On the western side of the field, atop the central command platform—
"The infantry haven't even pressed forward yet—why is he charging so fast?"
The plan had been thrown into disarray. Rurik hurled his two signal flags back into the basket and barked fresh orders to the mounted messengers:
"Tell Ivar's unit to advance. Break the enemy's left flank at once and clear the southern line!"
"Let Lennard's and Theowulf's units continue their advance, but steadily—no reckless charges!"
"Bjorn's men have fought hard enough. Pull them back to the rear to rest!"
While Rurik scrambled to adjust his tactics, Gunnar had already smashed into the junction between the Frankish center and left wings—barely three hundred infantry hastily gathered there to meet him.
The horses' iron-shod hooves tore through the turf, churning up clouds of dust. When the great beasts crashed into the ranks, the Frankish militia went down like stalks of wheat before the scythe.
Charge. Hack. Trample.
