302. An Irresistible Force (4).
[Buuuuuuung---!]
[Baaaaaam---!]
[Buuuuuuung---!]
[Advance!]
[Forward!]
[Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! Tramp!]
[Pusssss-]
The very first thing a person entering the battlefield encountered was the unfamiliar sound. Sounds that seemed they would deafen you if you were close, and drain your very soul if you were far away. Once the blaring of horns, metal pipes, whistles, and signal whistles mingled together and you moved your feet according to the barked orders of senior soldiers and commanders, from that moment on, the individual lost all control over their own body and soul.
Even when ten or a hundred men moved their feet at once, it would kick up a thick cloud of dust. But when a number exceeding ten thousand humans and horses mobilized in unison, it went beyond mere dust—it obstructed vision in all directions as if a sandstorm had descended upon the field.
Even within that chaos, the commanders sat upon their tall horses, checking the movements of the central banners and constantly verifying the orders being relayed by the messengers dashing ceaselessly between the ranks. And above all else.
Following the immense presence of the demigod striding silently at the very front, the combined army of Rome and the North Sea surged forward, stretching out ahead without a trace of hesitation, writhing forward in an instant like a great serpent awakening from a thousand-year slumber.
[Hweeeeee-]
The minute movements of the wind, normally imperceptible, were starkly revealed by the grains of earth floating through the air. The Roman Eagle and the North Sea skull banners advanced from their lofty positions, while on the opposing side, Muslim script—drawing curves as if tracing the movements of the moon—fluttered upon pure white flags.
The Muslims of the white banners and the Romans of the red banners. The Northmen of the blue banners, wedging themselves between two ancient enemies who had opposed each other for countless ages.
[Tramp! Tramp! Tramp!]
"All forces—! Take your positions!"
"Stand in your positions!"
"Legion! Halt!"
"Stand fast!"
[Buuuuuuung- Buuuuuung-]
[Bbambbababam- Bbam-]
Though they had merely advanced, chaos was already erupting everywhere across the vast battlefield when a voice like a thunderclap rang out. The resonant voice, almost impossible to believe had come from a human throat, devoured all noise from the left of the long-stretched battle line to the right, from front to back, spreading outward. The high commanders and low-ranking officers alike, without even realizing it, echoed and repeated the command, creating orderly movement.
Belatedly, amidst the sounding of horns and brass instruments by the signalers, the voice of Helgi Heracles Ragnarsson fell in quick succession.
"Bowmen! Draw!"
"Prepare to shoot—!"
"Feed them arrows!"
How those commands of the North Sea's ruler pierced through all this clamor and lodged themselves cleanly in their ears was unknowable and incomprehensible. Yet from the North Sea warriors clinging to the Fylkir's side to the Roman soldiers at the far ends of the left and right wings, they all moved according to the Fylkir's orders.
The allied soldiers grasped their bows even before the belated commands of the chiliarchs and hundred-man leaders relaying the Fylkir's orders could even descend.
To be frank, the sandstorm kicked up meant they could scarcely see what was before them, let alone identify a target. But those standing beneath the blue and red banners had no hesitation whatsoever in following the orders of the world's strongest man.
[Kigigeek- Kgiigig-]
In addition to the North Sea warriors—who were all archers—roughly three thousand allied shooters drew their bows. The sound was so chilling that the Muslim warriors, who had been advancing bravely, shuddered all at once.
But before the Muslim commanders could even react, the Fylkir's voice had already fallen a beat ahead.
"Loose—!"
[Ppyung! Pyupyung! Ppyung-!]
"Loose!"
"Loose upon them!"
Again, before the chiliarchs and hundred-man leaders could relay the command, the allied shooters released their bowstrings in unison, following the Fylkir's order.
[Swaeaeack- Swaeeaeack-]
Though their vision was restricted, this was precisely where the difference between a hunter and a soldier revealed itself. A hunter would have waited until he could clearly identify the form of his prey. But a soldier, following only the command and the training he had received, simply released smoothly the bowstring he had drawn with all his might, angling it so the arrow would fly as far as possible.
[Hweeeee- Pababak! Pabak! Hudududuk!]
"Agh!"
"Keuk!"
"Ali—! Ali—!"
"Raise your shields! Protect your heads!"
