203. The Gallican Hymn.
203. The Gallican Hymn.
[Fwooosh—!]
The stone felt itself flying through the sky.
That the very first thing it felt after gaining consciousness was flight! Was that not a truly magnificent life!
'Hello! Sky! Hello! Wind! Hello! Many humans! Hello—!'
Why this stone knew the name of the sky, and the names of the wind and humans, was not important.
What mattered was only that this round stone had, for some reason, a lightning-shaped pattern carved into it, and beside that was inscribed the phrase [To my friends, the Franks].
'What a wonderful world this is! I am truly the happiest stone! Human friends! I am glad to meet you too! But don't open your mouths too wide just yet! I'll be with you shortly!'
[Fwooosh—!]
"Uh— uhh—"
[Smack! Crunch! Thud! Rattle— wham! Crunch! Crack!]
"Gah!"
"Ack!"
"Aargh—!"
The journey and life of the newborn(?) catapult stone ended in the blink of an eye, but it left deep traces upon this world.
A thick red carpet adorned the path it had traveled, the leg joints twisted this way and that decorated like flowers, and the screams that rang out each in a distinctly different octave were like a hymn of celebration.
If one is to live, should one not live a life of such impact?
So shocking was it that the roughly 13,000 Frankish warriors, who had been moved by the faith and impassioned speech of Imperator Karolus to cry out without realizing it, were all plunged at once into silence.
"Wh-what is this?"
"What just happened?"
"Aaaagh—! My leg! My leg!!"
"Uwaaaagh! I don't want to die! God! God!"
Except for those warriors fortunate enough to have died instantly by headbutting the stone, everything in the path of the roughly 30-kilogram stone, which had flown in dragging immense potential and kinetic energy alike, was twisted and contorted.
Even a mere 3-kilogram dumbbell dropped on the instep would bring tears springing forth, so where a weight ten times that passed, nothing but sheer destruction remained.
Whether one wore layered leather armor, steel greaves strapped on, or fine quality boots.
Once there was human flesh and bone inside, it was simply a law of nature that a collision with a stone still flush with kinetic energy would send an ankle flying off as if it were nothing.
Three catapult stones had come flying, drawing bright red lines—swoosh—swoosh—across the green canvas, evenly distributed among the left, center, and right flanks of the long-stretched ranks.
Pain became screams, and screams became confusion and terror that shook the Frankish formation.
[Uwaaaagh— aaaagh—]
"What, could it be those Northmen who launched them?"
"Where did those bastards get such things?"
"What do we do? Should we move the wounded first?"
An impact too powerful is wont to bestow a dazed mind alongside a ringing in the ears. Struck by a collective stun, the Frankish army—and not even the Imperator himself, but even the lords under him—lost their words for an instant.
But with the exception of a few brazen souls upon the wooden walls who were frolicking in delight, the dutiful warriors of the North Sea army, silently seeing to their appointed tasks, swiftly launched a second stone to faithfully obey the command of their sky-like Fylkir.
[Fwooosh—!]
This time, instead of shouting in bewilderment, the Franks had been staring at the North Sea army's walls, and so at last they could be certain that these stones were indeed sent flying by that North Sea army.
For beyond the high-rising palisade, three stones were climbing even higher and drawing steadily closer.
"Goddammit! Attack! Attack!"
"Move!"
"Don't run backward! Run forward! Going backward is more dangerous! You idiots!"
[Fwooosh— smack! Crunch! Thud!]
[Uwaaaaaagh—!]
The field that had been brimming with faith and fervor turned in an instant into a scene of chaos and carnage, and the six catapult stones that had fallen at random with no predetermined destination threw the Frankish ranks into great confusion.
The conscripts at the rear of the ranks wailing and turning their backs; the lords and adjutants cutting such men down and snarling at them to run forward.
Imperator Karolus standing bravely, his stance still pointing at the fortress, shouting for the attack.
Thanks to Carolus's composed response, a measure of order returned to the chaotic ranks, and centered around the elite troops in the middle, they began to advance upon the North Sea army's walls.
