Late October.
The sky hung low and overcast.
Cold, muddy water flowed beneath the bridge.
A courier rider arrived west of Bull Run Bridge and delivered the king's orders to Count Rikard.
"Hold until noon? Understood."
After dismissing the messenger, Rikard remained where he stood, gazing across the river toward the rolling hills of the eastern bank.
Before long, countless figures crested the hills and entered his field of view.
He sucked in a breath.
"That many cavalry?
"When we retreat later, we can't use the original route.
"We'll have to withdraw into the forest."
Bull Run Bridge was a remnant of Roman construction.
It featured a twin-arch design with classic semicircular spans.
Twenty-five meters long and six meters wide, it could accommodate two heavily loaded wagons side by side.
Following the advice of military academy graduates, Rikard had constructed simple fortifications on both banks.
On the eastern side stood crude wooden palisades with a shallow ditch outside.
The western defenses were stronger.
Besides ditches and low walls, the garrison regiment had erected rows of arrow screens along the riverbank, leaving narrow firing slits.
At nine in the morning, the Franks launched their first assault.
Crossbow bolts poured from behind the Viking barricades like swarms of locusts.
The Frankish soldiers formed shield walls and slowly advanced.
Finally, spears thrust violently through the gaps between shields toward the defenders behind the palisades.
From the openings in the barricade, Viking weapons stabbed and chopped back.
The two sides fought through the wooden barrier—thrusting, hacking, and pushing.
The struggle continued until a thunderous crash echoed across the river.
The palisade was forced down.
Frankish soldiers surged through the breach.
Swords and axes rose and fell in the cramped opening.
The Vikings retreated in disorder.
The eastern bridgehead fell rapidly.
But the bloodiest fighting had only begun.
The Franks stepped onto the bridge.
Crossbow bolts immediately rained down from the western bank.
The bridge offered no cover.
The Frankish soldiers could only hunch beneath their shields and inch forward through the storm of missiles.
Both sides packed together into a single mass.
Blades scraped across shields and armor with harsh screeching sounds.
Men screamed and tumbled from the bridge into the muddy current below.
Before departure, the military cadets had advised the count to bring extra bolts.
Rikard had fully accepted their recommendation and requisitioned four hundred light crossbows.
They were simple to operate.
During training periods, everyone had learned their use—
Including shamans serving as medics, clerks, and even horse handlers.
Now those four hundred crossbowmen occupied positions on the western bank.
Hidden behind arrow screens, they worked mechanically:
Load.
Aim.
Fire.
They inflicted severe losses on the Franks.
By ten o'clock, the Franks had crossed the bridge and assaulted the western defenses.
They shoved corpses into the ditch.
Then they brought forward sacks of earth and completely filled the shallow trench.
Rikard stood on nearby high ground and stared helplessly at the three academy graduates beside him.
"So… what now?"
No useful answer came.
At this stage, victory depended entirely on the determination of the soldiers.
Strategy had ceased to matter.
After repeated assaults, the Franks broke through the low wall.
Only one defensive line remained—
Rows of hastily built chevaux-de-frise.
Behind them, the Vikings had piled stacks of firewood.
Once they withdrew, they intended to set everything ablaze and slow pursuit.
Separated by the barricades, both sides stabbed at one another with spears.
Rikard felt strangely numb.
He regretted ever joining this brutal and bloody war.
Realizing victory seemed close, the Frankish banners descended from the hills.
A great mass of heavy infantry followed behind.
Their slow advance carried overwhelming pressure.
We can't hold.
Rikard ordered preparations to retreat.
He sighed inwardly.
"If I'd known, I should've handed off command and stayed home sleeping."
Just as the Vikings prepared to ignite the fires—
Commotion suddenly erupted among the Frankish forces on the eastern bank.
Rikard narrowed his eyes.
Chaos had broken out around the Frankish banner.
Something had happened.
Then a young soldier on the western bank raised his crossbow and shouted wildly:
"I hit him! I hit him!
"Odin blessed my shot!"
Rikard immediately called him over.
"What did you do?"
The young man stammered excitedly.
He claimed his bolt had passed through the crowd and struck directly into the Frankish commander's throat.
"He shouldn't survive."
The Frankish reaction seemed to confirm it.
Frontline troops began retreating across the bridge like receding tides.
The soldiers of the Fifth Garrison Regiment did not cheer.
They simply sat on the ground in exhausted silence.
"We…
"We won?"
Rikard stared blankly at his officers and attendants.
Someone finally answered:
"Looks that way."
Odin's favor apparently continued.
Rikard ordered wounded Frankish soldiers interrogated.
Only then did he learn—
The opposing commander had been the King of Provence.
(After Lothair's death, Middle Francia split into three kingdoms: the eldest inherited Italy, the second inherited Lotharingia, and the youngest inherited Provence.)
"Quick.
"Write to His Majesty."
Rikard was exhilarated.
Who would have thought his first battle would yield such results?
Could it be—
Was he naturally gifted at command?
News of the great victory at Bull Run Bridge reached Rennes.
Silence filled the ducal hall.
Chief of Staff Leif gripped the report tightly, his face dark.
"Uncle.
"This idiot ruined our plan."
Vig fell into thought.
Rikard had driven back the Frankish vanguard and might even have killed the King of Provence.
That meant the ambush had failed.
Two days of preparation had been wasted.
But none of this was Rikard's fault.
Vig had deliberately concealed the truth from him to prevent loose talk.
He had simply ordered him to defend the bridge.
The Fifth Garrison Regiment had completed its mission perfectly.
There was no justification for blaming him.
Vig took Rikard's report and repeatedly read the testimonies of captured soldiers.
Eventually, he adjusted his deployment.
Two mountain infantry battalions were sent into the eastern hills beyond Bull Run River to gather more information.
At the same time, he ordered two of Utgard's infantry regiments to approach a village occupied by Frankish troops and test their response.
October 18th.
Large-scale scouting battles erupted across the northern front.
Inside the forests, Frankish scouts performed poorly against the coordinated Mandarin Duck squads equipped with light brigandine armor.
More than one hundred Frankish soldiers were captured.
Leif and his staff carefully sifted through reports from every unit.
They discarded the more absurd claims and added new markings to the map.
By now, Vig had roughly identified Charles the Bald's position—
Northeast of Rennes.
About one and a half to two days' march away.
And the sixty-thousand-strong Frankish army was not concentrated in one place.
Charles likely had only twenty to thirty thousand men nearby.
Their earlier estimate had been correct.
The Frankish main effort truly lay in the north—
Capture Saint-Malo.
Advance west.
Cut off the Viking retreat.
But after the Battle of Bull Run Bridge and the suspected death of the King of Provence, Vig judged that the Franks might suspend operations against Saint-Malo—
Or even retreat toward Laval.
Gradually, a bold idea formed in his mind.
Intercept Charles the Bald.
End this war quickly.
At dawn on October 19th, Vig led his army out of Rennes.
He linked up with Utgard's force along the way.
Combined strength:
Thirty-one thousand troops.
Shrike's nine thousand men were still marching and expected to join by noon the next day.
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