Following their officers' orders, the Vikings unleashed a relentless barrage against the walls.
Combined, the army's archers and the ship crews numbered more than a thousand men. Because deck space was limited, some remained below deck on standby while others fired from above, rotating out once exhaustion set in.
"Loose arrows! Kill those Franks who dare fight back!"
The hum of bowstrings merged into a single roar. Arrows shot skyward like a rising storm cloud, darkening the clear sky above the river. At their peak, they seemed to hang motionless for a heartbeat before plunging downward with shrill, tearing whistles.
The first volley had barely covered the walls before a second volley was already in flight. The air filled with the continuous scream of arrows. The Frankish archers who dared return fire were quickly killed or wounded, and the defenders were forced to cower behind shattered wooden walls and shields, unable to muster the will to resist.
After firing roughly 50,000 arrows, the flagship Black Perch signaled the assault.
Twin-masted warships and knarr transports lowered their boats and followed twenty Viking longships toward the riverbank.
"Valhalla!"
As the vessels steadied, Viking soldiers leapt into the muddy shallows, water splashing high around them. Carrying long ladders, they rushed the walls. After a brief but fierce clash, the Saxon banner atop the ramparts was cut down and replaced by Britain's black dragon flag.
Moments later, the heavy wooden gates groaned open with a long, creaking wail. Leif and the Marine Battalion streamed into the town—and were met with a shocking sight.
Everywhere they looked—on the ground, on rooftops, across collapsed woodpiles, even in the bodies slumped against the walls—arrows were embedded in dense clusters. They were so numerous, so thick, they resembled reeds bursting into sudden growth at the start of summer.
"Stay alert. Form combat formations!"
Deputy Battalion Commander Ingvarlen blew his brass horn, ordering each squad into paired combat formations as they advanced cautiously down the streets.
After marching a few hundred paces, they encountered small groups of scattered defenders. Ingvarlen shouted in halting Frankish, signaling them to drop their weapons and surrender.
After a brief exchange, the prisoners identified themselves as local Saxon militia. Several days earlier, a large cavalry force had passed through the town on its way to Denmark. Alongside the royal fleur-de-lis banner, they had also carried a white flag bearing a black bear.
"White field, black bear—the intelligence was correct. That's Gunnar's banner," Ingvarlen said, nodding slowly.
Under the prisoners' guidance, they proceeded to the northern warehouses, where large quantities of grain and smoked meat were stored, along with cellars packed full of beer barrels.
Ingvarlen took out his issued tin flask, filled it to the brim with beer, and drained it in one gulp. The other soldiers followed suit, and soon the cellar filled with the rich smell of alcohol.
"Give me some," Leif said, ducking into the cellar. After tasting the local brew, he smacked his lips.
"There's a slight sourness—probably wasn't sealed properly during fermentation. Besides these supplies, what else did you find? What about the stables?"
Ingvarlen shook his head.
"The second company reported that the stables are huge, but there are only twenty-one sick warhorses and thirty draft horses."
That can't be right.
Leif ordered the translator to interrogate the prisoners again. This time, they provided a useful piece of information:
That very morning, the warhorses had been sent to the front along with a supply convoy—420 horses in total, all from military studs in West Francia.
"That many?"
Leif's interest immediately sharpened. Vig's flagship was still on the river, but there was no time to report. Instead, he dispatched messengers to inform friendly forces, then assembled his men and left Hamburg, pursuing the convoy northeast under the prisoners' guidance.
During their time stationed in Britain, the standing army's rations regularly included animal organs and carrots to improve night vision. Carrots had been introduced from West Asia. Because the king had paid heavily to purchase carrot seeds from Arab traders, the crop had been cultivated on a small scale in Britain in recent years, enriching the population's diet.
The Marine Battalion, belonging to the navy, had even greater access to fish livers and regularly conducted night-march training. Their night combat ability was excellent, and Leif was confident they could catch the convoy.
Gradually, the last traces of sunlight disappeared, and night fell.
The air carried the scent of pine resin and rotting leaves. A breeze swept through the treetops, dark green needles rippling like black tides. From time to time, the cry of an owl echoed through the forest, sending chills down the spine.
The Marines advanced in two columns along the forest path, lighting a torch at regular intervals. By the faint glow, soldiers could make out twisted roots, low-hanging branches, and slick moss beneath their boots, preventing them from losing formation.
They marched through the entire night.
At dawn, Leif counted his men: 450 at departure, now 420 remaining. Not as good as their training standards, but acceptable.
Seeing the soldiers' fatigue, he ordered a three-hour rest before resuming the pursuit.
By that afternoon, they caught up with the slow-moving supply convoy.
From a distance, the column stretched along a narrow dirt road, raising clouds of dust that obscured the exact number of wagons. Among them moved large numbers of warhorses, divided into dozens of smaller groups, each managed by a team of handlers.
"Move quickly—execute the plan!"
Leif issued the command. Two companies advanced from the forests on the left and right, closing in.
Moments later, the screams of Frankish scouts echoed through the woods—the Vikings had been detected.
Leif immediately blew his whistle. The other officers followed suit, and the forest filled with the sharp, piercing signal of a charge.
Without hesitation, the squads launched spear assaults against the nearest Frankish troops. In a single charge, they routed the panicked militia. To avoid frightening the horse herd, they refrained from using bows entirely.
"The Vikings are here—run for your lives!"
As Vikings surged in from the left, rear, and right, the horse handlers panicked. Each grabbed a horse and tried to flee.
The herd teetered on the edge of chaos.
Leif quickly ordered soldiers to restrain the animals, but the smell of blood had already agitated them. Some aggressive stallions reared and screamed, bolting wildly in whatever direction seemed safe.
As the warhorses thundered forward, Viking spearmen instinctively closed ranks, using their long spears to drive the massive animals back, forcing them to retreat step by step.
Meanwhile, under the threat of drawn bows, many handlers surrendered and helped control the horses.
After more than an hour of frantic work, Leif finally stabilized the situation.
Excluding those that escaped or were killed, the Vikings captured:
300 warhorses
130 supply wagons with matching draft horses
Large quantities of food and alcohol
Over 100 suits of chainmail
Numerous weapons
The sheer volume of loot filled him with excitement.
He ordered the convoy to turn around and head back to Hamburg along the same route.
"Based on the value of these spoils, the War Ministry will award a proportional reward after the campaign," he thought.
"Good thing I made that decision in time—this time, we've struck it rich."
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