When Baron Reed lifted the tent flap, the revelry inside was already at its peak.
He stood at the entrance in a relatively new suit of chain mail, a short sword hanging from his waist and his beard neatly trimmed.
He swept his gaze across the people gathered inside and spoke with a faint smile.
“Well, my warriors, are you ready for battle?” The tent had been pitched in the center of the camp as a temporary command post, but for now, it looked more like a banquet hall.
Several long tables requisitioned from nearby villages had been pushed together and covered with platters of sliced roast meat and two or three jugs of ale, while spilled drink and grease stained their surfaces.
A dozen or so men sat around the tables, most of them the baron’s knights, along with several squires dressed in leather armor or chain mail.
An oil lamp burned steadily in the center of the tent, casting flickering light across faces flushed from drinking.
The air was thick with the smell of ale, roasted meat, leather, and sweat.
From time to time, someone would raise a wooden cup, gulp down a mouthful, and slam it heavily against the table.
The first to respond was a middle-aged knight seated near the center of the left-hand table.
He had a broad face, an old scar across the bridge of his nose, and half of a lamb leg bone clutched in one hand, already gnawed clean.
He tossed the bone onto the table, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and spoke in a gruff voice.
“Rest assured, Baron.
We’ll chop those damned Vikings into pieces.” His words were crisp and decisive, drawing laughter from the surrounding knights and squires.
Some slapped the tables while others raised their cups and shook them in the air, their laughter echoing so loudly through the tent that even the sentry outside could not help glancing back.
They truly did not take the Vikings seriously.
Those pirates from across the sea usually arrived in a single longship with no more than a dozen men, raided a coastal village, and fled before any organized resistance could arrive.
This time, however, nearly ten knights had answered the baron’s call, each accompanied by squires and infantry.
Their combined force numbered at least a hundred men, so dealing with a small group of pirates seemed certain to end in victory.
Before the laughter had fully died down, Adrian, seated in the innermost part of the tent, raised his cup and took a sip of ale.
He did not join in the commotion, though the corners of his mouth curved into a slight smile.
He was a young man in his early twenties, not especially burly, but broad-shouldered and straight-backed.
Even while seated, there was a sense of tightly coiled strength about him.
He wore a suit of chain mail, with an arming sword hanging at his side.
The leather wrapping around the hilt was already worn and frayed from use.
Adrian had served under the baron for nearly three years, yet he remained a landless knight.
In simple terms, his status placed him above commoners, but he was still far removed from established knights who possessed their own lands and manors.
During those three years, he had followed the baron into several minor battles, helped suppress bandits twice, and escorted merchant caravans.
However, he had never earned enough merit to receive a meaningful reward.
This time, he felt that his opportunity had finally arrived.
He swallowed the ale and slowly surveyed the people inside the tent.
The knights were drinking merrily.
Two of them were already arguing over the best angle from which to sever a Viking’s head, while another loudly recounted his last battle, gesturing so wildly that his spit landed in the cup of the man sitting beside him.
Most of these knights already owned land and manors, so repelling the Vikings would simply earn them an additional reward.
Adrian was different—he owned nothing and had spent years waiting for a military achievement worthy of recognition.
If he could kill two or three Vikings, or perhaps claim the first merit of the battle, the baron might be pleased enough to grant him a piece of land.
It did not need to be large; even a single village would be enough.
Preferably, it would be a village near a river, with fertile soil, abundant water, and stable harvests.
No matter how small or poor it might be, it would finally give him a place on which to build his future.
The thought lifted his spirits.
Adrian picked up the remaining half-cup of ale and drained it in one gulp.
The liquid flowed down his throat, leaving behind the slightly bitter taste of malt.
Once he had finished, he set the cup down with satisfaction, its base striking the wooden table with a dull thud.
Outside the tent, the wind swept across the camp’s flags.
The canvas overhead billowed, causing the oil lamp’s flame to flicker.
Adrian raised his head and met the baron’s gaze.
Baron Reed gave him a slight nod but said nothing before walking over and taking the main seat.
