Western flank, Viking central command platform.
"The infantry's main force hasn't even pressed in yet—what the hell is he charging for?"
The plan was in shambles. Vig threw his two signal flags back into the wicker basket and barked a flurry of orders to the mounted messengers below.
"Tell Ivar's unit to advance—break through their left flank and clear the southern line!"
"Leonard's and Theowulf's troops—keep pushing, but steady! Don't get overextended!"
"Bjorn's men have fought hard enough—pull them back to the rear to rest!"
While Vig scrambled to adjust his tactics, Gunnar had already smashed into the junction between the Frankish center and left wing, where only a few hundred footmen had managed to form ranks in time.
Iron-shod hooves tore across the grass, flinging up clouds of dust. When the great warhorses crashed into the clustered infantry, the Frankish militia fell like stalks of grain before the scythe.
Trampling, hacking, crushing—against these crazed Northmen (as the Franks called them, "Normans", meaning "men from the north"), the rear ranks broke in terror. It was as if demons from Hel itself had ridden out of the shadows.
Panic spread like fire through dry straw. One blond-haired youth flung away his rusted axe and shield, shoving past his comrades in a desperate bid to flee. The line ruptured from that single tear.
"Forget them! Keep charging!"
Abandoning the worthless militia, Gunnar spurred his horse on, eyes locked on the royal banner—a blue field emblazoned with golden fleurs-de-lis. Beneath it stood a young man wearing a crown, his face pale with fear.
But he was too late. Loyal Frankish guards surged inward, forming a desperate barrier that cut off Gunnar's two hundred horsemen.
His stallion screamed, rearing at the sight of a dense hedge of spears. Gunnar nearly lost his seat. Cursing, he wheeled away, leading what remained of his men eastward—through a thin spot in the line until they burst out into open country.
Now, no enemy blocked the path. Only scattered farm cottages dotted the fields ahead, and farther still lay the southern bridgehead of the Seine, where crowds of onlookers stood behind the parapets, watching the battle unfold.
"My lord—Frankish riders coming up behind us!"
Gunnar turned and saw a mass of disorganized horsemen giving chase. He looked left and right—only twenty riders still remained from the two hundred who had followed him through the lines.
Outnumbered and out of options, he planned to swing wide, lose his pursuers, and rejoin the main Viking host to the west.
But after a few hundred meters, he began to lag behind. Glancing down, he saw the gash torn in his mount's right foreleg—blood streaming freely down its flank.
Moments later, the horse collapsed beneath him with a crash. Gunnar rolled over the grass, dazed, and looked up just in time to see seven Frankish knights racing toward him.
Snatching up his longsword, he sprinted north toward the river. From the bridgehead, townsfolk watching the fight burst into cheers and laughter at the sight of the "barbarian" fleeing for his life.
"The Seine's too wide to cross," someone jeered. "And our ships patrol the water—does he think he can swim to the other side?"
At the top of a watchtower, Queen Ermentrude, surrounded by her ladies, laughed aloud at the sight of the muddy, desperate northerner. Her laughter was infectious; the noblewomen joined in, their mirth echoing over the water.
But their amusement faltered when Gunnar suddenly stopped in the shallows, turning to face his pursuers.
"Has he gone mad?" the queen frowned.
Her younger brother, William, heir to the Count of Orléans, spoke calmly:
"No. Horses fear water—they can't charge in the shallows. He's chosen the one place where cavalry lose their strength. He means to die fighting."
His words proved prophetic. The leading Frankish rider splashed into the knee-deep current, his horse slipping and stamping in agitation.
A flash of motion—Gunnar hurled a river stone, striking the water in front of the beast. It reared in panic. Seizing the instant, Gunnar lunged forward and slashed its belly open.
Horse and rider tumbled into the stream. Gunnar brought down his sword pommel like a hammer, crushing the man's helmeted skull, then slit his throat cleanly.
He snatched up the fallen knight's shield and met the next attacker head-on, feinting before driving his blade into the man's side.
Two kills. Then a third. A fourth. The water churned red around him.
The last three knights dismounted, trying to fight on foot across the slippery stones. One died almost instantly; the other two broke and fled, terrified by the blood-soaked devil who refused to fall.
Exhausted, Gunnar sank to his knees in the shallow current, gasping for breath. His sword lay dull and notched beside him, the edge jagged like a saw. He tore a strip from a dead knight's silk surcoat to bind his wound, watching the bright red blood swirl, fade, and vanish into the river.
After a few minutes, more than twenty of his riders galloped back to retrieve him.
Pushing away the hands that reached to steady him, Gunnar mounted a fresh horse, seized his brown bear banner, and rode forward—stopping seventy paces short of the bridgehead's walls.
He thrust the banner deep into the earth and roared up at the battlements:
"Gunnar of Swordbridge is here! Who dares face me?"
"Gunnar is here! Who dares face him!" his men echoed.
On the watchtower, the nobles couldn't understand his Norse tongue, but his meaning was obvious—he was challenging them to single combat.
"Let me ride out and kill him," William said eagerly.
But his sister seized his wrist.
"Too many knights have already died by that man's hand. You're still young—you will not go."
The queen turned to a royal guard.
"Fetch Sir Maurice de Montpellier—he should have recovered by now."
The guard galloped off toward Île de la Cité, but returned minutes later, pale-faced.
"Your Majesty, Sir Maurice's fever still hasn't broken. He cannot even stand."
Fearing her brother's recklessness, the queen hardened her heart and shouted to the archers:
"In the Queen's name—shoot that Norman dog dead!"
Arrows hissed from the battlements. Gunnar retreated thirty paces, cursing them furiously in Norse.
For three solid minutes he stood there, bellowing every insult he could think of—until it struck him that none of them understood a word.
He stopped mid-curse, sighed, and stalked off southward, muttering to himself.
"I really ought to spend some time learning foreign tongues. What's the point of raging at cowards if they can't even understand you?"
Back on the main battlefield.
Gunnar's daring charge toward Charles the Bald's banner had thrown the entire Frankish army into chaos. Their lines disintegrated as unit after unit rushed off to protect the king.
Seizing the moment, Ivar led his thousand heavy infantry in a full assault. Supported by nearby Viking formations, they smashed through the southern Frankish flank with ease.
"Pathetic," Ivar muttered. "They can't even compare to the Anglo-Saxon heavy infantry."
With the first phase of the battle achieved, he looked westward to the command platform. There stood Vig, waving his flags in the air—his signals unmistakable:
"Reform the lines. Face north. Prepare to strike the enemy center."
~~--------------------------
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