"The flag must not fall! Move the fallen to the rear and raise the flag again at once!"
When a standard-bearer, unlucky enough to be struck squarely by an arrow, fell, one section of the Muslim warriors' ranks fell into confusion. And the Fylkir of the North Sea, sensing every occurrence on the sprawling battlefield, did not miss that opening.
"Those under Edmund, shoot straight ahead! Oleg! Archers under Oleg, shoot to the left! Aim for the enemy's right wing!"
The archers on the left wing of the long-stretched allied army, under Edmund's command, immediately drew their bowstrings straight toward their own front as ordered. Meanwhile, the center army under the Fylkir and the right wing under Oleg angled themselves diagonally and poured arrows toward the Muslim warriors' right flank.
[Ppyung! Pyupyung! Swaeaeack- Hududuk! Pabak! Puk!]
"Shoot too!"
"Return those arrows to the Roman swine!"
[Ppyung! Pyupyung-!]
"Reciters of the Quran! Followers of Muhammad! Forward! Let us advance in faith!"
"Ali is great! Truly, not even death can bar His sons! Forward!"
[Swaeaeack- Swaeeaeack! Hududuk! Pababak!]
Amidst the hail of arrows, the commander of the Muslim right wing, who had been trying to restore order to the already chaotic ranks, chose to advance rather than absorb further losses. Soon after, this decision rippled into the center and the left wing as well, and the Muslim army surged forward in unison.
[Swaeeaack- Pabak! Taeng! Taetaeng!]
Thanks to their heavy armor, the arrows did not inflict as much damage as one might expect. Still, the Fylkir of the North Sea was satisfied, for it had shaken their ranks and forced a premature movement upon them.
'The enemy's right wing has thrust itself forward alone!'
How he could see through the space thick with flying dust was unknown, but the Fylkir's two eyes, glowing a vivid blue, were gazing clearly across the battlefield. Within that brilliant mind, the movements of the enemy and the movements of the allies unfolded as vividly as a minimap.
[Ppyung! Pyupyung!]
The sound of bowstrings followed one after another in rapid free-fire, as if they intended to empty their quivers entirely. Within that storm, the Fylkir had to choose. Should he draw in the pressing enemy? Or strike them head-on?
'I trust Edmund. We will cut off the enemy's waist first and trap and slaughter the ones who have thrust themselves forward.'
Not everyone could be saved on the battlefield. What mattered in this fight was not saving as many allies as possible, but killing as many enemies as possible. To make them lose any stomach for ever fighting on the island of Sicily again.
"Edmund! Hold the enemy! Oleg! Kill everything before you! Center! Follow me!"
[Seureureung—]
Drawing a greatsword as long as a man's height and as broad as his waist, the Fylkir rested it on his shoulder near Örn, cast the scabbard to the ground, and strode forward. The thousand-man leaders and hundred-man leaders who followed him bellowed at the top of their lungs, forcing their warriors and soldiers—blood surging to their very scalps—to maintain at least minimal order.
"Hundreds! Forward—!"
"Keep in step! I said keep in step! You are not beasts! We are the Fylkir's sword!"
"Any man who lowers his shield will be assigned all the rear-guard duties after the battle! One-two! One-two!"
[Ppik— Ppibik— Ppik— Ppibik—]
The horn-whistles, a product of cultural exchange with our Roman friends, were gripped in the mouths of the hundred-man leaders and produced a regular rhythm. The thousand-man leaders, chasing the Fylkir's movements, busily plied flags and signals to coordinate distance with the neighboring thousand-man leaders and confirmed the enemy slowly revealing themselves.
The same sight unfolded on Edmund's left wing and Oleg's right wing as well. Indeed, the Roman officers could not help but feel an unfamiliar emotion as they witnessed the Fylkir's command—he wielded a great army of 25,000 as though it were his own limbs with a single voice.
'Could the famed generals of the old Empire have fought like the Fylkir of the North Sea?'
'I cannot believe it even as I experience it myself. This is why we could not win in Britain.'
[Cheok! Cheok! Cheok! Cheok!]
"Al-la-hu Akbar!"
"There are no cowards beneath the banner of Aghlab! Brothers! Towards the promised victory!"
"Kill all the heathens!"
"Attack! Attack!"
[Shwaaaak— Tududuk! Pabak!]
