3:30 p.m.
With reinforcements arriving, Ivar's tactics grew even more ruthless. He organized three fearless assault teams and hurled them in rotation against weak points in the Frankish line, intent on cleaving the seven-thousand-man force in two.
While launching these brutal frontal attacks, Ivar sent the rest of his troops on a wide northern flanking maneuver. The enemy's front was completely tied down, leaving them no room to stop it.
Gazing across the vast battlefield, he murmured to himself:
"Half an hour to complete the flanking move, another half-hour to crush them completely.
Vig—you just have to hold out for one hour."
Southern Front
Upon receiving word that the main force had moved north, Vig deliberately slowed his advance. He withdrew the southernmost Swedish light infantry, then ordered his troops to form pike formations.
Two pike blocks were arrayed north and south, a hundred meters apart, with a mass of mixed infantry filling the center—an intentionally passive, defensive posture.
Seeing the Vikings pull back, the Frankish commander finally breathed a sigh of relief. But before he could feel any joy, a royal guard burst out from the town, ordering him to smash the Viking front immediately and then swing around to cut off Ragnar's rear.
"What? You want conscripted militia to attack head-on?"
The commander was furious, but he had no choice. He ordered his men to go on the offensive and form shield walls to crash into the Viking line.
The sun baked the rain-soaked ground. Mud swallowed ankles, and every step felt as if the earth itself were biting down on the soldiers' cloth shoes. A faint breeze carried the damp, moldy stench of decay.
After enduring over a dozen volleys of arrows, the Frankish shield wall collided with the Viking pikes. The first rank of Vikings leveled their weapons and thrust forward—iron spearheads smashing against shields with dull, wood-chopping thuds.
The shield wall pushed on through casualties. Then the second rank of pikes joined the attack. At the officers' shouts, the soldiers thrust and withdrew in rhythm.
"Thrust! Thrust! Thrust!"
Each roar was matched by a synchronized lunge. Frankish casualties surged. Their once-solid formation began to buckle. Some turned to flee, only to be run through from behind.
Seeing the enemy wavering, Vig—mounted—raised his left hand. Leif immediately lifted the horn and blew with all his strength.
Woooo—
At the signal, the pike blocks surged forward. Spearheads rose and fell in unison. Rear ranks stepped into their comrades' footprints, boots grinding through blood-soaked mud. When enemy banners began retreating, the Vikings let out a deep collective roar and accelerated.
Discarded round shields and fallen bodies paved the ground. The few remaining shieldmen were driven back by relentless thrusts, finally throwing down their weapons and staggering away.
Command Change
As the Frankish commander tried to organize a second assault, a noble suddenly burst out from Béthune's southern gate and shouted:
"By order of the king—you are relieved of command. I am taking over!"
You filthy Viking barbarian—how dare you take my command?
The deposed officer cursed inwardly, staring at Gunnar as if to carve his image into memory, then left without a word.
Taking command, Gunnar did not rush to attack. With a small escort, he advanced to within two hundred meters of the pike formations and studied the Viking line carefully.
"Where did Vig learn formations like this?" he muttered.
"It's like a hedgehog bristling with iron spines—there's no way to bite into it."
He keenly felt how troublesome his old comrade was—more so even than Ivar. At least Ivar's tactics were predictable, merely difficult to counter.
"This is far worse."
After a long moment, Gunnar heard horns sounding from Béthune's southern wall, urging him to attack immediately.
Left with no choice, he returned to his ranks and—acting as Duke of Normandy and field commander—forcefully assembled five hundred mail-armored knights, ordering them to fight on foot as the vanguard and tear open the Viking line.
Second Assault
As the Franks reorganized, Vig used the brief respite to rotate his exhausted units, pulling back battered companies and pushing fresher pikemen to the front.
Moments later, the second assault came crashing in. This time, the Franks abandoned a broad advance and focused everything on the southern pike block. Five hundred well-equipped knights led the charge, followed by masses of conscripted militia.
"Vive la Charlemagne!"
The knights formed a shield wall to absorb arrows. As the distance closed, they howled and surged forward. The leading knights were impaled by iron pikes, but more shields wedged between spear shafts. Swords flashed silver, chopping through wooden poles.
Disarmed pikemen drew short axes and smashed them down on iron helms, roaring in fury.
In the chaos, men slipped and fell, grappling in the filthy mud. Vikings hacked with axes; Frankish knights drew daggers. With iron armor common on both sides, they clawed for weak points. As bloodlust rose, the fighting degenerated into biting, choking, and brawling like street thugs.
The southernmost sector fell into a brutal melee. Vig ordered two thousand rested allied troops to strike from the flank, easing pressure on the pike block.
After more than ten minutes, the exhausted mail-clad knights withdrew. Gunnar sent militia forward to replace them—but their combat strength was pitiful. They became entangled with Ulf, young Pascal, and the Swedish nobles' troops, unable to concentrate on breaking the pikes.
Time dragged on. Frankish morale continued to collapse. The second assault was forced to halt.
"Damn it—this battle is impossible."
Gunnar reorganized his men, barely persuading them to try once more—when thunderous shouts erupted from the north.
Turning toward the noise, he saw the royal banner on the walls retreating, as if preparing to flee.
"The northern line collapsed? Useless trash."
He hesitated no longer, leading more than six thousand men in a southern retreat.
Vig's soldiers were utterly spent. They could not pursue. They sank into the soft, filthy mud, watching the Frankish army fade away.
After drinking half a skin of water, Vig patiently explained to his nephew:
"…All told, there wasn't much finesse in this battle.
It was like a street brawl—everyone charging in blindly until one side broke."
Aftermath
That night, the commanders occupied Béthune and tallied losses. Viking casualties totaled only two thousand.
Frankish losses were impossible to calculate. Beyond the dead and wounded, two thousand sick soldiers left behind in Béthune surrendered en masse, along with large numbers of deserters.
As for spoils, the Vikings captured over seventy nobles, including the Count of Orléans, and seized 1,300 warhorses that could not be evacuated in time. Exposed to rain, the horses were in poor condition and had to be shipped back to Britain for long-term recovery, rendering them useless for the current campaign.
Afterward, the Viking army dispersed into nearby villages and manors. The warriors lacked the strength even to build camps, let alone pursue the fleeing enemy, and rested for more than a week.
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