June 5
Carloman and Charles the Fat once again crossed the Danevirke defensive line. As early as the previous month, when Gunnar had passed through this area, he had ordered the palisade-style walls burned. Now the once-formidable defense had been reduced to nothing more than a low earthen ridge, stripped of any real protective value.
Time was short. The two brothers abandoned any ambition of capturing towns and focused solely on reaching Aalborg in northern Denmark.
At this moment, the main force of the Nordic coalition was stationed in Vejle. Over recent weeks, reinforcements had poured in continuously. The coalition now numbered more than ten thousand men. After accounting for garrisons left behind in various settlements, they could still field over seven thousand troops.
Upon receiving news of the approaching enemy, Favell proposed immediate battle.
"Their numbers are under five thousand. This fight is winnable."
Comparing the two sides, the nobles' morale surged. Most feared Gunnar, the ruthless commander—but they had little respect for Carloman or Charles the Fat.
They had heard that when facing equal numbers, the two had been routed by Vig in less than an hour—proof, in their eyes, that both men were utterly incompetent.
"Less than an hour? That sounds exaggerated. I never heard Vig say that."
Little Erik urged calm, with Halfdan and Leksar supporting him. All three, to varying degrees, understood the gap between themselves and Vig. The coalition lacked the discipline and coordination to replicate his earlier victories. One mistake could lead to disaster. Better to remain in Vejle and wait.
The debate dragged on for several minutes before a voice suddenly rang out from the crowd:
"You hold the advantage in numbers, yet the sons of Ragnar still shrink from battle. Have you forgotten your fathers' glory?"
At the mention of his father's name, Halfdan's eyes turned bloodshot. His hand went instinctively to the axe at his waist—but he could not locate the speaker. A sudden wave of helplessness washed over him.
"Fine. If you insist on fighting, count me in."
Relying on the prestige left by his father, Halfdan was chosen as commander of the coalition. As he surveyed the nobles gathered around the long table, raising cups in celebration, he felt no excitement—only a deep, quiet sorrow.
In my father's day, he thought, there were my elder brothers, Vig, Gunnar, Nils, Om… Oleg the White-haired. That was how great deeds were forged.
And what do I have now?
A pack of fools.
A glorious victory seemed unlikely. Even if Odin favored them, he suspected the best he could hope for was a minor success.
Two days later, the coalition marched out of Vejle and formed ranks at a three-way crossroads ten miles to the west, waiting for the Franks.
At ten in the morning, scattered Frankish cavalry appeared in the south, circling to scout the Viking formation. Little Erik dispatched riders to drive them off.
Soon afterward, a vast cloud of dust rose at the end of the road. More Frankish troops came into view. Halfdan counted roughly—the numbers matched the scouts' reports. The enemy had many supply wagons, but excluding drivers and servants, their combat force totaled only about 4,000 to 4,300 men.
The armies formed their lines.
The Frankish shield wall advanced slowly forward. Viking archers loosed five volleys of arrows in succession, causing little damage before temporarily ceasing fire.
"Send the order—Favell and the others are to advance. Also—"
Halfdan dispatched mounted messengers. The coalition's organization was too chaotic for flag signals to be effective, and most nobles were illiterate. Verbal commands were the only reliable method.
Soon the two shield walls collided.
The Franks had committed only two thousand infantry to the front line. Their formation was thinner, but more than half wore armor. Despite being outnumbered two to one, they fought the Vikings to a standstill.
After some time, Charles the Fat noticed signs of weakness forming in the Viking line on the eastern flank and prepared to send in his cavalry—but Carloman stopped him.
"Not yet. Let the archers weaken them first."
Frankish arrows poured down like a storm onto the Viking shield wall. Halfdan ordered his own archers to return fire. The exchange lasted two or three minutes—then the Viking volleys suddenly stopped.
Halfdan frowned.
"Who ordered them to cease?"
Little Erik answered calmly.
"I did. We've already used about twenty-five thousand arrows. Only half remain. If you spend them all now, what will we use later?"
Halfdan's anger shifted to shock.
"How did we use so many so quickly?"
In Nordic markets, a single standard arrow cost about one penny. Twenty-five thousand arrows equaled roughly one hundred pounds of silver—the entire annual surplus of his treasury.
The coalition had a total stockpile of eighty thousand arrows.
Forty thousand had been provided as a friendly subsidy from Vig
The remaining forty thousand were cobbled together from various nobles
The nobles' arrows were of poor quality—defective iron heads, warped shafts, badly fletched feathers. After inspection, Little Erik had selected only ten thousand that were barely acceptable and distributed the remaining thirty thousand to local garrisons.
