Galloping hard across the fields, Torga crested a low hill—and there below, on the river's western bank, surged a sea of Gaels, packed tight as they waited for repairs to finish on the wooden bridge. To the east, a handful of Welsh archers loosed arrows that barely slowed the tide.
"We're outnumbered," Torga called, voice cutting through the wind. "Stay on this banner and don't scatter!"
He handed the black banner with the golden dragon to a rider behind him. Taking a few precious minutes, he arrayed his men into a wedge-shaped formation, the classic lancer's spearhead.
Across the river, the Gaels had noticed them. Panic rippled through their ranks as the mounted figures gathered momentum. The force was an uncoordinated patchwork of clans from a dozen settlements—each noble shouting orders, no one obeying.
"Put the archers in front!" one yelled. "Shoot the horses!"
"Idiot! Archers will break first—spearmen in front!"
"Spearmen? You fool, we don't have any!"
Their arguments dissolved into shouting.
By the time they realized what was coming, the Norman horsemen were already charging.
"Odin!"
Torga's cry rolled like thunder. Lances leveled, hooves pounding, the wedge gathered terrifying speed—then smashed into the western flank of the Gaelic host.
The soldiers there were lightly armed with round shields and short swords—no match for a wall of charging steel. They shattered instantly, tossed aside like straw men in a storm.
Three hundred men fell in seconds.
But Torga knew better than to linger. Cavalry strength was speed—to stall meant death. One thrown axe, one stray arrow could cripple a horse.
"With me! Don't stay to fight!"
He wheeled his riders back to the hill, regrouped into formation, and charged again—again toward the western flank.
This time, the Gaels responded with a flurry of arrows. Several found their mark; ten riders went down, their horses screaming and tumbling across the grass.
"Ignore them!" Torga shouted. "We'll deal with the archers later!"
Once more, the wedge slammed into the edge of the enemy line. The hastily raised shield wall broke like rotten planks.
Another three hundred fell.
When the riders pulled back to the hill, Torga counted only a hundred and sixty left fit to fight. Half their horses were exhausted, foam and blood streaking their flanks.
He split them in two.
"Eighty with me. We strike again. The rest follow on the next pass. No rest for the Gaels—keep them reeling."
On the third charge, he feinted toward the flank, then swerved suddenly toward the archers.
Seeing the oncoming knights—faces grim, armor gleaming—the Gaelic bowmen broke. They dropped their weapons and bolted into their own lines, throwing the formation into chaos.
For two more minutes, Torga's cavalry carved through the disordered ranks like blades through grain. When the enemy began to close in around them, he pulled back once more, unwilling to waste his men.
Like peeling an onion, each charge stripped away another layer of the enemy's cAuhsion. By the time Vig's infantry appeared on the horizon, the Gaels' line was half in ruins.
"My lord," Torga reported, panting and blood-spattered, "thirty dead, sixty horses lost. The rest are spent and can't charge again for now."
"Understood," Vig nodded. "You've done well. Rest your men."
Ahead, the remaining two thousand Gaels were crowding the western bank, desperately trying to cross the repaired bridge to safety.
"Forward! Pin them down!"
Vig threw in 1,200 light infantry and archers. They stormed the river's edge, colliding with the thousand Gaels still stranded on the west bank.
A fighting retreat was one of the hardest maneuvers in war, demanding perfect discipline. The Gaelic coalition, a ragged collection of clans, had none.
Panic set in. Men shoved and cursed, fighting to reach the bridge. The hastily nailed planks groaned and bowed beneath the crush.
When Viking crossbows began firing into the mass, chaos turned to horror. Arrows rained down; bodies toppled into the water; some were pushed off the sides by their own comrades.
Crack.
A board snapped. Then another. The bridge shook, tilted, and began to collapse under its own weight. Dozens plunged screaming into the river.
Within minutes, the structure gave way completely. The survivors on the western shore—about seven hundred Gaels—threw down their weapons and surrendered.
Across the river, the Gaelic nobles stared in shock and despair.
They'd made a terrible mistake. The Vikings were weary from marching and fewer in number; a stand-up fight might actually have gone in their Favel. But now, half their army was gone.
"What now?" someone muttered.
Hugh of Glasgow, who commanded three hundred men, spoke first—and loudest.
"We march east! Relieve Edinburgh! Rest, make long spears—four meters at least—then fight the Vikings on our own terms."
But none of the nobles wanted another open battle. The memory of the cavalry charge haunted them.
They followed Hugh's plan, reaching the foot of Edinburgh's hill by mid-afternoon.
What they saw stunned them.
The Vikings had transformed the plain into a fortress: two concentric walls, five meters high, ringed with towers and arrow slits, with a five-meter ditch bristling with stakes outside.
"God's wounds…" Hugh breathed. His face went pale. "Their siegeworks are stronger than the city's own walls."
He was over forty, yet he'd never seen anything like it.
To test the defenses, the Gaels launched a tentative assault—but the Welsh longbows on the walls cut them down before they reached the ditch.
Exhausted and demoralized, they slumped where they stood.
"Enough," Hugh said grimly. "We can't storm this place."
With the Vikings blocking the front and Vig's army closing from behind, they had only one choice.
"We fall back into the southern highlands," Hugh decided. "In the hills, their cavalry will be useless. If they dare follow, we'll bury them in an ambush they'll never forget."
So, boasting words on their lips but fear in their hearts, the Gaels fled into the mountains—and the grand rescue of Edinburgh ended in failure.
~~--------------------------
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