205. The Gallican Hymn (3).
205. The Gallican Hymn (3).
[sureureuk— sureureuk— chwaaak—]
The oars, moving as one body, pushed through the calm river water and drove the dragon-like ships onto the land.
[chwaaak— chwaaak—]
Had the weather been a little rougher or the current stronger, they would have needed to take measures to secure the ships, but the land of Rouen—where green fields stretched out right from the riverbank—required no such effort.
Though they breathed no fire, the North Sea warriors—perhaps even more fearsome than that—disembarked and formed ranks with movements devoid of any wasted motion, as though they had trained for this their entire lives.
The greatest changes the warriors of the Kingdom of the Isles had felt after entering under Fylkir's command beneath the shadow of the North Sea were the size of the ships, the prosperity free of hunger, and the systematic movements so unlike their previous disorganized ways.
Simply by dividing the fifty men aboard each ship into two squads and subdividing the command, the brave but simple warriors of the Kingdom of the Isles had all vanished.
In their place stood something more dynamic—still brave, and moving as actively in small numbers as living cells.
Having occupied the rear flank of the West Frankian army—that is, their oblique rear—without any particular difficulty, Thorstein pressed himself against a low riverside mound and observed the enemy's movements.
Soon, at Thorstein's gesture, bows and arrows and the like were briskly unloaded from the longships—which, having grown larger in frame, could carry just as many toys.
Thorstein himself, though he respected the old traditions like his father Olaf Konungr and still dreamed of Valhalla in one corner of the chest where he served Hel, held the belief that the most efficient method was best when it came to killing enemies.
To him, all of Fylkir's tactics, strategic movements, and methods of combat were akin to law, so naturally, if one was to strike an enemy, one had to strike from as far away as possible. That was simply common sense.
"Advance slowly."
"Aye! Jarl!"
[suk— suk—!]
[peolleok! peolleok!]
One of the changes Thorstein had brought when he joined the North Sea army: the active use of signal flags and hand signals.
A signaling system far more subdivided than the old method—one blast of the horn to charge, two to flee—enabled far more precise movements.
For instance, a silent advance, like now.
[shashak! suksuk!]
[peolleok! peolleok!]
Or signals to quietly dispatch the Frankish sentries who were ludicrously staring toward the fortress walls right before their eyes, completely out of their wits.
[pyung! pyupyut! sweeek— sweeek— puk! pupuk!]
"Gakh!"
"Guk—!"
"What the—! Why's everyone collapsing— Enemy! It's the Northmen!"
[tatatat— hwoong— kwak! hwoong— seugeok!]
"Guk!"
"Aagh!"
A volley of arrows, then rush in and subdue.
The distance had already been closed as much as they wished; there was no longer any need for concealment.
"Kill them all!"
"Did you hear the Jarl's words! Slaughter them all!"
"Attack forward!"
[euryaaaa—!]
The West Frankian host, which had clearly never imagined that anyone would charge at an army of this size, had grown negligent in guarding the riverbank side.
Though they still held overwhelming numbers, Thorstein and the warriors of the Kingdom of the Isles—looking as though the emotion of fear had been excised from their brains—let out thunderous war cries and raced across the field.
Then, at Thorstein's command, they all dropped to one knee at once.
"Halt! Prepare to fire!"
"All stop!"
"Halt—!"
[buuuuung—! buuuuung—!]
"Take aim—!"
"Draw your bows!"
"Mind the man in front's head!"
"Loose—!"
"Let go!"
"Shoot!"
[buuuuung—!]
[pyung! pyupyut! pyung! sweeek— sweeeek!]
The commander of the West Frankian left wing, belatedly grasping the situation, tried to form a defensive line as best he could, but unfortunately, the thousand-odd arrows embroidering the sky were far quicker than their response.
[hududuk! hududuk! pabak! pak!]
"Gakh!"
"Ugh!"
One man took an arrow clean through the back of the head; another had removed his helmet to wipe his sweat and promptly became an arrow rack; yet another, seeing an arrow suddenly sprout from his shield, raised his head to ask, "What's this?" and had a long shaft of wood grow right out of his eyeball.