Observing the equipment gap between the two armies, he felt a growing sense of despair.
"Cavalry, armor, arrows—we're inferior in every category. I don't know where these nobles get their confidence."
Under pressure from both enemy archers and infantry, the Viking left flank gradually fell back, creating a dangerous gap between it and the center.
Sensing the opportunity, Carloman exhaled in relief and told Charles the Fat:
"Your cavalry can advance now."
Moments later, a massive opening appeared in the Frankish shield wall. The impatient Swabian knights charged forward, crashing directly into the junction between the Viking left flank and center.
As expected, more than five hundred cavalry smashed through the defenders. Fueled by the scent of blood, their excitement grew. Shouting battle cries, they plunged deeper into the enemy ranks.
But what awaited them ahead was no longer ordinary infantry.
Instead, they faced elite troops—all clad in iron armor.
At the same time, Viking forces from both flanks closed in. They too wore armor.
It had been a trap.
Halfdan had deliberately left the gap to lure in the cavalry—hoping to annihilate them in one decisive blow.
"Deus adjuva!"
(God help us!)
The Frankish knights were already in a frenzy. Unlike timid peasants, they grew more ferocious when confronted by strong opponents.
They kept charging.
Some horses were skewered by spears and collapsed. The riders scrambled to their feet, drawing swords or flails and hurling themselves back into the fight.
Through sheer ferocity, they broke through Halfdan's carefully prepared ambush and continued pushing toward the banner bearing the image of the charred oak tree.
At the center of the line, Halfdan stared in disbelief.
"This… this is madness."
These armored Viking warriors included:
Halfdan's own bodyguard, the bear-skin berserkers
Little Erik's royal guards
Elite shield-bearers from other noble houses
They represented the finest troops in the coalition.
After a stunned moment, Halfdan hastily dispatched messengers, sending several hundred nearby infantry to reinforce the line. At last, they managed to hold back the exhausted but relentless knights.
"Now is the moment."
With the Viking formation thoroughly disrupted, Carloman committed his own cavalry.
In the previous battle against Vig, many experienced Bavarian knights had died. Their places had been taken by younger brothers and sons—less capable replacements, but still serviceable.
Following their commander's banner, more than four hundred cavalry rode around the front of the battlefield and slammed into the weakened Viking right flank.
At this point, Halfdan had only:
about 1,000 militia
200 cavalry
The militia were unreliable. He turned to Little Erik, who sighed heavily.
"Very well. I'll send them to hold the enemy."
After years of frugal savings, Little Erik had painstakingly assembled this cavalry force—purchasing horses from every possible source and granting fertile estates to newly appointed knights.
Now, in his eyes filled with resignation, the Norwegian cavalry charged the fierce Bavarian riders.
The collision was devastating.
Dozens died instantly—some impaled by lances, others thrown from their saddles and trampled beneath pounding hooves.
The enemy cavalry became entangled, their speed greatly reduced. Halfdan quickly ordered the remaining militia forward, hoping sheer numbers could overwhelm them.
They managed to withstand two cavalry assaults.
But before Halfdan could catch his breath, Carloman committed his remaining six hundred heavy infantry, focusing their attack on the Viking right flank until it finally collapsed.
"Whew. That took some effort, but we've dealt with these barbarians. Easier than last time."
With the right wing shattered, Halfdan struggled to pull his forces into a tighter formation.
He felt like the captain of a leaking ship—desperately plugging holes, yet unable to stop the inevitable sinking.
Meanwhile, one thousand archers fired their final arrows. Rubbing their aching arms, they rested for less than five minutes before Halfdan's messengers arrived again, ordering them to pick up shields and axes and reinforce the collapsing flank.
"Idiot!"
"Halfdan doesn't know how to command a battle!"
Grumbling angrily, the archers set aside their bows and joined the brutal close combat.
By 1:00 p.m., the Nordic coalition had contracted from a broad battle line into a defensive circle.
Morale fell past a critical threshold.
Then the collapse spread like wildfire.
Halfdan seemed to have expected it. He gathered the remnants of his forces—along with Little Erik and Leksar—and retreated eastward toward Vejle.
The Frankish cavalry, exhausted, lacked the strength to pursue this still-dangerous core force. Instead, they focused on hunting down smaller groups of fleeing soldiers.
By 4:00 p.m., survivors began straggling back into Vejle.
At dusk, Halfdan counted the losses.
More than three thousand men were gone.
After this crushing defeat, the coalition lost the ability to fight in open battle.
Nothing now stood in the way of the Frankish army marching north to rescue the remaining forces trapped in Aalborg.
—------------------------------
Pat reon Advance Chapters: patreon.com/YonkoSlayer