The march down the slopes began under a gray, restless sky. Ahead of Rurik's column, a scattering of Anglo-Saxon fugitives broke from the thickets, their shields cast aside, their flight wild and uncoordinated.
"Hold formation," Rurik ordered sharply. "Archers only — drive them off. No one breaks ranks."
The brief clash ended as quickly as it began. The fugitives vanished into the folds of the hills, leaving behind only the smell of trampled grass and fear. Half an hour later, Rurik's men reached the foot of the main rise — a broad, sweeping hill that commanded the surrounding valleys.
He dismounted, seized a round shield from a nearby soldier, and raised his voice. "Up the slope! Keep your shields ready — we'll take the crest before they do!"
