We marched from the sea, pillaging as we went, and took up a line of defence along a hill line some 5 miles from a major city. A large river secured our left flank and the men of the Vik stretched out to our right as we waited for the Saxon force to approach. A small boggy valley with a hamlet and a small stream running through it lay before us. The Great Jarl who commanded in our area pitched his tents and had ale brought to him. I was commanded to protect his encampment as well as hold the shieldwall line. We unslung our shields and waited for the enemy with prayers to the AllFather on our lips.
The two Viking warbands deployed - me protecting the tented camp, the Lad preferring a more forward disposition in the valley so he could get to grips with the enemy quicker: he was obviously channeling the inner berzerker already.
|The Greal Jarl and his mates caroused in their tents behind us|
The Saxons advanced bravely. Some long range bow fire was exchanged and a few bodies dropped, but nothing significant.
As the fyrd advanced slowed near the old Roman ruins, the lad charged across the river. The sound of sword and axe on shield resounded in the valley and the boy was soon triumphant!
And then the well-timed advanced of the Saxon Huscarls and Cavalry impacted on my shieldwall -it held, but only just as the meat grinder began. Brutal hand to hand action in which my men were outnumbered and fighting men on horseback. They fought like lions and protected the camp, waiting for the Great Jarl to wake from his drunken stupor and led his bodyguard into action and reinforce us.
The inevitable finally happened and the viking line broke (after about 4 turns of combat though!). The Norse fell back and reformed, their line much thinner now.
|On the brightside, there was plenty of accommodation available|
Now to go bribe those healers...