While Carolus had been speaking directly with the Fylkir of the North Sea, at the fortress of Rouen they had secretly lowered boats and moved the ladders they had prepared beforehand. Now they hoisted those ladders above their heads like shields and began to run with all their might.
What trick those Northmen had used was unclear, but although the sturdy palisade, tamped down and raised high in a comparatively short time, was a daunting prospect, they had not yet managed to draw water channels to create a moat.
So if they were to attack, now was the right decision.
"Let us go! Warriors of Burgundy!"
"God is with us!"
"Imperator Karolus! Imperator Karol—"
[Fwooosh—!]
"—us!"
[Smack!]
Of course, one volley came as they raised a battle cry just before the fight.
One volley came right after they got hit and spaced out.
And one more volley came as they ran across a space that looked close but was a fair distance by a man's footsteps.
The Frankish ranks, having been gifted a total of nine stones, then became entangled and disordered by the 13,000 warriors rushing blindly forward, creating a bottleneck as if a sweet potato had gotten stuck in the throat.
And then, cider raining down from above. Three more stones.
[Fwooooosh—!]
"Incoming! Duck!"
"Raise your sh-shields and block them! If we unite all our strength as one, we can stop them!"
"Stop talking crazy and duck! Get down on the ground!"
[Fwooosh— thud! Smack! Crunch! Crack— rattle-rattle—]
"Aaaagh—! My arm!"
"My leg! My leg! Aaah! Mother!"
Even so, this being the fourth time they'd taken such an attack, the elites of Carolus who had adapted somewhat were gritting their teeth and managing to endure.
But the warriors abruptly conscripted in the season meant for tilling fields wailed and cried out for God and their mothers.
This sight was not good at all.
No matter how lacking in confidence in his own military capabilities Carolus might have been, he could understand this well enough.
But now there was no other choice.
"Set the ladders against the walls! Slaughter every last one of those Northmen!"
If he brought 13,000 troops and fled after taking only a few catapult shots? Who would ever bow their heads before the name of Imperator again? So now they were truly in a situation where they had to at least land a few axe blows on the walls of those Northmen.
And had not the Fylkir of the North Sea mentioned Lothar's marriage?
That meant that the nephew of Lotharingia was behind all of this.
'So we must drive them out even more. We must win no matter what.'
Now, a defeat here meant not a loss for Rouen, but a loss for Lotharingia.
That was why Carolus had no choice but to shout the attack, feeling like he was pouring wine into a bottomless cup.
"God is with us! It is a war God desires! Sons of Frankia! Attack—!"
*****
"One—two—three—! Fire!"
"Fire!"
"Go—!"
[Hwik! Chwak! Hwoong-!]
The string that had been drawn by the windlass was so taut that no man could pull it. A miracle that could only be achieved by the machine's power occurred when the line that fastened the steel pin holding the string was pulled.
This time, stones inscribed with [Thor's Gift], [Hel's Blessing], [The Best Way to Valhalla!] soared into the sky.
[Hwooong-!]
"Waaaaaaah!"
"Good! Go!"
"Smash them all!"
This was the fifth volley.
And regretfully, it was the last.
It was not that the ballista malfunctioned—but that the Franks had charged up so madly and pressed themselves as low as possible against the slope of the hill that there was no longer a firing angle.
Still, in our initial plan we had considered ourselves lucky to get three shots off, so I was satisfied with two more.
'Moreover, that's not all we have.'
When handling the onager—that is, not the ballista, the large crossbow, but the siege engine we usually think of as a catapult—I had felt it before. The greatest weakness of these terrifyingly powerful weapons was their complicated reloading process and their uncertain accuracy.
Especially the accuracy was so poor that, even using ropes of the same length and stones of the same size, it was extremely difficult to control the wild deviations.
It must have been the result of wind, moisture, the age of the ropes and wood, and all sorts of unknown factors operating together.
Therefore, the primary role of these siege engines was actually to strike terror into the enemy.
Of course, they had still dealt quite considerable damage for that.
"They are within range! Send the signal!"
