Viking Invasion-Chapter 89 – The Spearwall

Under the guidance of Ragnar’s flagship, the longship fleet pressed noisily toward the southern bank. Though many ships drifted in confusion, Rurik’s command—the two thousand he had drilled for weeks on the fields of Londinium—was the first to regain order. Seeing the disarray among the rest, he quickly took command of the defense.

"Form ranks on the southern meadow—three hundred meters from the shore!"

The horns sounded. Men scrambled ashore, boots sinking into wet sand, their shields clattering against mail. Within minutes, two dense blocks of spearmen and crossbowmen were arrayed upon the slope, their formation a living fortress of wood and iron.

Rurik mounted his gray horse and rode to a nearby rise to survey the field. What he saw there made him draw a sharp breath.

A kilometer away, across the rippling wheatfields, the Frankish host was already spreading into battle order. From a long, snaking column of marchers, three thousand infantry were unfurling their ranks, banners rising in the wind. Above their center floated a standard of blue silk, emblazoned with a golden fleur-de-lis—the royal banner of West Francia.

Beyond them, on the southeastern hill, waited another force: some seven hundred horsemen. Their chainmail gleamed beneath surcoats of bright color—blue, yellow, red—so that from afar, they looked like clusters of wildflowers scattered across the slope.

Time was short. Rurik summoned a shield-bearer. "Ride to the king," he commanded. "Tell him: Four thousand Franks advancing—seven hundred mounted!"

The messenger spurred his horse away. Rurik turned to his men. Their eyes flicked from him to the distant cavalry, unease stirring like wind in tall grass.

He drew his sword—Dragon’s Breath—and its silver edge flashed in the sun. "Form the spearwall as we trained!" he cried. "Steady hands, low stances—your spears are your lives!"

The soldiers moved as one. Crossbowmen took position in front, their weapons already cranked. Behind them, spearmen planted the butts of their long ashwood poles into the soil, forming two interlocked squares of deadly steel points.

From the far slope came the first movement of the Frankish horse. Their line advanced at a walk, riders shouting commands, horses adjusting to one another’s rhythm until three long, loose ranks had formed.

Then the line began to quicken. The tremor came first through the earth—a deep, rolling thunder beneath the soles of men’s boots. Helmets gleamed like river stones in sunlight. Lances and swords threw back a thousand glints. The archers in front of Rurik’s formation blanched, trembling, fingers twitching on their triggers.

Five hundred meters.

Three hundred.

One hundred.

"Loose!" came the shout.

The crossbowmen fired. A storm of bolts hissed through the air, black specks racing toward the shining line of horsemen. Then, by drilled reflex, the bowmen ducked into the openings between the spear blocks.

Rurik, from his saddle, watched grimly as the volley struck. Most bolts glanced from shields or splintered against mail. A few horses screamed and stumbled, but the charge did not break.

The knights lowered their swords and spurred harder, the clatter of chain and hooves melding into one roaring heartbeat.

"Vive Charlemagne!"

Though the great emperor had been dead for thirty-four years, his name still carried the weight of heaven to these Franks, and they shouted it now like a prayer of steel.

The sight of those armored riders bearing down upon them struck fear through the first ranks of Rurik’s spearmen. Some men faltered; one even stepped back.

Rurik’s voice rang across the line. "Hold your ground! Crouch low—anchor the butt in the earth! Let the points rise! Aim for the horses, not the men!"

He had barely finished when the first riders hit.

The impact was terrible. Horses impaled upon iron spikes screamed and collapsed mid-gallop, crushing their riders beneath them. The first dozen Franks died in that instant—horse and man together in a tangle of blood and splintered lances.

Seeing their fate, the rest of the mounts balked. However fierce their riders’ kicks and shouts, no training could force them forward into that gleaming hedge of death. They shied, tossed their heads, wheeled away from the killing ground.

The charge lost its rhythm. Speed bled from the line; formation disintegrated. Driven by their instincts to survive, the horses began circling the formation rather than crashing into it.

"Now!" Rurik bellowed.

The crossbowmen, finding their nerve again, rose and fired into the flanks of the milling riders. From within the first ranks of spearmen, men hurled hand-axes that spun end over end, thudding into mail or biting into horseflesh.

