novelraw Chapter 357: Pike Phalanx and Cavalry
Chapter 357: Pike Phalanx and Cavalry
"I will go block him!" Thorkel offered instinctively, only to see the King give a slight shake of his head.
"No, your cavalry must hold their ground. Keep them hidden behind the hills. Charles the Bald's army has already collapsed. I will have the First Field Division maintain their offensive and deny him any room to breathe.
"The Royal Division and the newly reformed Second Field Division will organize our defenses to withstand Gunnar's initial assault. You must wait for my command before launching your charge."
"Understood!" Thorkel and the other military officers displayed a level of discipline far superior to the Frankish nobility. They rushed back to the hills as quickly as possible, ordering their one thousand seven hundred cavalrymen to dismount and take cover on the western side of the ridge.
At the same time, Wigg shifted his formations. He withdrew the Royal Division from the active fighting, deploying them alongside the Second Field Division to establish a defensive line in the southern sector of the battlefield.
Clouds of dust billowed along the distant horizon, accompanied by the muffled, thunderous rumble of approaching hooves. The military band of each infantry regiment immediately shifted their rhythm. The melodious marching tunes vanished, replaced by a rapid, authoritative barrage of continuous drumbeats and horn calls.
Barking orders from the military officers and sergeants whipped the men into shape as they swiftly formed tight columns. Suddenly, these columns fractured in different directions. A portion of the soldiers marched briskly forward to form the southern face of the formation, while another group executed a sharp about-face, turning their backs to the vanguard to establish the northern face. The men on the flanks pivoted and spread outward simultaneously, ultimately interlocking to create a massive hollow square.
To withstand the impending Frankish charge, the soldiers packed themselves into an impenetrable wall, standing shoulder-to-shoulder and elbow-to-elbow. The front rank dropped to one knee, planting the butts of their three-and-a-half-meter spears firmly into the turf. The gleaming spearheads angled upward, forming a deadly forty-five-degree barricade against the sky.
The second rank stood tall and rigid, leveling their spears straight ahead as they stared down the churning dust cloud approaching from the southeast.
The third rank consisted of crossbowmen. Should the men in the first two rows fall, these ranged troops were tasked with picking up the dropped spears to plug the gaps.Each hollow square measured approximately fifty meters on a side. The protected space in the center housed the non-combat personnel:
Military officers sat atop their warhorses, their sharp gazes sweeping across the formations. Drummers and standard-bearers clustered tightly around the regimental colors. Joining them were the army shamans, clerks, cooks, and various other support staff.
The two divisions—comprising twelve infantry regiments and four Mountain Infantry Battalions—were deployed into sixteen formidable hollow squares. The remaining three thousand men arranged their carts to form an even larger rectangular wagon fort. A temporary three-meter-tall platform had been erected in its center, where Wigg stood to oversee the battlefield, his central command banner planted firmly by his side.
In less than five minutes, seventeen black squares had materialized across the grassy plains.
The vanguard consisted of nine squares, followed by a second line of five squares, and a third line composed of two squares alongside the wagon fort. This 9-5-3 formation was meticulously spaced, with gaps of one hundred and fifty to two hundred meters between each square.
Almost simultaneously, thousands of cavalrymen from the Frankish army crested the horizon, their iron armor reflecting the scorching sunlight. They charged toward the southeastern bank of the Marien River, momentarily slackening their pace. In the next breath, countless hooves shattered the tranquil surface of the water. They kicked up a dense, glittering spray that made the entire river appear to boil with blinding light.
Amidst the roaring splashes, the cavalry quickly forged across the shallows. They reined in their mounts on the damp grass, fanning out to form a massive, sweeping battle line.
"Deus adjuva!"
The tide of steel surged forward. The heavy thud of warhorses striking the earth began as a muted rumble, but it rapidly grew faster and more chaotic. The ground groaned and violently trembled beneath their iron hooves, kicking up a suffocating storm of grayish-brown dust as they barreled straight toward the Viking lines.
The raging tide closed in, devouring the distance at a terrifying pace. Seventy paces. Fifty paces. Thirty paces. The Viking soldiers could vividly see the white foam frothing from the warhorses' muzzles, and the sweat-drenched, anxious faces hidden beneath the iron helmets of the Frankish cavalry.
