Following their commander's banner, the Frankish cavalry surged forward in pursuit. Heavy hooves hammered the frozen earth, merging into a low thunder as if the land itself trembled.
During the charge, the commander noticed leather sacks scattered across the snow, some burning with open flame.
A flicker of confusion crossed his mind.
What is this? They'd have done better scattering caltrops.
The cavalry pressed on, galloping across the open ground littered with burning oil bags. Suddenly—
A sharp, splintering crack echoed beneath them.
Ice.
"Stop—!"
The warning never fully left his throat.
The world shattered.
The frozen surface split apart as if cleaved by an invisible axe. Cracks raced outward like a spreading web of black veins. The roar of collapsing ice swallowed every other sound.
The commander plunged downward, icy water swallowing him whole—leaving only numbing cold and endless dark.
Above, the lake became a vision of hell.
Horses screamed, scrambling across tilting ice sheets. Jagged slabs collided and overturned. Armored riders flailed helplessly in the freezing water, arms thrashing, voices begging for rescue.
"Move! Cut them off—don't let them escape!"
From the far shore, Nils ordered his men to sweep along the lake's edge. Then he stood still, watching the Frankish catastrophe unfold.
There was no wild triumph in his gaze—only something cold and distant, like the ice itself.
Archers hidden among the pines along both shores rose and drew. Arrows fell like lethal hail upon the survivors clawing at the edge of the broken ice, extinguishing the last of their hope.
After a long while, silence returned.
Crimson-tinged water lapped against drifting fragments of ice. Riderless horses wandered along the cracked edge, frost clinging to their manes.
Nils stepped forward and removed a leather flask from a saddle. As expected—beer.
He tilted it back and drank deeply.
The liquid was cold and bitter, faintly sour—yet it was the finest drink he had ever tasted. Better than Nordic mead, better than Constantinople's resin wine, better than Britannian ale or Frankish red.
Clutching the empty skin, he stared at his reflection in the broken lake, then lifted his eyes to the leaden sky.
"So this is how Vig must have felt on the Seine."
After the battle, the Vikings gathered abandoned armor and horses and recalled scattered comrades. Their numbers rose again to three thousand.
Ten miles north, Louis's remaining forces—five thousand strong—reeled from the disaster. Their proud cavalry lay shattered beneath the ice.
Rumors from fleeing soldiers inflated Viking numbers wildly—from four thousand to eight, even ten thousand.
"Impossible," Louis muttered. "Where would these barbarians find such numbers?"
Reason told him the smaller figure was true—but fear spread unchecked. Precious days were wasted as the army clustered defensively around a cramped Danish village.
Over the next three days, Louis dispersed his remaining cavalry into scouting parties, widening patrols to avoid ambush. The cautious approach slowed their retreat.
Ten miles from Hamburg, Halfdan's light troops overtook them.
Surrounded by the combined forces of Halfdan and Nils, the Frankish army suffered crushing defeat. Louis vanished—dead or missing.
The Vikings captured the East Frankish royal banner.
They pursued the routed enemy and seized Hamburg in a single, relentless push.
The victory transformed Nils's reputation.
At the celebratory feast in Hamburg, a skald bestowed upon him a new title:
"The White Raven of Gnutz."
Gnutz—the name of the frozen lake.
White Raven—from the white cloaks worn by his household guard.
"White Raven of Gnutz,
You drowned the enemy's hope in storms of arrows,
Casting their souls into the frozen gloom of Jötunheim.
The gods look upon your deeds with favor."
It was an unusual sight.
Nils sat at the high seat as lord, praised by nobles and poets alike. To his left sat King Ubbe of Denmark; to his right, King Halfdan of Sweden.
The hall roared with drunken joy. One warrior leapt upon the long table to dance. Others hurled axes at a wooden post, blades grazing the ears of captured servant girls, drawing shrieks and laughter.
Thud. Thud.
Nils rose and struck his cup against the table until silence gradually returned.
"Warriors," he declared, "I have seized more armor and weapons than my men can carry. The surplus is yours—if you follow me further. East Francia lies empty. We march along the Elbe and raid their southern lands. We will earn fortunes."
Southern Denmark lay devastated. Taxes from Schleswig were meaningless now. If wealth was to be had, it must be taken in one sweeping blow.
Two-thirds of the nobles pledged support immediately. The rest dared not appear timid and gave silent consent.
By late February, Danish nobles flocked south to join the host at Hamburg. Their motives were the same: ruined lands left them little choice but plunder.
In early March, more than two hundred longships lined the Elbe west of Hamburg. Eight thousand warriors gathered.
Nils was elected supreme commander and gave the order to advance.
A confidant stepped close.
"My lord… have you forgotten something?"
In past campaigns, Nils would bring forth the gilded seat and have the shamans conduct rites to inspire the men.
He paused, gazing at the river filled with sails.
"No," he said quietly. "That won't be necessary."
The early spring Elbe ran swift and muddy. Snow still clung to the banks. Scattered Saxon villages dotted the countryside—thatch-roofed farmhouses behind wooden fences. Farmers had already begun plowing, sowing oats and rye.
When villagers spotted the Viking fleet, they fled into the woods.
Nils ignored them.
He directed the fleet into a tributary and struck Bardowick, a Saxon trade town protected by nothing more than a crude wooden palisade.
It fell in less than half an hour.
Salt and furs filled Viking holds.
Then the fleet returned to the Elbe and pushed upstream—toward Magdeburg.
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