As victims of every variety poured forth, the warriors who hurriedly turned at the screams of their wailing comrades raised their shields—and soon, the enemy's arrows came pouring down upon them once more.
[hududuk! hududuk! taeng! papak!]
Unlike the large, rectangular shields the Northmen had begun using here and there for some time now, the round Frankish shields—steeped in tradition and history—readily blocked their arrows, but the mood of the warriors beneath them grew ever more grim.
"You sons of bitches, you Northmen! Since when did you do nothing but shoot arrows!"
"Dishonorable wretches! Barbarians who know nothing of honor!"
And before such howls—was their God finally answering?
From behind that battle line, those with sharp senses could feel something alien approaching with a strange reverberation.
[dugu— dugu— dugu—]
A sound unknowable to those who had never experienced it.
Such was the noise and vibration produced when dozens, hundreds of heavy cavalry struck the ground in unison.
"Cavalry! It's the cavalry!"
"The Imperator's riders! The riders of God!"
"Imperator Karolus! Imperator Karolus!"
The cavalry, composed entirely of the sons of noble houses, were the finest and most expensive warriors of the West Frankian host—every inch of them wrapped in costly gear.
The cavalry, already a symbol of victory in and of itself, raced across the field without hesitation, and a brilliant light seemed to linger around them.
[sweeek— sweeek— hududuk! hududuk!]
Regardless, the Northmen loosed one more flight of arrows—swelling the ranks of unlucky victims—and then, at the sight of the approaching cavalry, turned around and began running back with ferocious momentum.
"Enemy cavalry! Retreat!"
"Run—!"
"Flee with all your soul!"
[peolleok— peolleok—!]
[buuuuung—! buuuuuung—!]
With the great sound of horns ringing out everywhere and deep blue banners fluttering, there was a certain forcefulness even in the sight of the Northmen turning as one and running away.
Gazing upon that scene, the riders of West Frankia gnashed their teeth and lashed their horses' rumps all the harder, digging sharp spurs into their flanks—but the distance, which had been wide from the start, would not close easily. And with swift motions, the Northmen of Örn climbed aboard the ships that sat half-run aground upon the land, one by one taking to the river.
[Sururuk—! Sururuk—!]
"Row harder!"
"Wahahaha! Catch us if you can!"
"You can't stop us with that sort of speed!"
The seasoned warriors' characteristic jeers and contempt reached the ears of the cavalry that had arrived at the riverbank.
"Those— those—!"
"You inferior bastards! Come ashore right now if you dare!"
"You vermin! You maggots!"
Thorstein, having opened a suitable distance and seeing that none of his own appeared wounded and no fools were left on land, wanted to give those horse-riders a gift.
"Lads! Bring out the goods!"
"Aye, Jarl!"
These were the devices the Fylkir had personally given to Thorstein's flagship and the three longships in the best condition, telling him to test them out.
A comically large bow named Skollpio.
But Thorstein knew well that its power was not comical in the slightest.
"Fire as soon as you're ready!"
"Aye! I understand! You wind it like this—"
[Drrrrk— Drrrrk— Drrrrk—]
The second-in-command, who had even returned after receiving direct training from the famed Garmr Brotherhood, the Fylkir's most elite, sweated nervously as he handled a bow large enough to cover a typical warrior's upper body. Soon he braced it against the longship's side rail, pressed his face close, and carefully aimed at something.
Since the posture was so clearly one of aiming, Thorstein singled out one noisy Frankish horseman who kept spouting curses. "I'll blow that bastard's head off!" the second-in-command shouted spiritedly and loosed the arrow, thick as a forearm.
"Firing!"
[Tak! Tak! Fwooooooosh—!]
The arrow, which had somehow flown true even from a rocking ship, traced a beautiful, low arc with a deadly whistling sound. It sailed clean past the man Thorstein had pointed out and struck the head of some other fool who had been cackling.
"Oh—!"
"It hit!"
"Thor—!"
"Odin—!"
"Hel—!"
