The interrogation finished, Ragnar walked down to the riverside to clear his mind. The iron chain that barred the Seine was anchored there by massive stones, and a crowd of Vikings had gathered, debating how best to destroy it.
Before long, someone brought bundles of firewood and poured five barrels of lamp oil over the links. A torch was thrown, and the flames roared to life.
Under the searing heat, the iron began to glow red. One burly Viking swung a great axe again and again, and when he finally collapsed from exhaustion, another took his place.
By midnight, they had cut through one section of the chain. With a groan and a hiss of steam, the hundred-meter-long barrier plunged into the depths of the river—gone as if it had never been.
With the obstacle cleared, the fleet rowed upstream. By sunset on April 25th, they reached Paris.
At this time, the city stood on the Île de la Cité, an island in the middle of the Seine, linked to the north and south banks by two bridges.
On the north bank sprawled a shantytown and a temporary marketplace. On the south bank, beside the bridgehead, stood a stone monastery encircled by a wooden palisade.
Before setting out, Vig had studied a few Latin texts describing Paris.
In the Roman era, he'd learned, there had been two stone bridges. The Franks had later taken over the city but, lacking Roman engineering, had let the bridges decay; their stone decks collapsed, leaving only the piers. On those ancient foundations, Frankish builders had laid wooden planks, forming the bridges that now connected the island.
Missionary records claimed that Paris had a population of eight thousand and could muster around fifteen hundred fighting men if every adult male took up arms.
Climbing up the mainmast for a better view, Vig surveyed the island's defenses.
Because of the leak from within Britain, the Franks had ample time to prepare. Outside the old Roman stone walls, they had raised an outer palisade, its ramparts lined with archers and soldiers—more than two thousand in all.
"This complicates things," Vig muttered bitterly. "All thanks to those damned informants."
He returned to the deck, turning over strategies in his mind—only to hear a thunderous roar ahead. Thousands of voices shouted "Valhalla!" in unison.
He looked up in shock. Ragnar's flagship was surging straight toward the outer wall of the island—without warning, without coordination, launching an all-out assault.
What in Odin's name is he doing? Charging without a signal?
Vig's heart lurched. Before he could react, ten longships at the front drew close to the walls—and from within, more than thirty flaming projectiles arced into the sky.
"Catapults?" Vig gasped. "Even that was leaked to them!"
There was no time to curse. He waved two red signal flags, ordering the rest of the fleet to halt and turn downstream.
Moments later, another volley of oil-filled jars soared out, aimed squarely at Ragnar's flagship. One struck the mast dead-on. The entire sail burst into flame.
Worse still, from upstream came fire-rafts—boats packed with brushwood and tar, drifting swiftly with the current toward the fleet.
Vig shouted until his throat was raw, signaling every ship to steer toward the southern shore to avoid chaos.
"Quick! Form up on land! Don't let their cavalry catch us in the confusion!"
On the southern shallows, Vig's spearmen hastily formed two defensive lines. A few hundred meters away, Frankish cavalry lingered on the hill, hesitating to attack.
From their vantage point, the Vikings looked disorganized and vulnerable to a charge—but the cavalry commander held back. It was nearly sunset, visibility was poor, and the soft riverside ground was treacherous for horses. After some hesitation, the Franks withdrew toward their bridgehead.
Night fell. Fire-rafts still drifted down the Seine, their flames reflecting on the dark water, as if the river itself burned endlessly.
The Viking nobles gathered in a dim tent to discuss their next move.
Vig looked around, uneasy—Ragnar was nowhere to be seen.
"Where is he?" he asked, voice trembling slightly.
Bjorn, pale and weary, replied,
"The flagship took the brunt of the catapult barrage. In the chaos it drifted toward the north bank. Before the ship was fully engulfed, I saw a few figures jump into the water."
"And then?" Vig pressed.
"Five Frankish boats rowed over when they saw it run aground. A crowd of enemy soldiers chased the survivors into the marshes… and that was the last I saw."
Silence fell like a shroud. For half a minute, no one spoke. Then Ivar broke it.
"Whether Father lives or not, we must uphold our honor. Better to die fighting than be hunted down like dogs."
"He's right," said Vig. "Even if we escape back to Britain, the Angles and Saxons will sense weakness and rise in revolt. We need a decisive victory to silence them—or there will never be peace."
Gunnar nodded grimly.
"If we flee now, what will our men think? To keep our wealth and our pride, we must stand and fight."
Their determination rekindled the army's spirit. The nobles returned to their camps to count their troops—eight thousand three hundred men remained fit for battle.
The next morning, the Vikings ate until their bellies bulged, each man tucking a piece of dried bread into his tunic—experience had taught them that a battle could drag on for hours, and hunger was a cruel foe.
Following the plan made the night before, they drew up on the southern bank, learning from the Battle of Lutterworth: every lord placed spearmen in the front ranks and on the flanks to counter cavalry.
Across the river, an equal number of Franks began crossing from Île de la Cité onto the southern bridge.
From a tactical point of view, the Franks would have been wiser to stay behind their walls, letting attrition and time wear the Vikings down.
But Charles the Bald had no such luxury. Beyond the Vikings, he faced his rebellious nephew Pippin of Aquitaine in the south, and the ever-troublesome Bretons in the west.
"Foreign invaders, rebellious kin, greedy bishops, endless taxes…" he muttered, rubbing his bare scalp with a sigh. "Being king is nothing but misery."
Half an hour later, nearly a thousand Frankish horsemen emerged from the bridgehead.
To conserve their mounts' strength, they walked alongside them for two kilometers until they reached an open field opposite the Vikings, then sat down to wait for the slow, fumbling militia to form ranks—a process that, by experience, would take at least one or two hours.
As both armies waited in dull silence, a rash Frankish knight spurred his horse forward to issue a challenge.
His example sparked a series of duels between the two sides—some won by the Franks, others by the Vikings—until at last, the Frankish infantry finished forming their line.
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