Receiving the signal, Ivar regrouped his forces, tightened the formation, and then turned north—his target: the main Frankish host commanded by Charles the Bald himself.
As the battle's central strike force, Ivar's men—one thousand mailed warriors—were the best-equipped soldiers the Vikings could field. He himself wore a leather vest set with metal plates over a full hauberk of chainmail, crowned with an iron helm. Altogether, his armor weighed nearly fifty pounds, yet he moved as though it were nothing.
Following the gray wolf banner, the armored infantry advanced with heavy, measured steps toward the Frankish shield wall. After a brief, brutal clash, the Franks began to yield ground on their own, pulling northward under the steady Viking pressure.
Ivar, true to his nature, refused to rush the breakthrough. He pressed forward methodically, driving the enemy step by step toward the riverbank.
Western flank – the command platform.
From his high perch, Vig watched the gray wolf banner pushing the enemy back. The line held firm, and progress was steady. He knew then that the battle was eighty percent won.
He waved his flags, signaling his own core troops to wheel east and cut off the Frankish retreat toward the bridgehead.
By now, Charles the Bald finally understood the trap he had walked into. The Viking "main force" to the west—so noisy, so dramatic—had been only a feint. The true killing blows were the southern heavy infantry and the eastern flanking columns closing in to encircle him.
But it was far too late. Even with insight came helplessness.
The southern front had collapsed, and of the original army, roughly six thousand men remained—mostly disorganized levies whose morale was already broken. Squeezed from the west and south, they drifted north in confusion, crowding together along the Seine like a flock of frightened sheep.
Time flowed on. Vig, calm and relentless, issued one command after another, tightening the noose around his prey.
"The formation in the southwest is thinning—send Oleg the White-Haired to replace Ulf's unit."
"Tell Nils' archers to advance behind Leonard and Theowulf. Once in range, keep up sustained arrow fire on the enemy center—no need for rapid volleys, just constant pressure to stop them from reforming."
"Orm's men are moving too fast! They're pulling ahead of Leonard—damn it, tell him to slow down!"
"Bjorn's troops have rested—move them to the southern front to guard Ivar's rear. Keep stray Frankish cavalry from harassing his line!"
By one o'clock in the afternoon, two spear-and-pike formations, escorted by five hundred light infantry, had completed their long flank maneuver. They now stood on the eastern side of the battlefield, blocking the Frankish escape to the bridgehead.
With each move falling neatly into place, Vig's pre-battle plan had reached its perfect conclusion: the Frankish main army was trapped against the Seine.
With the outcome secured, Vig sat cross-legged atop the command platform. A shield-bearer handed him a leather waterskin; he drank half, then poured the rest over his sweat-soaked face.
A cool breeze stirred his hair as he lifted his gaze to the endless white clouds drifting across a blue sky. The sun was warm and gentle upon his skin, as if he were bathing in golden light.
"War has no fixed form—like water, it takes the shape of its vessel," he murmured. "Today, I truly fought by 'adapting to the enemy's changes.'
If Gunnar or Ivar had been in command, this wouldn't have gone half as smoothly."
A deep sense of clarity came over him. He could feel his command ability rising—from now on, leading a force of ten thousand or less would no longer be beyond him.
Two o'clock.
Under a hail of arrows from three directions, the Franks launched five desperate breakout attempts, each crushed in turn. As the ring tightened, their six thousand men were pressed so close to the river that they spilled into the shallows.
Seeing their king in peril, the defenders on Île de la Cité hurried to send over thirty boats to rescue him. But the Viking longships intercepted them midstream, and the Frankish fire-ship tactics—their usual river trick—failed miserably.
After half an hour of chaos, one small, fast craft finally reached the shore. It took aboard Charles the Bald and a dozen of his nobles, wobbling dangerously as it pulled away from the bloodied bank.
"I'm the Count of Orléans's nephew's cousin!"
"Take me! I'll give you my vineyards in Bordeaux!"
"Your Majesty—will you abandon your most faithful servant of God?"
Their pleas went unanswered. The rowers heaved at the oars, driving the craft toward safety. A few desperate men clung to the sides, threatening to capsize the boat—until the captain, at the king's silent nod, drew his sword and hacked at their fingers, sending them spinning onto the deck like broken twigs.
By the time the royal craft reached the island, Charles the Bald was pale and shaking. There he was met by his equally ashen queen, Ermentrude, and her circle of noblewomen.
"Do not fear," he began weakly. "The island's defenses are strong—the barbarians cannot cross—"
But before he could finish, a noblewoman rushed forward and seized his sleeve.
"Your Majesty! Why is my son not with you?"
Her question unleashed chaos. The other women pressed in, demanding to know the fates of their sons, their husbands, their fathers, their brothers—
the guards struggled to hold them back.
Three o'clock.
With their king gone, the remaining Franks lost all will to fight. They threw down their weapons and surrendered.
The Battle of the Seine Riverbank was over.
Viking losses: 1,300 men, most of them on the southern front where Bjorn, Ulf, Gunnar, and the two pike phalanxes had paid dearly to crush the Frankish cavalry.
Frankish losses: 1,500 dead, with nearly 6,000 prisoners and several hundred routed fugitives scattered into the countryside.
After the tally, the Viking nobles held a short war council. The victory was near-perfect: the entire Frankish main force destroyed at the cost of barely a thousand lives. The decision was unanimous—
they would march on Paris, plunder it thoroughly, and then sail back to Britain.
Before sunset, the Vikings began constructing siege camps outside the southern bridgehead. The surrounding area—filled with houses and a small marketplace—made the work go swiftly.
Given his proven leadership, Vig was chosen as commander of the siege, responsible for the camp's construction and the coming assault.
The nobles dispersed—Ivar and Bjorn took several hundred picked men north to search for their father, while others went off in search of drink, women, and spoils.
As for the siege itself, Vig's first thought was encirclement.
Days earlier at Rouen, the Franks had stretched an iron chain across the Seine to block the river. When the Vikings took the southern fort, they had cut one end, causing the chain to sink into the depths.
Now Vig intended to seize Rouen's northern bank, recover the other end of that chain, haul it up, and—using longships—transport it upstream to block the Seine east of Paris.
"The Frankish main force is gone," he said.
"On Île de la Cité, only a handful of palace guards and perhaps two thousand useless militiamen remain.
If I build siege camps on both banks and raise the iron chain upstream, we can seal the river entirely— and starve this island city into submission."
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