Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 356: Decisive Battle on the Plains

In the dead of night, the Frankish army quietly approached the hills. However, the moonlight reflecting off their iron helmets and chainmail exposed their movements.

"Enemies!"

Roused by the sentry's shout, the Rangers woke up one after another. Having slept in their brigandine armor, they skipped the lengthy process of gearing up and immediately threw themselves into battle.

Using the faint light, the Rangers drew their bows and let loose. A dense volley of arrows tore through the heavy air, raining down like a sudden downpour. Most of the arrows embedded themselves in the grass, while others were deflected by shields and armor. Only a tiny fraction managed to strike exposed faces or calves.

On the gentle slope, men continuously fell. Cries of pain and fierce curses mingled together. Finally, the Frankish forces vaulted over the low wall and engaged the Rangers in brutal hand-to-hand combat. Hundreds of figures tangled together, brandishing their weapons purely on instinct.

After suffering over half casualties, the enemy retreated once more. The Rangers fired a final volley at the retreating figures in the dark, then slumped against the low wall, gasping heavily for air.

Håvarun ordered his subordinates to sound off. They had set out with three hundred and five men; now, only one hundred and forty remained. Surviving another wave of attacks would be nearly impossible.

Despair shrouded the knoll. The Rangers muttered curses in Pecheneg and Old Norse. Yet, they had no other choice. Whether they fled or surrendered, their chances of survival were dismally low. All they could do was grit their teeth and fight to the bitter end.

On July fourteenth, the glaring morning sun awakened the sleeping Rangers. They numbly chewed on dried meat, occasionally taking a sip of clean water. Someone found a skin of wine on the corpse of a Frankish knight. They passed it around, each taking a gulp, savoring what might very well be the last drink of their lives.

More than half an hour passed without a Frankish assault. Instead, they spotted their own army's banners."So it is the newly formed 6th Ranger Battalion," Håvarun grumbled softly. "No wonder they moved so slowly. They nearly got us all killed."

As time marched on, more and more cavalry arrived at the battlefield. The trees at the base of the hills were chopped down completely to set up additional defensive structures.

At ten in the morning, the Royal Division, along with the 1st and 2nd Field Divisions, reached the battlefield. They had dumped their excess baggage on the 3rd Field Division and force-marched the entire way here.

Along the way, the 2nd Field Division suffered harassment from Frankish forces. Only around five thousand men arrived on time. Their remaining three infantry regiments lagged behind and were expected to arrive in an hour.

Wigg found the blood-soaked Håvarun. "What is the situation?"

"According to the captives' confessions, Charles the Bald is just to the north. He should be arriving right about now," Håvarun replied.

'That fast?'

Wigg ordered the infantry to rest on the spot. Not long after, clouds of dust billowed up on the northern horizon. Behind the hazy, yellow sand, faint outlines began to emerge. At first, they were just a few swaying black dots, which then connected into a solid line, ultimately unfurling into a silently advancing sea of shadows.

The northern forces' pace was sluggish and heavy. Their horses kept their heads low, manes dyed a grayish-yellow by the dirt. The soldiers' chainmail was coated in grime, utterly devoid of any metallic gleam. They rested their spears against their shoulders, the spearheads pointing weakly toward the sky.

Seeing this, Wigg had his equally exhausted Royal Division and 1st Field Division fan out into formation. They positioned themselves directly across from the enemy to prevent them from crossing the shallows.

"Attack! Wipe them out before Gunnar arrives," Wigg commanded.

Wigg intended to replicate his victory at the Battle of Dunwall Estate from the previous year. Under his command, the two infantry divisions slowly pressed forward. After their grueling treks, the soldiers on both sides were pushed to their absolute physical limits. Sweat beneath their armor gathered into streams, thoroughly soaking their coarse linen undershirts. Finally, the two forces drew near.