"Yes, Jarl Björn!"
[Peolleok- Peolleok-]
"It's Björn's signal! Shoot!"
"Did you hear Jarl Ivar's words?! Shoot at once!"
"Yes, Karl (centurion)! Draw!"
"Draw!"
[Chak! Chak! Chachak! Chak! Hwiing-! Hwiing-!]
My brothers, each fulfilling their assigned role according to the division of labor, discharged the Skollpios that had been placed in numerous positions high on the wall, aimed at pre-marked lines.
Just like the ballista, sounds that no human strength could ever produce rang out, and the bolts that flew in unison swept through the vanguard of the Franks charging bravely forward.
[Peobeobeok! Peobeok!]
[Keok! Eok! Euk!]
Customarily, when an ordinary arrow flew and struck, it was mostly blocked by shields or stopped by the thick cloth armor—a basic passive of the Pan-Germanic culture.
Even if by chance it hit an elbow, a knee, or even the nape of the neck, one could roughly snap off the shaft, scream, or fight one's final struggle.
But the vicious power of that great mechanical crossbow, the Skollpio, allowed the enemy no such heroic tales.
[Deureureuk- Deureureuk- Deureureuk-]
"Reloaded!"
"Shoot at once!"
"Fire!"
[Chak! Hwiiing-!]
"Crank again!"
[Deureureuk- Deureureuk-]
[Hwiiiing-! Peok!]
"Keok!"
A few turns of the reloading device—a cross-shaped long wooden handle—around two rotations, then insert the locking pin, and it was loaded.
Pull it, and it fired.
The result of this simple work was even simpler: if a shield was raised, it pierced through it; if they trusted their sturdy chain or cloth armor to charge forward, it pierced straight through that as well.
Once that huge bolt lodged in a body, the victim did not scream or move; they merely uttered a death rattle, coughed up thick blood, or slumped forward—never to move again.
"The enemy has crossed the second mark! Draw the strings!"
"Draw the strings!"
"Heed Jarl Refil's words! You colts!"
[Pung! Sswaeaek-!]
"Eh?"
"Just keep holding it!"
"All loose—!"
"Shoot!"
"Let fly!"
[Pung! Pyupung! Pung! Sswaeaek- Sswaeaek-!]
[Chak! Hwiing-!]
At last, the human-drawn (?) bows, shorter in range than the mechanical crossbows, also spat out their arrows, and from some moment onward, the space before the walls of the North Sea army was filled with an unceasing rain of arrows.
[Hooduduk! Hooduduk! Hwiing- Peopeok!]
"Aaaagh!"
"Do not lower your shields! We must keep moving forward!"
"Go forward if you don't want to die! If you turn back, you'll die by their arrows anyway!"
"You despicable barbarians! You petty Northmen! Fight fairly!"
"You cowards!"
Where in the world had they ever experienced such a thing?
Under the command of Refil, who had now followed me through countless battles and become a seasoned veteran, the Garmr Brotherhood of Norrland—every one of them heavy infantry as well as archers—loosed their strings in an offbeat rhythm.
And beneath the walls, a hellish environment was created where the moment you lowered your guard, an arrow flew in to seek a gap.
Even worse, among the arrows concentrating on the enemy's front rank were large bolts meant exclusively for the great mechanical crossbows, so if you were unlucky, you could be pierced through and killed even from behind your shield.
"Hurry and come! You bastards! The standard of the Fylkir! The axe of the Fylkir! The last member of the Garmr Brotherhood awaits you!"
Although he was clearly perceptive and had an eye for the battle's flow, the moment a fight started he strangely acted like some bloodthirsty berserker. Seutorolpeu licked his lips with his tongue behind the active Refil and the archers, gripping his two-handed axe tightly.
But to Seutorolpeu's disappointment, seeing the Franks shouting at the rear to hurry forward and unable to advance any further at the front, it seemed it would still take some time for that huge two-handed axe to see action.
"Come, Franks! Valhalla awaits you! The Goddess of Death watches over you!"
[Pung! Pyupung! Chak!]
[Aaaagh—!]