113.
113.
A bit too low to be called a mountain, a bit too high to be called a hill.
The fortress of Cynwit sat in such an ambiguous position.
Though its geopolitical position was ambiguous, it commanded an excellent view of the northern sea of Devon, and the fortress built here long ago by the proud Saxon ancestors still served its function.
Oda, who had occupied and fortified this place, felt confident.
'We can hold them here!'
Yet this thought shifted slightly when the barbarians, having finished their cautious landing and formed their ranks, did not immediately charge.
'If we stay here, we'll die of thirst!'
As it turned out, this hill fortress had a truly fatal flaw: no drinking water issued from it.
'What am I to do about this...?'
In his haste, he had evacuated people indiscriminately and gathered warriors to seize the advantageous high ground, which had been well done. But now, they had no choice but to descend the hill again.
The cunning Norsemen and the wild men of Cymry moved to slowly encircle the round hill, as if they saw right through his predicament.
On the second morning since they had climbed the hill, seeing the warriors coughing dryly with parched throats, Oda resolved to attack.
Realizing that they must move before the enemy's encirclement was complete, Oda amply distributed the food they had brought and the last of the water, then waited for the burning sun to sink.
Thus, cursing his own foolishness and at the same time damning those shameless barbarians who had descended without warning, he waited for half a day.
At last, as the sun set and the moon rose, the grimly prepared Saxons, suffering crushing thirst after barely a single day, had no choice but to abandon their fortress.
[Sasa-sa- sasa-]
Due to Britain having little long grass, a column of warriors descended carefully along the slope of the hill where weeds grew in patchy clumps.
Though hastily assembled, the warriors of Devon, whose dense population allowed for nearly four thousand men, each steeled themselves for death as they descended the southeastern slope of the hill.
"...Wait. Something is strange."
"...Halt!"
"Halt!"
No matter how deep the moonlit night, such utter silence was not natural.
Not a single owl hooted, not even the common sound of insects could be heard?
Oda's command, sensing something amiss, spread in an instant, and the moment the thirsty Saxons halted as one halfway down the hill, shadows stirred in the darkness below.
"Now! Attack!"
"Loose!"
"Release the bowstrings!"
[Pyung! Swishhhh-]
"The enemy! Raise shields—"
[Thunk! Thwack-thwack! Thud!]
"Gah."
"Shields! Shields!"
The arrows that flew from the darkness found their marks through sheer volume despite their imprecise aim.
At the shouts of the Saxon sub-commanders who swiftly grasped the situation, the Devon warriors hurriedly raised their shields to ward off the ill-timed arrow rain.
Oda, who had been glaring into the darkness with blazing eyes, drew his sword the moment he weathered the second volley.
[Chang!]
"Sons of Devon! Attack! Slaughter every last one of those demons! Yaaaaah!"
[Swishhh- swishhh- thwack-thwack!]
Oda paid no heed to the third volley of arrows as he drew his sword and sprinted down the hill.
His blade caught the moonlight and scattered a brilliant gleam for an instant, and the warriors of Devon, roused by the sight, shook off their cowering frames and ran fiercely after their Ealdorman.
"Long live Devon!"
"In God's name!"
"Follow the Ealdorman! Kill all the enemies!"
[Yaaaaah-!]
The desperate charge of the Saxons bore an ironic resemblance to the charges of the very Norsemen they loathed.
Could it be that they shared the same roots after all?
A mass charge of warriors hurtling into the darkness, each seeking the protection of a god called by a different name.
With the acceleration of the downhill slope, they plunged into a kind of frenzy and even endured the fourth volley of arrows, yet the archers who should have met their charge turned and fled like madmen.
"Yaaaaah- aaaaah-! Aaah... ah?"
"What, those bastards are running!"
"The enemy flees!"
"Victory is ours!"
They had taken four or five volleys of arrows and escaped that hellish space of thirst—surely it should have been a profitable outcome.