The banquet continued, filled with laughter and the clinking of wooden cups.
Not a single person believed there would be any uncertainty in the following day’s battle.
…
The next morning, the group marched toward the coast, still laughing and joking among themselves.
Their formation stretched into a loose column, with men walking in twos and threes across the muddy ground left behind by the recently melted snow.
Their boots sank into the soft earth and came free with wet, sticky thuds.
Some continued talking and laughing, while others carried their shields on their backs and kept their hands tucked inside their sleeves for warmth.
The early spring air remained bitterly cold, and every breath formed a pale cloud before their faces.
In the distance, the baron and his mounted retainers waited on a patch of higher ground.
There were more than a dozen riders mounted on tall horses, their chain mail glinting coldly beneath the gray-white morning sky.
They held their lances upright, with small flags tied beneath the tips snapping sharply in the wind.
Adrian stood among the infantry with his chain mail covering his body and his arming sword hanging at his waist.
Beside him was his squire, a young man of seventeen or eighteen who had not yet fully grown into his frame, causing his chain mail to hang somewhat loosely from his shoulders.
Then ships appeared on the horizon.
At first, there was only a single black speck.
Then there were two, followed by three.
Soon, an entire fleet emerged.
The ships appeared one after another along the line where the sea met the sky, so densely packed that they seemed to be growing directly out of the water.
They were longships with high, curving prows carved into the shapes of indistinct beasts.
Rows of oars extended from both sides of each hull, rising and falling in perfect rhythm.
With every synchronized stroke, the fleet drew steadily closer to the shore.
There were far more ships than anyone had anticipated.
Adrian heard his squire’s breathing quicken.
The young man swallowed nervously, and although the sound was faint, Adrian heard it clearly from where he stood beside him.
The squire tightened his grip around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles turned white.
The blade shifted slightly inside its scabbard, producing a faint scrape of metal against leather.
“My lord,” he whispered, his voice trembling slightly, “with so many Vikings, can we really win?” Adrian did not look at him.
His gaze remained fixed on the dark shapes approaching across the sea.
“Don’t be afraid,” he replied, trying to keep his voice steady.
“The baron and his cavalry are waiting on the high ground.
As long as we hold the first wave, he’ll lead them downhill and charge.” The squire nodded, tightening his jaw and pressing his lips into a thin line.
He asked no further questions.
The ships continued to approach.
When they reached the shallows, the oars were pulled inside, and the hulls scraped against the gravel beneath the water.
A long, dull grinding sound rolled across the shore, like a growl forced from deep within a beast’s throat.
The first ship came to a stop, followed by the second and then the third.
Figures rose from behind the prows.
They wore heavy fur cloaks and carried axes nearly as tall as a man.
Adrian placed his hand on the hilt of his sword.
Suddenly, someone shouted from behind him, “The baron has fled!
We’ve been abandoned!” Startled, Adrian immediately turned toward the hill.
Sure enough, the cavalrymen who had been standing on the high ground were nowhere to be seen.
The place where their upright lances had once stood was now empty, with only the wind pressing the grass flat against the earth.
The dozen riders had vanished as though they had never been there at all.
Tracks from their horses stretched down the back of the hill, crossed the crest, and disappeared into the distance.
The battle line shattered instantly.
The men in front remained frozen in disbelief, while those at the rear had already begun pushing backward.
Shields slammed against shields, and shoulders collided as panic spread through the ranks.
Someone was knocked to the ground.
Before he could push himself up from the mud, several men trampled over him, drawing a muffled grunt of pain.
Iron struck iron with sharp, chaotic clangs, mixing with curses, frightened shouts, and the pounding of countless boots.
The formation that had stood ready for battle only moments earlier dissolved into a disorderly mass in the blink of an eye.
Everyone wanted to flee.
No one wanted to remain at the front.
The fur-clad figures leaped down from the prows of their ships, sending water splashing around their legs.
With their axes raised high above their heads, the Vikings charged toward the shore.