After marching for more than two hours, dusk gradually fell, and Leif grew increasingly drowsy.
He scanned the column. Soldiers were yawning nonstop, many shuffling forward while leaning on their spears. The marching formation was beginning to loosen. Realizing that the men were nearing exhaustion, he ordered them to halt and rest.
They slept straight through the night.
At dawn, Leif struggled to his feet and took roll call. Because the sentries had been too fatigued during the night, more than twenty horse handlers had slipped away, causing the number of warhorses to drop once again.
"Idiots! A single warhorse is worth more than four pounds. Because of your negligence, the Marine Battalion has lost a hundred pounds' worth of spoils. That's money belonging to every man here!"
Leif searched around for a whip, intending to lash the negligent guards. At that moment, Deputy Battalion Commander Ingvarlen rushed over to stop him.
"Forget it. We'll deal with it after we get back. The men have been working nonstop for a full day and night—they could fall asleep standing. There was nothing else to be done."
"Fine. I'll deal with them later."
Suppressing his anger, Leif ordered the convoy to continue.
Around noon, he suddenly noticed flocks of birds rising from the northern forest.
Enemies?
After a brief moment of thought, he abandoned twenty of the slowest wagons and positioned them across the road as barricades. He then assigned two skilled riders to remain behind.
"If the enemy appears, set the barricade on fire immediately, then mount up and flee."
"Understood!"
An hour later, a thick column of black smoke rose behind them.
The pursuers were coming.
Panic crept into Leif's mind. The Marine Battalion was utterly exhausted—their combat strength was far below normal. They would not be able to withstand a Frankish assault.
To increase speed, he made a painful decision. He ordered the grain, smoked meat, and weapons loaded on the wagons to be dumped by the roadside and burned.
Instantly, choking black smoke billowed upward, stinging the eyes of nearby soldiers. Leif ordered the men who could ride to mount horses, while the rest crowded onto the remaining wagons, fleeing desperately toward Hamburg.
But this was only a narrow forest track—nothing like the smooth Roman-style highways back home. The convoy lurched violently over the rough ground. From time to time, wagons broke down and had to be abandoned along the roadside.
As the sun sank lower, fewer than thirty wagons remained. Order deteriorated further. The mounted soldiers in front rode faster and faster until they disappeared from sight. Meanwhile, behind them, Frankish cavalry closed in, methodically hunting the slow, lumbering wagons.
The distance between the two sides shrank steadily.
Ingvarlen felt a bitter regret.
If only I had persuaded Leif not to chase those damned warhorses.
Suddenly—
Crash!
A wagon lost control and overturned. Ingvarlen was thrown into roadside bushes, rolling more than a dozen times before everything went black.
Some time later…
"Ugh… Where am I? What happened?"
Groaning, Ingvarlen dragged himself out of the brush. Then he heard several sharp screams. Through gaps in the leaves, he saw Frankish soldiers pursuing scattered Viking survivors.
Terrified, he dropped back down, forcing himself to breathe silently.
Not far away, a knight was rummaging through loot. Soon he picked up a tin water flask. After tasting the water inside, he remarked:
"This flask is well made. The water doesn't stink—much better than leather skins."
He continued searching the bodies. Every Viking carried the same type of flask, identical in size and design. On the bottom were strange Viking letters and numbers—apparently the manufacturer's name and production date.
"Standardized armor… standardized flasks… Where does the Serpent of the North get so much money?"
The knight muttered under his breath, stuffing as many flasks as he could into his pack while his companions weren't looking.
He also discovered several small boxes. Opening one, he found sewing needles and thread. The inside of the lid had been polished smooth enough to serve as a mirror.
Staring at his faint reflection, the knight was deeply shaken.
"The Serpent of the North is this generous?"
Comparing it to his own treatment, he could not help muttering curses. He dared not insult King Charles the Bald, so he directed his anger instead at Prime Minister Lambert, several cabinet officials, and the Duke of Normandy, Gunnar.
Next, he searched the body of an officer and found a peculiar wooden box. Inside lay a thin needle mounted on a pivot. He flicked it with his finger. When released, it swung back to point in a fixed direction.
"Black magic!"
Startled, he dropped the box. Convinced the object carried a Viking curse, he hesitated, then called over his squire.
"Handle this carefully. When we return to camp, have a priest perform an exorcism."
Having shifted the risk onto his subordinate, the knight resumed looting—completely unaware that a living man lay hidden in the bushes beside him.
Time passed.
At last, under their officer's orders, the knights finished scavenging, mounted their horses, and rode off into the distance.
Once he was certain they had gone, Ingvarlen crawled out of the brush and ran desperately into the forest.
Much later, as the sun sank below the horizon, he leaned against a tree, gasping for breath. His lungs burned as if they were about to burst.
Then—
Ahead of him, a pair of dark green eyes appeared.
Cold. Predatory.
A gray wolf stepped silently from the shadows, lowering its body, muscles taut, a deep growl rumbling in its throat.
The next instant, it lunged.
Ingvarlen threw himself sideways just in time, the beast's foul breath rushing past his face.
The wolf landed, spun with terrifying speed, and leapt again—this time straight for his throat.
He had no time to dodge.
He thrust his left arm forward as a shield. The wolf's fangs struck his bracer, unable to pierce the metal. With his right hand, he drove his dagger forward with desperate force, burying the blade deep into the side of the wolf's neck.
Hot, stinking blood sprayed across his face and chest.
"You think you can eat me?!"
Using his weight, he forced the wolf to the ground and twisted the dagger violently until its whimpering finally stopped.
When the struggle ended, he collapsed onto the earth, panting.
After a while, he pulled out his compass. By the faint light of the moon, he determined his direction and began stumbling forward through the darkness until dawn.
As the morning sun rose, his run of bad luck finally seemed to end.
He stumbled upon a small stream. Dropping to his knees, he drank greedily, gulping down the icy water until his stomach was full.
Two hours later, he was discovered by a patrol from the Mountain Infantry Battalion. Supported by friendly soldiers, he was escorted safely to the rear.
East Gate of Hamburg
When Leif saw Ingvarlen alive, tears nearly filled his eyes.
It was not because of their friendship.
It was because of his future.
This entire operation had been launched without authorization. Although they had captured 270 warhorses, they had suffered 120 casualties or missing men—including his own deputy commander.
Now that Ingvarlen had returned alive and well, the burden of responsibility on Leif's shoulders was greatly reduced.
And given the immense value of the captured horses, there was a very good chance he would survive the consequences of this gamble.
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