Yet, for some reason, alarm bells kept ringing in Oda's chest.
'What is this? Why aren't they fighting?'
The enemy's behavior was markedly different from the Norse raiders he had fought until now.
What he could not understand, he could not help, and since he had work to do, Oda swiftly called together the warriors drunk on this miraculous victory.
"Warriors of Devon! Rally! We must push on just a little further! We march east!"
Along the path the refugees had taken, a small river flowed midway; there they could quench their thirst.
Though barely a day had passed, the Devon warriors, already nearly exhausted of stamina from severe thirst and the recent sprint, dragged their heavy, sluggish feet as they followed their Ealdorman who stood unshaken even in this situation.
The water inside their bodies had dried up, and sweat trickled beneath their armor—cloth armor, leather armor, or chainmail, each worn according to individual means. Amid this grueling and infuriating state, Oda and the Devon warriors faced the worst conceivable situation.
"Saxons! You've had a hard march getting here! Won't you at least wet your throats a little before you go?"
"Wa-ha-hahaha! If you want water, pay for it with blood!"
"Warriors of Hásteinn! Today, no Saxon passes beyond us!"
"The warriors of Cymry shall triumph! Slay all these lawless Saxon invaders!"
Right now, in this very moment, the voices he least wanted to hear stretched in a long line, awaiting the Devon warriors.
'Oh, damn it all...'
The strength had long since drained from his hands and feet, and now barely enough strength remained just to walk. Oda of Devon's vision went black for an instant.
It was fortunate that the moon was bright, at least; otherwise, he could not have even seen the spears and swords flashing ahead.
'With a single moment's poor judgment, I've doomed all of Devon's warriors to die.'
Oda had believed in God all his life and had striven to keep the virtues the priests preached, but right now, he found it terribly difficult to swallow the rising nausea and fury.
Bloody tears streamed within his chest as he cursed and flogged the self he had been a mere three days ago, but realizing that none of it helped at last, the Saxon lord turned his back on the barbarians who continued shouting insults at them and looked back upon his proud warriors of Devon.
Even in this hopeless situation, the Devon warriors kept their eyes fixed solely upon him.
Summoning the last of his strength, Odda shouted toward them.
"The enemy is scattered to encircle us, while we stand united in one place! Though we may be thirsty and weary, can a single man of Devon not prevail against five of these savages! Fight! Warriors of Christ! Conquer, or perish! God alone shall decide our fate! Fight!"
At the Ealdorman's blood-curdling cry, the Devon warriors silently adjusted their spears and swords.
"Form ranks! Raise your shields!"
"Kill them all!"
The will that chose to overcome, rather than surrender to extreme dread and terror, breathed one last ounce of strength into men who already seemed on the verge of collapse.
"Warriors of Devon-!"
Odda, who had been gazing at them with bloodshot eyes, finally turned his back once more. He glared at the quietly subdued enemy camp, his earlier ranting curses cast aside somewhere.
"Attack-!"
"Attack!"
"Forward!"
[Stomp! Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!]
At first, they matched their steps to one another.
[Fire! Shwaaak- Shwaaak! Thwack! Thud-kaduk!]
[Shwaaak- Tang! Tadadang! Hudduduk!]
"Urk!"
"Keuk!"
As they endured that detestable rain of arrows once more, and the comrade beside them could no longer move his feet, they quickened their pace.
[Stomp! Stomp! Stompstompstompstomp! Tadadad!]
"Long live Æthelred Cyning-! Long live Wessex!"
"God is with us!"
"Devon-! Devon-!"
When at last they reached the distance where the enemy's forms could be clearly made out, Oda of Devon charged forward like a madman, and behind him the remaining Devon warriors broke into a run all at once.
"Brace for impact!"
"Raise your shields! Prepare for collision!"
"Archers! Keep your bowstrings drawn without rest!"
"Odin-!"
"Val-hal-la-!"
[Yiaaaaaa-!]
