the enemy. Simultaneously, they rallied their scattered comrades, restoring their forces to three thousand men.

Meanwhile, Louis's forces were stationed in a village ten miles to the north.

The Frankish army still boasted over five thousand troops, but their proudest asset—the cavalry—had suffered catastrophic losses, plunging the entire army's morale to rock bottom. Through the exaggerated tales of the routed soldiers, the Viking forces had inflated from four thousand to eight thousand, and some even claimed they exceeded ten thousand!

"Impossible. Where would these barbarians scrape together so many men?" Louis demanded.

Logically, Louis preferred to believe the initial reports provided by the routed soldiers: four thousand. However, he was unable to quell the terror spreading through his ranks. This panic caused thousands of men to huddle and make camp around a cramped, narrow Danish village, squandering precious time they could have used to retreat.

Over the next three days, Louis reorganized his few remaining cavalrymen into mounted scouts, expanding their search radius as much as possible. While this conservative strategy mitigated the risk of falling into another ambush, it severely delayed his marching speed.

With merely ten miles left to reach Hamburg, Louis was overtaken by Halfdan's light infantry.

Facing the combined siege of Halfdan and Niels, the Frankish army suffered a crushing defeat, leaving Louis's fate unknown. The Vikings captured the royal standard of East Francia. They then tailed the fleeing Frankish stragglers and capitalized on their momentum to conquer Hamburg in a single stroke. In this campaign, Niels's prestige skyrocketed. At the victory feast held in Hamburg, a bard bestowed upon him a new moniker: "The White Raven of Genutz." Genutz was the name of that fateful frozen lake, and the white raven paid homage to the white cloaks worn by his personal guard.

"The White Raven of Genutz.

You extinguish the enemy's hope with a rain of arrows, Casting their souls into the dark and frigid Jötunheimr.

The gods themselves praise your glorious deeds."

It was an exceedingly rare sight. Seated in the seat of honor as a lord, Niels basked in the adulation of nobles and bards alike, flanked by King Ubbe of Denmark on one side and King Halfdan of Sweden on the other.

As the mead flowed and spirits soared, some men boldly leaped onto the long tables, dancing merrily amid uproarious laughter. Others drew the short axes from their waists and took turns hurling them at a wooden stake, the sharp blades grazing the ears of captive serving girls and drawing high-pitched shrieks.

Clack, clack!

Niels pushed himself to his feet, repeatedly rapping his goblet against the tabletop until he finally commanded the room's attention.

"Warriors! I have captured an untold number of armor and weapons in this war," Niels declared. "My forces cannot possibly use them all. I will distribute the surplus military equipment among you, on the condition that you continue to fight by my side. East Francia is currently left utterly defenseless. We will follow the Elbe River, raid their southern territories, and make a massive fortune while we can!"

This war had severely devastated the order in central and southern Denmark. Consequently, Niels had abandoned any thoughts of collecting taxes from Schleswig, opting instead to plunder enough wealth in one fell swoop to cover his expenses for the next several years.

Riding the momentum of his grand victory, he secured the backing of two-thirds of the nobles. Unwilling to be branded as cowards, the remaining minority silently acquiesced to the offensive.

In late February, nobles from across Denmark journeyed south to join the Viking armada amassing in Hamburg. Their motivations mirrored Niels's; with their domains lying in ruins, venturing out to plunder was the only viable option left.

By early March, over two hundred oared longships lay at anchor on the waters of the Elbe River west of Hamburg, their ranks swelling to eight thousand strong. Elevated to the position of supreme commander, Niels officially issued the order to attack.

A trusted confidant suddenly leaned in. "My lord, have you forgotten a certain step?"

Historically, whenever faced with a momentous decision, Niels would always bring out that gilded chair and have the shamans conduct sacrificial rituals to boost the morale of the common soldiers. He froze for a few seconds, his gaze sweeping over the sea of sails blanketing the river, before replying in an indifferent tone.

"No. It is no longer necessary."

The early spring waters of the Elbe were rapid and murky. The riverbanks were a muddy mess, still clinging to patches of melting snow, and sparsely dotted with a handful of Saxony villages. The local peasant cottages featured thatched roofs enclosed by simple wooden fences. Spring plowing had already begun in some fields, where farmers used wooden plows to turn the soil, sowing oats and rye.

Upon spotting the approaching Viking fleet, the villagers fled into the surrounding woods as fast as their legs could carry them. Too lazy to bother with such insignificant peasants, Niels directed the fleet into a tributary, launching an assault on Bardowick, a vital trading town in the Saxony region.

Protected by nothing more than a rudimentary wooden palisade, the market town fell in less than half an hour. The Vikings reaped a bountiful harvest of salt and furs from the raid.

Afterward, the fleet returned to the main artery of the Elbe River, continuing their relentless advance upstream toward Magdeburg.