There were no earth-shattering battle cries or thunderous charges. The two human torrents sluggishly crashed into each other. The soldiers engaged in an arduous struggle, shoving, tripping, and wrestling in the dirt.

After more than an hour of this grinding stalemate, Wigg made an exceptionally rare move, deploying his cavalry first.

Historically, Wigg favored infantry combat, relying heavily on his highly trained heavy infantry to crush enemy frontlines. Until his opponents committed their cavalry, he always kept his own riders firmly in reserve, treating them as his ultimate trump card.

In Wigg's view, while a cavalry charge possessed devastating power, it carried immensely high risks. Once deployed, their actions were entirely up to the field commander's discretion. Cavalry sent into the fray were like spilled water; the slightest misstep meant they could never be pulled back.

Of course, a supreme commander could always hand over control of the main infantry formation to a subordinate and personally lead the cavalry charge. The advantage of this approach lay in the precise seizing of tactical opportunities. By driving one's strongest fighting force straight into the enemy's most crucial and vulnerable weak points, one could achieve miraculous results and secure an astonishing kill-to-death ratio. Notable historical examples included Li Shimin at the Battle of Hulao Pass and Alexander the Great at the Battle of Gaugamela.

Focusing on infantry versus focusing on cavalry, it was incredibly difficult to determine which doctrine was superior. Ultimately, it all came down to the habits a commander had cultivated over years of warfare.

Throughout Wigg's many campaigns, he had only enjoyed a cavalry advantage during his conquests of the Northern Marches, Scotland, and Ireland. When clashing with the Franks, he constantly found himself at a steep disadvantage in terms of mounted units. Thus, he typically hoarded his pitifully small cavalry force to guard against Frankish cavalry charges.

Conversely, since Gunnar had defected to West Francia, he had an abundance of prime warhorses at his disposal. Combined with his innate talent for mounted warfare, he always preferred to stay with the cavalry during battles, maximizing their tactical value. During the Iberian War three years ago, Gunnar had pushed his abilities to the absolute limit. In a remarkably short span of time, he shattered the Moors' field armies, single-handedly reversing the tides of the entire peninsula.

In the current battle, excluding casualties and those out on reconnaissance, Wigg's cavalry totaled three thousand five hundred men, comprised of two thousand five hundred heavy cavalry and one thousand Rangers. This number easily surpassed the opposing Frankish army's one thousand eight hundred riders, making it the perfect opportunity to seize the initiative.

From the western hills, Thorkel saw the King's semaphore. His mouth went completely dry. The moment that would decide the fate of Continental Europe had finally arrived.

He swiftly summoned his military officers and divided the three-thousand-plus cavalrymen into two groups. The first group would launch a preemptive strike, looping around to the southeast to draw the attention of the Frankish cavalry.

"Remember, heavy cavalry must not charge too quickly," Thorkel instructed. "Let the Rangers on the flanks utilize their mobility advantage to harass the enemy. Your primary objective is to delay and distract, not to annihilate."

Soon, one thousand eight hundred riders roared down the hillside, charging straight toward the stationary Frankish cavalry.

Sensing the critical danger, Charles the Bald ordered the Frankish cavalry to pull back behind their infantry lines. Unexpectedly, this maneuver sparked considerable chaos. The Viking cavalry commander made a split-second decision and charged directly into the resulting gap, instantly throwing the Frankish left wing, the eastern side of the battlefield, into total disarray.

"Excellent, just like that. The northern forces will not be able to hold out much longer."

On the western hills, Thorkel observed the battlefield for a brief moment, readying himself to deliver the decisive blow.

To his absolute shock, he suddenly saw the King furiously waving two small flags. The message was unmistakable: The cavalry was to stand down and hold their position!

'What is going on?'

Taking a handful of officers with him, Thorkel sought out Wigg, only to be hit with a staggering piece of intelligence: Gunnar had broken away from the main force. He was currently advancing at full speed with two thousand mounted infantry and four thousand cavalry, and was less than three miles away from the River Marien.