Vig's plan was simple.
Under cover of darkness, he would personally lead his direct troops south. At dawn the next day, Ulf and Little Pascal would openly march north along the west bank, drawing the enemy's attention.
"Remember," Vig reminded them again and again, "don't let the main force get too close to the river. We don't want them clearly counting your numbers."
After repeated instructions, Vig selected 1,500 fit infantrymen and 300 cavalry under Torgil's command, then departed the camp amid his allies' worried gazes.
The moonlight was bright. The soldiers followed closely behind him, forming a long, silent column as they crept southward.
During the two months of preparations before the campaign, Vig had ordered his men to eat herring and cod every day. Fish liver oil was rich in vitamin A and helped prevent night blindness.
Whenever pack horses, cattle, or sheep were slaughtered during the campaign, Vig always demanded the livers, reserving them exclusively for his direct troops. Occasionally, he supplemented their diet with cheese, butter, and other dairy products.
Unfortunately, carrots had not yet reached Europe. Vig had asked Berber merchants about them and offered a high price for carrot seeds. They promised to write to Arab traders in Asia—there might be news within two years.
At dawn, scouts spotted a fishing village on the east bank of the river.
Vig had been right.
The shoreline was packed with warhorses lowering their heads to drink, while a group of clumsy militia struggled to assemble a pontoon bridge.
Vig led his men into concealment within a nearby forest less than two kilometers from the river—the closest suitable hiding place.
"Let the men rest," he ordered. "At their pace, the enemy won't be ready until noon—possibly even the afternoon."
With a sip of water, Vig chewed through half a piece of hard black bread, leaned against a tree, and fell into a heavy sleep.
Some time later, rubbing his numb legs, he opened his eyes. The Franks on the opposite bank were still busy.
"Wake the men," he ordered calmly. "Have them drink water and put on their armor. The enemy will start crossing in about half an hour."
From the forest's edge, Vig watched the activity across the river. Six noble banners stood upright on the east bank, the most conspicuous being Gunnar's white banner bearing a brown bear.
As Charles the Bald's most capable vassal, Gunnar's presence could mean only one thing—the Frankish army had secured victory on the eastern front and now had the leisure to deal with the Viking force in the west.
The pontoon bridge was completed. Cavalry began leading their horses across.
Vig gathered his commanders.
"Torgil, you'll charge first with the cavalry—disrupt their formation. Then split into two groups and clear out scattered riders on the perimeter. Don't let them interfere with the pike formations."
"Viper, you command the crossbowmen. Prioritize shooting the horses on the bridge. Block it completely."
"Joren, Shrike—you each lead your pikemen. Advance at full speed and push them into the river."
With that, Vig drew Dragon's Breath. The ruby set into the hilt gleamed with a fierce crimson light.
"War has no fixed form, just as water has no constant shape. Charge—and teach these simple-minded brutes a lesson!"
Three hundred cavalry led their horses out of the forest, forming two horizontal lines on the grass and charging forward behind Torgil.
It was already afternoon. The sun hung low in the west as the Viking cavalry thundered eastward, blazing orange-red light behind them. The ground trembled.
The Frankish riders near the river scrambled to mount their horses. Before they could gain speed, Viking lances were already stabbing into their ranks.
In an instant, over a hundred Frankish cavalrymen on the outer edge were impaled. The inner riders were crushed together, surrounded by screams and the shrill neighing of horses, unable to hear any commands.
Sensing danger, the horses ignored their riders' shouts and shoved desperately toward wherever seemed safest. The Frankish cavalry dissolved into chaos.
After a brief clash, the Viking riders withdrew in good order, clearing space for the infantry.
"Form up—advance!"
Under their officers' shouts, the pikemen re-formed fifty meters from the enemy, then advanced in two dense ranks, stepping forward in unison to the cadence of commands.
Facing rows of cold, gleaming pike points, the Frankish cavalry panicked.
The pontoon bridge was now under concentrated crossbow fire. Horse carcasses clogged the bridge, making it impassable. Riders abandoned their mounts, cast off armor and weapons, and floundered into the river, swimming desperately for the east bank.
In less than ten minutes, over six hundred Frankish cavalry on the west bank were shattered:
Two hundred killed
More than three hundred fled back across the river
Over a hundred captured
The Vikings also seized four hundred warhorses and large quantities of armor.
The only regret was that Gunnar remained on the east bank. Vig neither captured him nor seized his banner.
"How many nobles among the prisoners?" Vig asked.
Shrike flipped through the roster. "All minor nobles. The highest-ranking is the Prime Minister Lambert's cousin—the second son of the Count of Montpellier. Then four barons and thirty-eight knights."
Vig said nothing more. He ordered the battlefield cleared and preparations made for immediate withdrawal.
As they were about to leave, Gunnar called out from the far bank. The two men walked more than a hundred steps downstream, out of earshot of others.
Across the wide river, Vig shouted, "How is our army faring?"
"Not well," Gunnar replied bluntly. "Ragnar was caught during a long march. We struck at the right moment. Casualties were severe—he himself was hit by multiple arrows."
Gunnar described everything truthfully. The decisive battle had occurred near Auxerre, close to where Vig had predicted.
At the height of the fighting, Ælla, the exiled prince of Northumbria, led a small group of archers and fired arrows tipped with snake venom at Ragnar. Combined with repeated Frankish cavalry charges, the Viking army finally broke and retreated.
"Ælla?" Vig frowned. "After all these years, he still clings to revenge?"
"Yes. Even I didn't expect it," Gunnar admitted. "But his position was counterattacked by Halfdan and the berserkers. Ælla took a throwing axe to the face. A dozen minor nobles around him died as well."
The memory clearly stirred something in Gunnar. He turned his gaze aside.
Vig's voice grew heavy. "Decades of brotherhood—gone just like that?"
Gunnar wiped at the corner of his eye, then lifted his chin high.
"Vig, at our age, after living through all this, brothers and women don't matter anymore. Only this crown still drives me forward—it's what reminds me I'm alive. I grieve, but I do not regret it.
"You're the same. Don't pretend you're some spotless saint. After Ragnar, only Ivar and you are truly fit to be king. Niels counts for half—his talent's lacking, but he's ruthless enough that he might carve out a future.
"The rest are nothing but mediocre fools—like fish drifting aimlessly in a river, carried forward by fate's current.
"Farewell, old friend. The road ahead will be hard. Take care of yourself."
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