"Fylkir Helgi! Jarl Thorstein!"
The simultaneous roar of cheers dyed the waters of the Seine, which must have been serene and charming originally. Over the shoulder of his subordinate, who finally let out a tense sigh, Thorstein saw their bewildered cavalry beyond.
"How's that taste! Wahaha! Hurry up! Let's loose one more shot before those bastards flee!"
"Aye, aye! Jarl Thorstein!"
[Drrrrk— Drrrrk—]
With the unfamiliar but welcome sound of the weapon being drawn, the warriors' shouts, and their laughter as his backdrop, Thorstein pulled a piece of jerky from his clothing and put it in his mouth.
'The riverbank is long, and their ranks are wide. I'll have to poke them here and there until they're properly angry.'
Savoring the jerky as it slowly softened against the warmth of his mouth, Thorstein grinned.
*****
[Kiiiiaaaaa— Waaaaah! Jump off! Abandon the ladder! Kwaang! Aaaagh!]
"Now only one remains."
The sound that had just reached him was that of yet another ladder toppling backward.
The battle that had begun at sunrise now continued until the sun was slowly tilting toward the west, but Carolus could see that this failure was not just any failure—it was a colossal one.
The Comites could not bring themselves to answer Carolus's quiet murmur.
Carolus's gaze remained fixed on the palisade, which still felt so terribly distant, and the flag fluttering beyond it, a face half-skull and half-woman emblazoned upon it.
But his mind had begun to consider retreat.
'I thought it would not be easy, but indeed this is no wall to be overcome in a day or two. Moreover, I must attend to those ruffians on the river as well. It would be best to withdraw now and prepare more thoroughly.'
That Fylkir of the North Sea tormented him and the army of West Frankia with all manner of war machines never before seen among barbaric Norsemen, as if having struck at an unexpected hour.
He needed time to respond.
Having made his decision, Carolus saw that even the final ladder was now wavering, and with a heavy heart gave the order.
"Sound the signal. We fall back before Rouen Castle. Move from the rear ranks in order, but we must clear the field swiftly. Understood?"
"Aye! Imperator!"
"Well understood!"
The Comites hastily answered Carolus's command and immediately spurred their horses away in all directions, scattering to find their own columns. Where they rode, the sound of a series of horns soon rang out.
The warriors of West Frankia, recognizing the signal to retreat as if by instinct, tried to hurriedly turn their bodies, but the sub-commanders and Comites positioned here and there all raised their voices as one to maintain order.
"Cut down any man who causes chaos! Maintain order!"
"You are the warriors of the Imperator! The sword of God! Do not slacken your resolve!"
"Argh! Watch where you're stepping!"
"Stop prodding me with the spear!"
"This isn't a spear."
"What?"
"It's a sword."
"Then stop prodding me with the sword!"
As a result, the army of West Frankia, having maintained a degree of composure, began to extract themselves from this dreadful battlefield starting from the rear ranks. Soon the center, and then the vanguard which had pushed in deepest, backstepped away, clearing the front of the North Sea army's walls, which were now saturated with the flesh, blood, and vengeful spirits of West Frankia's men.
"Here, stone marks!"
"Oh, hell, we have to run!"
"Raise your heads! Watch the skies!"
But that order swiftly wavered the moment they saw traces of some horrific deed and the scattered, ownerless limbs still strewn about. The Comites and Dukes, who had been commanding gallantly from horseback, quickened their own mounts' pace as well.
Carolus, who had already withdrawn to the rear and was observing the withdrawal of his army, felt his brow twitch the instant he saw the firmly shut gate of those Northmen swing open.
He had feared more stones might fly, but the gate opening?
As if to mock him, Carolus's mood grew profoundly sour when suddenly, from beyond the now wide-open gate, a column of mounted riders burst forth with unbridled momentum, kicking against the earth.
'What in the world is that?'
In the dazed vision of Carolus, the scene was immediately etched like a painting: stones flying into the sky at an absurdly perfect moment alongside the enemy charging down the hill. And there, at the head of that cavalry, one man stood out, larger than the rest and starkly conspicuous.