"These ranger cavalry are impossible to deal with. They're like a swarm of flies. The moment you try to swat them away, they scatter. The instant you let your guard down, they gather again and start buzzing around you."
Recently, Gunnar had been tormented by the ranger cavalry.
They were born scouts, even more capable than the tribal light cavalry of the Moors.
Riding to a nearby hill, Gunnar reined in his restless horse and surveyed his army.
The sun hung high overhead.
Countless soldiers trudged along winding dirt roads. The grass beside the road had been trampled flat. From a distance, the vanguard had already disappeared beyond the horizon, while the rear of the column was still winding through rolling hills.
Gunnar sighed inwardly.
"A mess. What a complete mess."
Many militia wore rough homespun clothing and carried farm tools brought from home—chipped sickles, rusted pitchforks, and other improvised weapons.
Heavy bundles bent their backs.
Their pace was slow and disorderly.
Mounted officers rode up and down the column shouting commands, but the entire army resembled a wounded python painfully dragging itself forward beneath the summer sun.
The southern army numbered thirty thousand men.
More than half were poorly trained militia, severely reducing their marching speed.
They could only manage thirteen miles a day (about twenty kilometers).
The Vikings averaged twenty miles (about thirty kilometers).
At this rate, it was only a matter of time before the enemy cut them off.
That afternoon, Gunnar received another report.
Twenty scouting engagements had taken place that day alone.
Losses totaled two hundred and thirty cavalrymen.
Clearly, the Vikings had intensified their search efforts.
They were closing in.
Inside the command tent, Gunnar and his commanders stared at one another in silence.
No one spoke.
Eventually, Gunnar made a difficult decision.
Abandon the lesser to save the greater.
Part of the militia would continue marching along the original route.
Meanwhile, the main force of the southern army would turn southeast, make a wide detour to evade Viking scouts, and then race northward to join Charles the Bald as quickly as possible.
An Italian noble asked,
"Which force do you intend to leave behind?"
Gunnar pointed at a spot on the map.
"Naturally, the slowest one."
Then he added firmly,
"The task isn't difficult."
"Once the army splits tomorrow, all they need to do is reach this town and defend it behind the palisade."
"Vig won't waste time attacking them."
July 11, 5:00 PM
After fierce fighting, the 4th Ranger Battalion broke through Frankish cavalry screens and reached the outskirts of a town.
"Finally."
Acting Battalion Commander Hafrun studied the settlement before him.
It possessed a palisade and ditch.
Numerous tents stood outside the walls.
Smoke rose from many cooking fires.
Smoke?
Hafrun rubbed his eyes.
His mood immediately sank.
If thirty thousand men were stationed here, there would be far more tents and far more smoke.
The Viking army was currently marching at top speed.
Growing increasingly anxious, he dispatched his rangers in every direction.
By sunset, one patrol discovered extensive wagon tracks at a crossroads thirteen miles to the south.
It appeared the main southern army had gone another way.
Late that night, the exhausted Hafrun returned to camp and submitted his report.
"Your Majesty, Gunnar fooled us."
"He left several thousand men behind as bait in the target town."
"The main army marched off in this direction."
After hearing the report, Vig took out a ruler and compass and traced the likely routes on the map.
Soon he selected a new objective.
Then he ordered Leif and the other staff officers to begin planning a new march.
July 12, Afternoon
The 2nd Ranger Battalion located the Frankish camp.
Only four thousand militia and a large supply train remained.
The main southern army had vanished once again.
As more militia were abandoned, Gunnar's marching speed steadily improved.
The southern army had covered roughly fifteen miles that day.
The price was steep.
Before fighting a single battle, its strength had already shrunk by over eight thousand men.
After some thought, Vig predicted that the three armies would eventually meet on the Rhek Plains.
He summoned Hafrun.
"Take your ranger battalion and move ahead."
"Occupy the hills west of the Rhek Plains."
"Yes, Your Majesty!"
Hafrun gathered his officers.
Each man was ordered to carry an entrenching shovel and sufficient rations.
Before sunset, the battalion departed camp and galloped northward.
As time passed, the last traces of sunlight disappeared below the horizon.
The rangers slowed their pace to prevent their horses from stumbling in the darkness.
The lead officers lit torches and navigated by the stars and compass.
The riders swayed gently with the rhythm of their horses.
Some nodded off in the saddle.
Their heads drooped before they suddenly jerked awake, staring blankly across the endless plains.
Near midnight, Hafrun ordered a halt.
The riders dismounted one after another.
The faint clatter of tack sounded unusually loud in the night's silence.
Freed from their saddles, the steppe horses snorted tiredly and immediately lowered their heads to devour grass.
Apart from a few unfortunate sentries, everyone collapsed where they stood and slept until dawn brightened the eastern sky.
"Up! Stop sleeping!"
Officers shouted men awake.
The riders saddled their horses and continued northward.
Along the way they crossed a stream.
The steppe horses eagerly lowered their heads and drank deeply from the cold water.
Refreshed, their pace noticeably improved.
Ignoring the scattered civilians encountered on the road, Hafrun finally reached the western hills overlooking the Rhek Plains at around two in the afternoon.
The surrounding terrain was flat and covered with tall grass.
In the distance flowed the Marien River, running northeast to southwest.
Its riverbed was broad, but the water was shallow—barely reaching a man's calves.
After scouting the area, Hafrun learned that the ford stretched nearly three kilometers.
It was the only crossing nearby suitable for a large army.
"His Majesty was right."
"If Gunnar wants to continue north, he has to come this way."
Hafrun wrote a brief coded report and sent a messenger to deliver it to the king.
Not long afterward, more than a dozen black specks appeared in the north.
They circled the hills at a distance before quickly withdrawing.
Hafrun's expression changed.
"Not good."
"The enemy is almost here too!"
He immediately ordered his men to begin cutting down the small woodland at the base of the hill.
Branches and logs were dragged upslope and stacked into a crude defensive wall.
As sunset approached, more than two hundred Frankish cavalry arrived.
After briefly adjusting their formation, they leveled their lances and thundered toward the hill.
The rangers did not charge to meet them.
Instead, they sheltered behind the barricade and concentrated their arrows on the Frankish horses.
Seeing this, the Frankish cavalry dismounted.
Carrying shields and swords, they stormed uphill and launched a fierce assault against the rangers.
The rangers' sabers were designed primarily for slashing and lacked armor-piercing power.
Forced into close combat, many grabbed their entrenching shovels and swung them at enemy helmets.
Surprisingly, the improvised weapons worked quite well.
In less than ten minutes, the Frankish attack was repulsed.
Watching the enemy withdraw, Hafrun ordered every fit soldier back to work cutting timber.
The next assault would come soon enough.
—------------------------------
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