Through the last falling shower of arrows, the enraged right wing of the Muslim army began to charge—
"Sons of Anglia and Reggio! The imperial eagle will not retreat a single step from this place! Do you understand!"
"Roma! Roma! Roma!"
Men who had come seeking a new home, and the men of southern Italy who, though their faces were unfamiliar, had met a lord braver and more loyal than any and now sought to spread the wings they had once folded. Roma, shouted with one voice at the command of Strategos Edmund. When those two syllables, Roma, bound everyone's spirit into a single firm wall—at last, the Muslim warriors who had drawn close charged fiercely at the Roman wall like the sharp wind of the desert.
"Iyaaaa—!"
"Die! Heathen!"
"God is great!"
[Dudududu— Kung! Kukung! Kung!]
Soon after, the sound of seeking God echoed from all sides along with dull thuds. Rather than those felled by blades, more and more were toppled by sheer mass. Amid this, the two forces, having found an equilibrium, began to contest not sharpness, skill, or technique, but weight, strength, and sheer dogged tenacity.
"Don't you dare give way!"
"Just plant your feet into the ground! Push them back!"
"Is this all you've got! You turban-wearing bastards, is this everything! Then you will all die! The Fylkir of the North Sea will take all your lives!"
Unlike the desperate struggle of the heavy infantry on Edmund's defense line, where an Anglian warrior cried out with eyes wide and bloodshot, the allied center was butchering the Muslim center with terrifying momentum. Or, to be more precise, there was no one in the Muslim army who could stop Helgi Ragnarsson's advance.
[Piiiiik—]
A seagull, brazenly flying over the human battlefield to prove its courage to the females, suddenly spotted a strange sight and cocked its head.
[Hwooong—! Seogeok! Seogeok! Puhwaak—! Hwooong— Kwajik!]
"Shayāṭīn—!"
"Stop the devil!"
"Bring that one down!"
[Piiiik-piik!]
A momentum that made even a bird, which had no particular interest in the strange behavior of humans, flee by instinct. The great sword that stirred a vicious wind descended again in a diagonal line.
[Hwooong—]
"Uwaaaa!"
[Seogeok—!]
"—Aak!"
Those who held their shields and stood firm before it, those who put all their strength into meeting it with their swords—all, regardless of the size of their courage or the quality of their armor and shields, were cut and broken in the same manner. Before long, the North African warriors who had been renowned among the Muslims had all fallen, and the North African men who still survived and aimed their spears watched the heathen warrior who wielded the great sword with both hands to shake off the blood.
[Hwiik—! Chwahak! Chalgeurak— Chalgeurak—]
Though the din of the battlefield must have been overwhelming, before that gigantic warrior alone, all the noise of the world seemed to hold its breath. At first they were startled by his great height and bulk, and when he charged forward alone like a madman, they had sneered at him. But without the polished technique of a seasoned swordsman, simply chopping down and slashing sideways, that sword could not be stopped by anyone. Whenever the green eyes gleamed wickedly through the strange face-guard that covered his face, the blade of Shayāṭīn reaped the lives of many faithful Muslims.
The Muslim warriors who had charged forward with vigor had to halt, and the wolves of the North Sea, including Stórolf, did not miss that opening.
"Charge! Charge!"
"Yaaaaa!"
"Fylkir! Give us strength!"
"Urya!"
[Hwirik— Hwirik— Hwirik— Peok! Peobeobeok!]
The throwing axes, hurled from a short distance, mercilessly shattered shields or whatever lay beyond, and before the Muslim warriors could recover their bodies and shields, the spear-blades, axe-blades, and sword-blades flew in ruthlessly seeking blood.
"Aak!"
"Keok! Keureuk— Kulleok!"
A battle line is something that surges like a living creature; when it holds firm, it seems it will not waver before the greatest waves and storms, but once it breaks, it collapses like dominoes one after another. The only thing that could staunch this looming tragedy was committing the reserves. But unfortunately for the Muslim warriors, what they felt behind them was not the footfall of men but the vibration of four-legged beasts moving.
[Dugudugudugu—]
Nikephoros, who had split his cavalry in half, using one half to pin down the enemy cavalry and the other half to strike the enemy's main force, was ruthlessly charging into the rear of the Muslim warriors.