After breaking the seal, Ubbe discovered it was Nils's plea for aid. Irritation flickered across his face.
"You and Halfdan caused this disaster. Why should I bear the consequences with you?"
Back in the longhouse, Ubbe summoned five members of his council. Faced with uncertain intelligence, they advised caution.
Edmund spoke first.
"Your Majesty, a full mobilization would be costly. Better to send envoys to confirm the situation before gathering the army."
It was September—the barley harvest season. Calling up the militia would disrupt the year's yield and provoke complaints from nobles across the realm, whether old aristocrats or those newly elevated by Ubbe.
Ubbe nodded slowly.
"Who shall serve as envoy?"
Edmund volunteered. In all of Aalborg, only he and Ubbe could read Latin fluently. There was little alternative.
Ubbe quickly drafted a royal letter, sealed it with wax, and urged Edmund to return within half a month.
"As you command, Your Majesty."
Edmund set off at once with two newly recruited retainers.
Four days later, they reached southern Denmark. Along the roads, Viking peasants hurried southward, clad in worn sheepskin cloaks, round shields slung across their backs, iron axes at their waists—grumbling as they marched.
"Is Nils calling up the whole realm?" Edmund asked.
A broad-shouldered man in mail at the front nodded.
"Yes. All subordinate lords have been ordered to assemble at the Dannevirke."
By noon the next day, a seemingly endless earthen rampart rose on the horizon. Riding closer, Edmund examined the famed defensive line.
The Dannevirke consisted primarily of a two-man-high earthen embankment topped with a thick palisade. Outside lay a trench nearly as deep.
"These logs are rotting. Cut fifty new oak trunks!" a rusted-mail officer barked, overseeing hundreds of militia repairing a collapsed section—clearing the ditch, replacing timbers, reinforcing the rampart. Other sections were under similar repair.
Edmund struck up conversation, offering a flask of mead.
"How large is the enemy force, to cause such urgency?"
The officer, judging Edmund's status by his attire, softened his tone.
"More than three thousand gathered at Hamburg—and still assembling. And you are?"
"Edmund, adviser to King Ubbe. I travel to Hamburg as envoy."
For half an hour they spoke amiably. Edmund learned much about the Dannevirke's long history and current state. Then he crossed the line into German lands.
September 20.
Dust-covered and disheveled, Edmund returned to Aalborg—alone.
"My apologies, Your Majesty. We were attacked by bandits. My two attendants died protecting me."
Ubbe cared little for the attendants.
"How many Franks? What does King Louis intend?"
"When I reached Hamburg, they had gathered about seven thousand men—and over a thousand cavalry. King Louis refused to see me. But I learned that when Halfdan burned the royal estate at Kassel, among the victims was Princess Gisela, Louis's daughter. I fear this will not end lightly."
Ubbe sank back into his seat.
There was no longer a choice. He ordered a realm-wide mobilization.
But it was already too late.
The Dannevirke, Southern Denmark
Frankish scouts rode back and forth two hundred meters from the rampart, selecting five suitable battlegrounds after surveying marshes, forests, and low hills.
That afternoon, the Frankish vanguard attacked. Nils recognized their banners immediately—the Duchy of Saxony.
"Damn Halfdan. It was his madness that drove us to raid East Francia. Nothing good ever comes of following him."
Nils held a key section along the traditional trade route between Denmark and Germany—making it a primary target.
Under cover of two hundred archers, a thousand Frankish infantry advanced slowly with shields raised and planks carried to bridge the ditch. Harassed by arrows, Nils's men aimed for gaps between shields, but their effectiveness was sharply reduced.
"My lord, the front ranks wear iron armor. The arrows won't pierce them!"
After twenty volleys, fewer than a hundred Franks had fallen. Nils's arms ached from drawing and releasing his bow as the enemy reached the trench.
The ditch was under three meters wide. The Franks laid planks across it. Soon ladders rose against the palisade. Soldiers climbed under arrow fire. Brutal close combat erupted.
"Archers—draw swords! Forward!"
Nils cast aside his yew bow, seized his round shield, and charged. Fifty armored retainers followed, abandoning their bows to fight as infantry.
The Dannevirke stretched thirty kilometers. Nils commanded only 2,500 men in total; this section held fifty armored guards and 150 militia. Repelling the assault outright was impossible. His only hope was the mobile reserve.
Three hundred mounted infantry—equipped with mail and sturdy horses—served as reinforcements along the line. Seeing three columns of black smoke rise from Nils's sector, they galloped to the rescue, arriving just in time to push the Franks back down the slope.
Exhausted, Nils collapsed behind the palisade.
Of his fifty armored guards, only twenty remained. Fewer than fifty militia survived—the rest dead or fled.
"This place can't be held. That fool Ubbe—still no reinforcements. Does he think the Franks will spare him?"
That night, Nils ordered a retreat, lighting signal fires before departure.
Soon, fires blazed east and west. The Viking defenders abandoned the entire Dannevirke line. Some nobles withdrew to Schleswig; others dispersed to their own lands.
Two days later, Nils counted his remaining forces in Schleswig: 1,040 men.
He felt the urge to withdraw entirely.
"Schleswig is little more than a walled village. Losing it means nothing. Better to preserve strength and let the Franks march north—drag Ubbe into this war."
That afternoon, Nils evacuated the town's inhabitants. Leading his forces downriver by ship, he sailed for Pomerania.
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