Chaos broke over the Frankish cavalry.

For several minutes the plain was filled with frantic motion—riders cursing, horses screaming, the air thick with arrows and flying steel. Then, seeing Viking reinforcements wading ashore behind Rurik’s line, the Franks began to withdraw, abandoning their dead to the trampled wheat.

From the riverside, Ragnar’s host poured in—rank upon rank of warriors in mail and furs. The remaining Frankish infantry, still fumbling to form ranks a kilometer away, saw the tide coming and faltered. Their officers waved swords and banners, shouting for order, but courage had already gone out of them.

The army of four thousand broke and began to fall back.

"Where’s Gunnar?" roared Bjorn, slamming a fist against his shield. "Get the cavalry after them!"

Ivar shot him a cold look. "The horses are half-dead, brother. Days at sea have drained them. If we push them now, they’ll founder before the chase even starts."

Bjorn grunted. "Pity. Letting them go will cost us later."

As he muttered, the Viking army regrouped. Five thousand were set to guard the riverbank; the remaining four thousand prepared to storm the wooden fort ahead.

The fortress garrison resisted with desperate valor, loosing volleys of arrows from behind the parapets. But a thousand Viking crossbows answered at close range, their bolts hissing through the air like swarms of hornets. The defenders could scarcely raise their heads without being struck.

Under that rain of iron, teams of Norse warriors rushed forward bearing ladders. Iron-clad axemen climbed first, shields over their heads. Grappling hooks clattered against timber, and within hours the first men had gained the wall.

The battle for the fort lasted till dusk. When the sun dipped, the Norse banner flew from the ramparts. Two hundred of the garrison lay dead; another two hundred surrendered and were dragged before Ragnar in chains.

That night, in the captured hall, Ragnar interrogated their commander—a weary man with ash-smeared cheeks and eyes sunken from sleeplessness.

"Why did your king know we were coming?" Ragnar demanded through the translator.

The man hesitated, then spoke in a hoarse whisper. "Since last autumn," he said, "messengers have come to Paris—Anglo men, many of them. At first the king ignored their warnings, but they were too many to dismiss. Forty or more, they say. Too many to be false."

"Forty?" Ragnar leaned forward. "Forty who betrayed us?"

The question was repeated, and the prisoner nodded miserably. "Yes, lord. Your English vassals sent word across the sea. The king spent a fortune on this chain that blocks the river. He feared you would strike as before, swift and sudden."

Ragnar sat still for a long moment, the firelight flickering against his face. One or two traitors he could understand—but forty? That was not betrayal. That was rot spreading through the bones of his realm.

He stared into the embers and saw, in his mind’s eye, the kingdom he had built—vast, glittering, yet fragile as a thatched roof riddled with cracks. A single hard gust, and the whole house might come tumbling down.

Theo Wulf, sensing the turn of Ragnar’s thoughts, blurted out a protest. "Majesty, I swear before every god I know—I have never sent a soul across the sea!"

Ragnar waved him silent, too tired even for anger. "Peace, Duke. I do not doubt you."

Theo Wulf bowed low, but relief did not reach his eyes. His reputation was foul among the lords of Mercia, and his hold over his lands weak. He had brought only a thousand men of his own—mostly from Nottingham—and controlled little beyond Oxford. The petty thanes beneath him paid him lip-service, nothing more. At the first shift of power, they would abandon him without hesitation.

"After this," Ragnar murmured inwardly, "I must turn my hand to ruling my realm, not merely conquering others."

He gestured for the interrogation to continue.

The prisoner, desperate now, poured out what little else he knew. The Franks, he said, were not united. In the south, Pepin II of Aquitaine had declared himself king, demanding equality with his uncle, Charles the Bald.

Because of this rebellion, most of the royal army was still tied down in the south.

The man’s voice broke. "Our king believed you few—four or five thousand at most. He did not expect ten thousand to cross the sea."

Ragnar leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. So the gods had granted him a sliver of advantage after all.

But as the wind rattled the shutters of the captured fort and the sounds of the wounded echoed below, he could not shake the image that had gripped him earlier—the vision of a kingdom full of cracks, trembling under its own weight.