Leaving the Saxon-held lower reaches, the fleet advanced into the middle Elbe. On the eastern bank lay the lands of the Obodrites—generally classified among the West Slavs.
For years, the Obodrites had maintained hostile relations with the Franks and usually found themselves at a disadvantage. Halfdan suggested allying with them and jointly attacking Magdeburg upstream.
"Is that necessary?" Nils replied coldly.
After seizing vast quantities of East Frankish equipment, the Vikings now possessed eighteen hundred suits of mail. Nils had little regard for these forest tribes and preferred to bypass them rather than waste time.
Sensing his authority waning within the army, Halfdan resolved to act.
That very afternoon, he personally led a small flotilla into an eastern tributary—only to walk into an ambush.
The hiss of arrows split the air from both sides of the dense pine forest. A storm of shafts fell upon the ships. Iron armor rang dully under the impact of bone-tipped arrows.
"What in Hel's name are they doing?" Halfdan crouched behind the port side, raising his shield overhead.
After a prolonged barrage, the hulls of six longships bristled with arrows. Fewer than a third of the men survived. When the Slavic archers finally tired, the survivors turned their ships and fled in humiliation.
"Your Majesty—!"
Only then did someone notice Halfdan's body pierced by five arrows. His lips trembled, but the armor had saved his life. He was hauled back to camp for treatment.
The army's shamans—imitating the methods of the Tyne Fortress clergy—washed the wounds with spirits before extracting the arrowheads and stitching the flesh. Halfdan cursed violently through the agony.
Nils arrived and asked flatly, "Did you insult their gods? Or say something foolish?"
"I hadn't even met them before they attacked! Ungrateful forest savages!"
Nils suspected Halfdan's men, wearing Frankish armor, had been mistaken for Frankish troops—but it hardly mattered now.
Covering his nose against the stench of blood and filth, Nils stepped away and muttered inwardly:
I almost miss serving under Ragnar. Compared to Ivar and Vig, today's Halfdan and Ubbe fall far short.
With Halfdan wounded, his fifteen hundred retainers remained behind to exact brutal revenge upon the Obodrite villages.
Nils had no interest in such low-profit vengeance. He led the fleet onward, arriving at Magdeburg on March 10.
Magdeburg stood on the western bank of the Elbe. Founded only half a century earlier (805 AD), it had grown into a major military stronghold and trade center in eastern Francia—and recently elevated by Rome to an episcopal seat.
"A wealthy town," Nils observed. "At least three thousand inhabitants."
He moored the fleet along the western bank, surrounding the city from south, west, and north, while sealing the upstream river route—preparing for a prolonged siege.
"Lexa, you and the Swedish lords hold the western sector."
"Ubbe, take the north."
Though Ubbe was king of Denmark and nominally Nils's overlord, Nils treated him like a subordinate without hesitation.
"Understood," Ubbe answered coolly.
Nils commanded three thousand men on the southern front. Some felled trees to build siege engines; others gathered provisions from nearby settlements.
After more than a week, preparations progressed smoothly. In his spare time, Nils went hunting, in particularly high spirits.
One night, after supper, he chose a shieldmaiden to share his bed. In her eyes, he fancied he saw a trace of Princess Eve.
Stirred by memories of youth, he decided to keep her close.
"You'll remain at my side from now on."
"As you command, my lord," she replied softly.
"My lord? Perhaps soon, you should call me Your Majesty."
Outside the camp, winter's grip had not fully loosened. A bitter wind swept through the dark pines, cutting through Frankish wool cloaks and mail.
On a frostbitten ridge, four thousand soldiers lay in wait, watching the flickering Viking campfires below.
At last, Duke of Bavaria and Crown Prince Carloman lowered his arm sharply.
"Deus adjuva!"
The cry shattered the silence. Four thousand voices echoed it in thunderous unison as they surged toward the firelit camp.
A count cautioned him, "If the western and northern camps send reinforcements, how will we respond?"
Carloman exhaled white breath.
"The western force is a patchwork of Swedish nobles—no unified command. Little threat. The northern camp belongs to King Ubbe of Denmark. They will not come."
"Why are you so certain?"
Carloman glanced northeast.
"Because he told us so. Three days ago, I 'went hunting' in the forest. In truth, I met his envoy. Ubbe fears Nils intends to usurp him. He revealed the southern camp's layout and promised not to intervene."
The southern camp descended into chaos.
Amid the screams of shieldmaidens, Nils burst from his tent bare-chested, disbelief etched across his face.
"Just one step more… and everything would have been mine. Why?"
Flames spread as scattered firebrands ignited fur tents. Smoke rolled thick across the camp, turning the night into an inferno.
After half a minute of stunned paralysis, Nils rushed back inside, donned his armor, and rallied what few bodyguards remained. He refused to retreat, holding his ground and waiting for aid from the other camps.
None came.
Viking resistance dwindled. Nils strained to see the dark northern horizon—silent and empty.
His last hope vanished.
"Retreat!"
He led a few dozen retainers through fire and shadow, parrying and striking with his sword, lungs burning in the freezing air.
At the riverbank, most longships had been set ablaze by Frankish fire arrows. On the fringes, they found a surviving vessel, shoved it into the Elbe, and rowed desperately downstream.
Behind them, dozens of Vikings were pressed against the shore. Frankish spearmen advanced in disciplined ranks.
With a final unified thrust, the last resistance collapsed.
—------------------------------
Pat reon Advance Chapters: patreon.com/YonkoSlayer