[Uraaaaaa-!]
The two groups, drawn close enough to see each other's throats, clashed with an enormous concussion.
[Kwaang!]
*****
Encircling someone was no easy task.
Particularly when that someone was foolish enough to dig into a hill fort without water, yet was sharp-witted and quick to act besides.
"Yiaaaaaa-!"
[Thud!]
'Urk.'
The shock of a body flung at him with full force was no small thing.
Feeling that he was no longer what he once was, Hásteinn stared past his slightly pushed shield and into the eyes of the hate-blinded Saxon warrior before he indifferently brought Örn's axe down.
[Thwack!]
"Keok!"
'Friend, if you hurl your whole body like that, do you not leave yourself all gap and no guard?'
To be brave was good, but to be foolish was a sin.
He and Björn had learned that back in Iberia.
"Is everyone still alive-!"
Releasing the axe that was lodged deep in bone and would not come free, Hásteinn gripped his shield with both hands and shouted.
"A spring day's sunshine could not be softer than this- urk! Get off, you!"
"Old man! Look after yourself!"
"These Saxons are as soft as a woman's inner thigh! Urk!"
Bastards. Men at death's door and still putting on airs.
Though decades had passed together, the voices of his comrades had not changed a whit, and Hásteinn let slip a faint chuckle. Feigning wrath, he raised his voice again.
"What!? Old man!? Thorolf! You're dead when this is over!"
"How did you know it was me!"
[Yiaaaaa-! Thud! Thuthud!]
The Saxon wave surged against them once more.
[Shwaaak- Shwaaak- Thwack! Thububuk!]
The arrows that had arced over their heads as they blocked the human tide flew again, seeking their marks in the darkness.
'That is truly chilling.'
He had already gotten a feel for working alongside these diminutive Cymry friends back in eastern Mercia, but he still could not grow accustomed to their ghostly archery.
Nor could he grasp the peculiar Cymry way of fighting—when the enemy outnumbered them, they scattered in every direction, only to come shuffling back together from somewhere the next evening.
Yet the time spent with them had been more than enough to teach him that these fellows were truly warriors who could fight.
"Aaaak!"
"Aak!"
Those Saxons, who charged with their eyes rolled back like men who had eaten the wrong mushrooms, would not have known it, but the greatest weakness that surfaced when a man's body was spent and exhausted was precisely this: his shield could no longer be held as high as he thought.
To an outsider's eyes, the Northmen's line might have looked precarious and the Saxons' momentum lofty.
But Hásteinn himself and the warriors under his command were men already tempered by a hundred battles.
Such reckless charges were the work of green boys.
[Swish! Stab! Stab! Stab!]
"Kgeuuh- uaaaak!"
When an enemy kept thrusting at his shield and then, growing frustrated, tried to bring his sword down over the rim, Hásteinn darted into the man's chest and swiftly drove his dagger home.
The voice of the Saxon warrior, vividly feeling the pain before soon coughing up blood, was like a withered, gaunt branch.
'They truly charged in thinking they could win this? Their opponent was poorly chosen. I am a man who fought alongside Björn under Iberia's blazing sun.'
No one knew better than he how to finish off men dying of thirst. He had nearly died from it himself on more than one occasion.
After felling two of them, vitality slowly began to return to his body, when a deflating sound reached him from afar.
[Buuuuung-]
The sound of a horn, a thing that had gradually come into proper use here and there ever since Konungr Helgi Ragnarsson had arrived in this land.
That was unmistakably Artos of the Cymry, who had divided the sector with him and was enveloping the Saxons.
"Let us share a drink when this is done! Hold out just a little longer! You damned bastards!"
"Old man! I told you to look after your own life!"
"Val-hal-la-!"
[Thud! Thuthud! Clang! Shwaaak- Thubuk!]
Amid the cacophony of the battlefield, to which he would never grow accustomed, Hásteinn could scent the familiar fragrance of victory.