At dawn, a hundred Norsemen and an equal number of captives marched into the forest to fell timber. Snow dusted the branches overhead. Axes bit into oak trunks, steam rising from sweating bodies, the dull thuds startling flocks of ravens into flight.
"Tree's coming down!"
With each warning shout, another oak crashed to the ground. Vikings lopped away the branches and dragged the logs toward sledges. Suddenly—the sharp hum of bowstrings cut the air.
An arrow slammed into the back of a young man. He collapsed across the logs, his blood burning red holes into the thin snow.
"Ambush!"
Arrows rained down like hail. The survivors scrambled behind cover, pinned. Minutes later, a host of Mercians poured from the trees—outnumbering and outarming the loggers. The detachment had no choice but to retreat.
In the northwest camp, two nobles had just finished breakfast and were playing chess in a warm room. Ulf held a pawn in thought when news of the attack reached him. Startled, he "accidentally" overturned the board.
"Damn them! Why us, and not the others?" Cursing, Ulf threw on his black cloak and climbed the watchtower. From the northern woods, dozens of Vikings came sprinting over the snow.
Moments later, a swarm of armed peasants surged from the tree line—rectangular shields, spears, and pitchforks in hand. Rough count: seven to eight hundred.
"What now?"
Vig stood beside him, calm. "What else? Better to break them here in the open than let them into Tamworth."
A decision made, Vig marched out with four hundred men—including all sixty armored warriors—while Ulf kept two hundred to guard the camp.
Before moving, Ulf ordered two smoke beacons lit in the open, signaling the eastern camp for aid.
"Let's hope we're not too late," he muttered, watching Vig advance against an enemy twice their number.
At two hundred paces, Vig drew his sword and signaled his men to form a shield wall around him, pressing forward step by step.
After a few dozen strides, a horn blared from the camp. Vig turned to see Ulf on the watchtower, waving frantically toward Tamworth.
The city's northern gate was opening. Rank after rank of Mercian soldiers with sword and shield marched out, forming lines under their officers' shouts.
"My lord, what now?" the flanking shield-bearers asked. Vig did not waver.
"Forget the rear. Our task is to pin these men, keep them from entering Tamworth. The king will have heard—reinforcements are coming."
The shield wall pressed on.
Seventy paces.
Arrows rained from the enemy line. Thunk—thunk—thunk—shafts hammered into shields overhead, like a thousand woodpeckers pecking at trunks.
Fifty paces.
Thirty.
Ten.
Just as the clash neared, the ground trembled. Men at the flanks glanced eastward—and there they came: a hundred horsemen, Ragnar's banner high, thundering straight for the Mercians' side. Behind them, waves of light infantry jogged in support.
"Our cavalry is here!"
Cheers rippled down the shield wall, their spirits surging. Vig roared Odin's name—"Inn!"—and drove the line forward into twice their number.
The crash was deafening. Screams tore the air. Then Gunnar's horsemen smashed into the Mercian flank. Hooves crushed men like stalks, the charge plowing deep until momentum waned. From horseback, the riders hacked left and right with iron blades.
The Mercian left wing collapsed. Panic spread like fire. Within moments, the militia broke, tossing shields and comrades aside as they fled into the trees.
"Do not pursue! Turn south!" Vig ordered.
The shield wall wheeled toward Tamworth. Barely two hundred paces away, five hundred Mercian soldiers stood frozen—half out the gate, half in. They had watched their reinforcements shatter, stunned into indecision.
The horns atop Tamworth's walls broke the spell. The garrison scrambled back inside, slamming the gates shut. Vig gave chase, but too late. Arrows from the battlements dropped a dozen of his men, forcing him to pull back.
For the rest of the day, Vig led his force through the woods, hunting down scattered fugitives. By sundown they returned to camp.
"Fortunate that Ragnar sent the horsemen in time. Even untrained riders can devastate militia."
That single hundred-strong troop was part of the royal guard.
Because of their campaigns on the eastern steppe, Gunnar, Nils, and Orm had learned the value of the iron stirrup. Thus, every rider was equipped, making them deadlier than any Anglo-Saxon cavalry.
Yet Britain's horses were small, bred for plowing and hauling, not shock charges. Their lack of size blunted the impact. Worse, the troop lacked proper riding masters. Vig had seen it himself—half the horsemen dismounted in battle, fighting on foot like mounted infantry.
"The advantage of cavalry is too great. Once this war is done, we must hire instructors, buy stallions from the Continent, and form a true shock cavalry!"
Vig had long dreamed of such a force. Last year he had even asked wool merchants about prices, only to learn that Frankish warhorses cost over two pounds of silver each.
And merchants feared selling steeds to "pagan barbarians." Several had refused outright. Only one dared agree—but his price was ruinous:
Five pounds of silver for a mare. Ten for a prime stallion.
Impossible. Unless Vig captured enormous spoils in this campaign, his cavalry would remain a dream for years to come.
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