The world seemed to hold its breath; all sound vanished into a suffocating void. Driven by their riders' frenzied whipping, a handful of maddened warhorses hurled themselves directly at the pike phalanxes. In a gruesome clash, the razor-sharp spearheads tore into their flesh. The beasts let out agonizing shrieks, their immense momentum carrying their thrashing bodies forward to crush the front-line Viking soldiers beneath them.
Simultaneously, the knights were violently hurled from their saddles. Before they could even scramble to their feet, the clerks and grooms waiting in the center of the squares swarmed them like locusts. They relentlessly drove their daggers into the gaps of the knights' armor, stabbing frantically until the armored bodies ceased to twitch. A thick, nauseating stench of blood instantly saturated the air.
However, the vast majority of the warhorses were ruled by their primal survival instincts. Defying the frantic commands of their riders, the beasts wrenched their heads away from the deadly barricade. Their hooves tore at the grass as they desperately braked and swerved, fleeing blindly toward any path that promised safety.
As a result, most of the cavalry broke formation just before crashing into the forest of cold steel. Like a raging river crashing against an invisible reef, the charge violently split apart. The massive horde splintered into countless smaller streams, funneling into the treacherous gaps between the phalanxes and galloping uselessly in circles.
The military officers barked desperate orders, frantically attempting to rally their men. But the restricted space and entirely shattered momentum meant their terrifying charge had been completely defanged.
"Fire at will!"
Upon receiving the command, the crossbowmen nestled within the squares unleashed a deadly volley of crossbow bolts at the mounted figures. They steadily whittled down the Frankish army, plunging the enemy ranks into absolute chaos.
Realizing the direness of their situation, Gunnar snatched a standard from a nearby soldier. Completely ignoring the crossbow bolts raining down from both flanks, he charged recklessly toward the wagon fort in the third line—or more precisely, toward the solitary black-clad figure standing atop the central platform.
Gunnar quickly closed the distance to the wagon fort. Following his lead, the Frankish cavalry and mounted infantry dismounted en masse, clumping together as they launched a desperate, unified charge against the barricade of carts.
Watching the enemy's suicidal final offensive, Wigg remained utterly unfazed. As the supreme commander of the army, his only option was to stand his ground and entrust his life to his soldiers.
Defending the wagon fort were one thousand five hundred soldiers of the Royal Guard, supported by an equal number of logisticians. Douglas led the bulk of these forces to hold the frontline. Only Leif, the Second Prince Frede, and thirty-odd young staff officers remained stationed around the high platform. One by one, they drew their scabbard swords and formed a defensive ring with their backs against the wooden structure, bracing for any enemies that managed to breach the perimeter.
The brutal melee raged for over ten minutes. Sensing that the perfect moment had finally arrived, Wigg hoisted two signal flags and waved them in wide, sweeping arcs.
"The signal, finally." Thorkel and the military officers stationed in the western hills let out a collective breath of relief. They immediately spurred their cavalry over the ridge, fanning out into two loose horizontal lines before slamming mercilessly into the disorganized Frankish ranks.
With that, the battle was decided.
The crushing charge of the Viking cavalry completely shattered the southern army's remaining morale, sending the Frankish and Italian troops fleeing in a chaotic rout. Gunnar scrambled back onto a horse, pacing outside the wagon fort as he howled the enemy commander's name. "Wigg! Wigg!" It was a desperate challenge for a final duel, but Wigg didn't even dignify the outburst with a response; he simply stared down at the man with icy indifference.
After a long, tense silence, Gunnar wheeled his mount around. Leading a pitiful handful of survivors, he made a wide detour to the east and retreated across the muddy river. Their desperate crossing kicked up a hazy veil of white mist as they abandoned the battlefield.
Deep down, Wigg felt an unshakable premonition. This would likely be the very last time the two of them ever crossed paths.
By one in the afternoon, the battle had concluded. The grand plan for the southern and northern armies to converge had been utterly obliterated. The Frankish army suffered over ten thousand casualties—the vast majority of them cavalrymen. It was a slaughter so severe that thousands of noble families would undoubtedly be left without a surviving heir.