At ten o'clock that morning, the weather was bright and clear, a soft breeze rippling across the wide fields by the Seine. Nearly twenty thousand men stood arrayed along the riverbank, stretching for over a kilometer from north to south. The grand sight drew many Parisians to the southern bridgehead to watch the coming clash.
On a low hill to the west, the Vikings had erected a six-meter-high wooden platform. Vig climbed up the shaky ladder, step by step, until the whole battlefield unfolded beneath him.
Commanding an army of ten thousand was no easy task. Only Vig, Ivar, and Gunnar were fit for such a responsibility. Ivar preferred to personally lead his thousand heavy infantry, while Gunnar needed to command the cavalry—leaving overall command inevitably in Vig's hands.
From his vantage point, he saw a sea of helmets and fluttering banners as far as the eye could reach. He drew several deep breaths, his chest heaving, trying and failing to calm the excitement pounding in his veins.
"I never thought I'd live to see this day…"
Across the field, the Frankish lines stood firm. A thousand cavalrymen were being redeployed toward the southern flank, where the open terrain was ideal for a massed charge.
To neutralize that most dangerous threat, Vig reached into a wicker basket, drew out two red signal flags, and waved them toward the south.
At once, two pike formations on the southern wing began to move—two dense forests of spearpoints advancing steadily toward the Frankish horsemen.
Having already suffered under Viking pikes in earlier battles, the Franks avoided direct confrontation, pulling back to the southeast to escape.
To keep his cavalry from being driven too far, Charles the Bald sent an aide galloping south with an order for the Frankish infantry to push forward.
Seeing the enemy foot soldiers advance, Vig leaned over the edge of the platform and shouted to the messengers below:
"Tell Ulf and Bjorn to move up! Crush those conscripts!"
Messengers on horseback sped off. Apart from Vig's own two pike phalanxes and the bright minds of Ivar and Gunnar, few Viking captains had mastered flag signals. For the rest, mounted couriers were the only way to pass orders.
Soon, under the banners of the River-Fish (Ulf) and the Seagull (Bjorn), fifteen hundred Vikings locked shields and marched to meet the Frankish infantry.
The battle began.
For generations, West Francia had poured its wealth into cavalry, leaving the infantry under-equipped and poorly trained. At the first clash of shields, the Frankish line buckled and fell back, to the point that Ulf and Bjorn hesitated, suspecting a trap.
After a few uncertain minutes, the fish and seagull banners moved forward again, pressing the enemy line.
On the southeastern flank, the Frankish cavalry—long retreating from the pikes—grew restless at the sight of their comrades faltering.
They had always favored simple, brutal tactics, relying on massed charges, not this slow maneuvering. Spurred on by a few reckless knights, groups of horsemen wheeled around and charged back into the fight.
As minutes passed, more and more joined them, until their commander realized too late that he had barely fifty riders left under his direct command.
"Damn it… those fools will get us all killed."
Driving their tired mounts, the Frankish cavalry tried to skirt around the Viking pike lines and strike Ulf and Bjorn's flanks—when suddenly, a roar came from the west.
"Valhalla!"
From behind the hillside, four hundred Viking cavalry emerged, banners snapping in the wind—their standard a white field with a snarling brown bear. They formed into three loose lines and thundered across the grass toward the enemy.
The drumming of hooves rolled like distant thunder across the plains.
Caught off guard, the Franks spurred their mounts to meet the charge. Swords, maces, and flails swung in the sunlight as they crashed headlong into the oncoming lances.
The distance shrank—fifty meters… thirty… ten.
At the very front, Gunnar leveled his lance, its tip quivering with the rhythm of his galloping horse.
He aimed for a knight's chest and struck just as they met—his lance pierced clean through the man's chain mail. Releasing the shaft, he drew his sword in time to parry another blow.
Steel rang on steel as horses collided and surged past each other. Gunnar twisted in the saddle, slashing backward at an enemy's exposed spine. A body fell with a heavy thud behind him, but he didn't look back—a charging rider had no past, only the path ahead.
He blocked, cut, and struck again, meeting one foe after another. His sword grew jagged with nicks. He hurled it into another knight's chest, drew a second blade, and kept fighting.
A horse lunged at him from the side; he pulled the reins hard, swerved clear, and smashed the attacker's face with his sword hilt.
The stench of iron and blood thickened. Hooves slipped on trampled grass slick with gore. After what felt like an eternity of combat, the press of bodies finally thinned—no Frankish riders stood before him.
Panting, Gunnar wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand. Ahead, the pike formations and Ulf's and Bjorn's units were advancing at full speed.
"The enemy cavalry's broken. That's sixty percent of the battle won already."
Around him, scattered Viking horsemen regrouped. Someone passed him a leather wineskin, and Gunnar gulped down half a pouch of mead. The honey-sweet warmth burned down his throat, washing away his exhaustion.
"Ahhh—perfect."
He burped contentedly, glancing toward the command platform. Up there, Vig waved one red and one white flag, the signal for the cavalry to fall back and rest—saving their strength for the decisive strike to come.
On the field below, the pike formations had spread into a long solid line, sealing off the enemy's retreat. Crossbowmen loosed volleys at the slowed Frankish riders, while spearmen advanced step by step, their cold iron points driving the frightened horses backward.
The Frankish cavalry—their main force—was trapped.
Seeing their predicament, the retreating Frankish infantry turned back west to try and rescue their knights.
As the survivors regrouped, Gunnar noticed something—the mass of enemy footmen rushing to the south had left a gap between the Frankish left wing and their center.
Thump, thump. His heart hammered in his chest. He looked once more toward the distant figure of Vig on the platform, then clenched his jaw.
"Wait for the right moment?" he muttered. "There won't ever be a better one than this."
Turning to his men, he shouted,
"I'm going through that gap! Anyone afraid to follow—step aside now!"
No one spoke.
Seeing their eyes burning with battle-lust, Gunnar drew his sword high.
"Then follow me—to the world's end!"
The wind rose suddenly, scattering grass and dust. Over two hundred riders unsheathed their blades as one.
"To the world's end!"
And with that cry echoing like thunder, they charged headlong into the rolling tide of men before them.
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