As Nils drew his bowstring tight, hundreds of arrows burst from the forest in a single dark wave.
"Ambush!"
The Frankish cry was instantly swallowed by the storm of shafts.
Draft horses screamed as arrows struck, bolting in madness and throwing the convoy into chaos. Wagons overturned; axles snapped with sharp cracks. Barrels tumbled into the snow, spilling liquor whose sharp scent mingled with blood in the frozen air.
"Form a shield wall!"
After losing more than a third of their number, the surviving hundred soldiers huddled into a circular shield formation. Nils showed no emotion. He continued directing volleys into the tight mass. The bowstring bit into his numbed fingers, each sting feeding his cold fury, until both quivers at his side were empty.
By then, the few surviving Franks had thrown down everything and fled like startled hares.
The Vikings rushed to strip the field—armor first, then weapons and arrows.
Soon the ground began to tremble faintly.
Unable to face cavalry, Nils reluctantly abandoned the grain sacks and draft animals, withdrawing silently into the pine forest.
The first strike was a success. Nils immediately launched further raids. To improve mobility, he equipped his men with long, curved birch skis, gliding swiftly over snow.
Louis—"the German"—sent two relief columns from Vejle to hunt him down. Both were beaten back.
At this stage, the Viking coalition numbered about five thousand, while the Franks had perhaps eight thousand effective troops left. The campaign stalled into stalemate.
February, 862
After routing another supply convoy, Nils searched the fallen and found a letter tucked into a nobleman's cloak—addressed to family in a Bavarian castle.
In halting Latin, the writer complained that only half of his extended-service pay had been delivered. The remainder had been substituted with plundered grain and furs.
Reading and rereading the letter that night, Nils sensed weakness.
If Louis could not pay his army, the Frankish host would soon withdraw.
Opportunity had come.
He sent word to Halfdan at Aarhus: dispatch reinforcements and strike during the enemy's retreat.
Schleswig lay in southern Denmark. If the Franks returned again in the future, his lands would suffer first. Only by inflicting heavy losses now could he buy years of respite.
Halfdan sent fifteen hundred men by sea to Pomerania—a mixed force of Norwegians and minor Swedish nobles.
When Nils had fled, he had brought one thousand men. Now, with Halfdan's reinforcements and fifteen hundred West Slavic auxiliaries, his strength rose to four thousand.
"Enough."
For a week, he continued harassing supply lines while tracking correspondence to predict the exact date of withdrawal.
Was it a trap?
The thought haunted him. Perhaps Louis meant to lure the Vikings into open battle.
Nils barely slept—until the Frankish host truly began marching south.
February 15
At eight in the morning, beneath a sky of heavy leaden clouds, the Frankish column crawled across the snow. It stretched for miles, cluttered with poorly built requisitioned wagons. Broken carts were frequently dragged aside and abandoned.
"How much have they plundered?" Nils muttered from a southeastern hilltop, imagining southern Denmark stripped bare for years to come.
Soon a small Frankish cavalry patrol rode up the slope to scout. Seeing only a blank expanse of snow, they relaxed, chewing salted meat.
After they galloped eastward toward distant woods, the snowfield seemed to come alive.
Two hundred archers in white cloaks rose from concealment, shaking snow from their shoulders, flexing frozen limbs.
Suddenly, screams echoed from the eastern forest—mounted scouts cut down. The ambush was exposed.
Nils sprinted to the crest and unleashed arrows.
At the same moment, a thunderous roar erupted from the woods. Over three thousand warriors surged forward like a tidal wave toward the marching column.
The assault was too sudden—too violent.
Frankish formations collapsed before they could solidify. Spearmen barely lowered their weapons before fur-clad bodies slammed into them, axes rising and falling in brutal arcs.
"Hold the line! Archers, return fire!"
A red-cloaked officer shouted from horseback, trying to rally his men.
An arrow struck his throat cleanly.
He jerked once, a wet choking sound escaping, then fell from the saddle.
With their commander dead, the two-thousand-man vanguard broke. Panic spread; soldiers fled in all directions.
"Do not pursue! Their cavalry is coming!"
Nils gathered thirty-five hundred men, sending the wounded back into forest cover. The rest did not retreat into the trees—they withdrew south along the road.
Soon enough, Frankish cavalry thundered onto the battlefield, slaughtering stragglers before reforming and charging south in pursuit.
As the tremor of hooves grew louder, Nils shouted:
"Faster! Drop the plunder! We'll reclaim it after victory!"
Some obeyed, casting aside loot to run light. Others clung to stolen armor and fell behind—soon overtaken and cut down.
Leaving the road, Nils angled southeast. Only twenty-five hundred remained with him. Some had slipped away; others had died burdened by greed.
At half past nine, Frankish cavalry crested a ridge.
Ahead lay open ground.
A cluster of fleeing light infantry surrounded a blue banner marked with three crossed arrows—Nils's personal standard.
"Charge. Kill him."
The Frankish commander tightened his reins. His horse reared and screamed, and nearly a thousand cavalrymen surged forward into the frozen plain.
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