87.
87.
"Loose!"
[Pshyoo! Pshyoo-pshyoo-pshyoo! Shwaaaaak-!]
I had given the order to fire without hesitation, and I knew that under Hrolf and Björn's training, the army's combat power had risen by an entire level, but even so, our archers' skill was truly remarkable.
There was no wasted motion in the way they nocked and drew their bowstrings in unison, and not a single one of them fumbled and dropped an arrow.
"The enemy has crossed the second line! Switch to free fire!"
"Rapid fire!"
"Draw your strings faster!"
[Pshyoo! Pshyoo-pshyoo! Pshyoo!]
The arrows that had flown in volleys timed to a beat now began flying without pause. They grew a little faster, yet the cohesion and accuracy of the shots remained undiminished.
But it did not matter, for the number of targets was boundless anyway.
[Bwoooong-! Bwooooooong-!]
"Yaaaaaah-!"
"Warriors of the Lord! Fear not and forward-!"
"Charge-! Charge-!"
The war cries of the enemy charging in unison at the sound of two horn blasts reached my ears vividly only now. That meant the distance between the enemy and us had shrunk that much.
'But we hold the high ground, and you hold the low.'
A charge like that... it is embarrassing for me to say this myself, but unless someone of my caliber stood at the vanguard, achieving the objective would be difficult.
Especially under a rain of arrows like this.
[Pshyoo! Pshyoo-pshyoo-pshyoo! Shwaack- Shwaaack-]
[Thwack! Thwack-thwack! Thwack! Ting-!]
"Gahk!"
"Aaargh!"
"Guh... grrrrgle... grgle..."
They had lowered their shields for only a moment to charge, and in that gap, arrows burrowed into tender skin, striking enemy bone or piercing straight through.
Those hit in the eye died instantly, and those struck in the throat slowly perished, foaming blood. But on a battlefield, that was a natural sight, not the least bit strange.
The charge of the enemy, who had already stepped into the realm of madness, faltered only briefly—it did not stop.
"For the Lord! For the— gahk!"
"Long live Edmund Cyning! East Anglia forever!"
"Do not fall back! Forward!"
Tears streamed from bloodshot eyes without the men themselves even knowing, and in the enemy who came shrieking at the top of their lungs, driven by fury, there was no discipline to be found.
There were only men who had flung themselves into madness to overcome their own fear.
Tremendous courage, but that alone was not enough.
The ones standing in their way were soldiers who stood one rung higher on the ladder of the mind.
Men who had resolved to make this insanity called war their profession.
And they were Norsemen, drilled to the breaking point by men who had spent entire lives in war and fighting.
"Shields up!"
"Shields up-!"
"Spears forward!"
"Spears forward-!"
Rather than being consumed by hot blood and madness, these soldiers executed a sequence of motions like machines, under a discipline that seemed to have compressed all that energy and packed it down tight.
[Pshyoo! Pshyoo-pshyoo! Thwack! Thwack-thwack-thwack!]
"Yaaaaaah-!"
[Boom! Bang! Boom-boom! Boom!]
Under yet another volley, the enemy ranks melted away, and Edmund's soldiers, who had luckily survived beside and behind their falling comrades, hammered with all their might at the Norsemen's shields.
No matter how gentle the slope, it was fundamentally inevitable that looking down from above was more advantageous than looking up from below.
The Norsemen, already blessed with naturally larger frames, withstood the enemy's desperate charge without any real difficulty, and soon, chillingly cold voices rang out from across the line.
"Wolves of Hel! We hold here!"
"Awo-ooooooo-!"
"Now! Open shields!"
"Shields! Open-!"
[Chk! Hwik- hwik-hwik- Pook! Poo-pook!]
"Aagh!"
"Gahk!"
"Shields close!"
[Chk!]
Björn's iron discipline and the aggressiveness Hrolf had kept alive now stirred in the same moment. The Norsemen's line opened and closed their shields, gauging the enemy's density and force under the judgment of the grizzled veterans—the deputies—stationed throughout the ranks.
From the momentarily opened gaps in the shields, long, sharp spears thrust out without fail, biting into the throats of the enemy frantically hammering at the shield wall, and the gaps snapped shut again in an instant.
That sequence of work was closer to a cold, mechanical motion than ferocity. And so the enemy assault, which had charged in with the momentum to tear everything down, soon lost its edge.
[Bwoooong- Bwoong- Bwoong- Bwoong- - -!]
Soon after, a long horn blast followed by three short signals sounded in succession, and the enemy host that had hurled itself forward like madness began to ebb away like a tide—watching that sight, the Norsemen's line merely restored their disrupted ranks with the same cold composure.
Not a single man broke out to pursue.
[Pshyoo! Pshyoo-pshyoo-pshyoo!]
Instead, the arrows that flew once more only added to the tally of the dead.
And so, Burgred and Edmund's first assault, which had thrust fiercely toward the Norsemen's center, ended after half a day with nothing gained.
*****
'Good Lord, how can those men fight like that?'
Alfred, the young prince of Wessex, was mounted and observing the tide of battle from the rear of the Mercian and East Anglian central army, at Burgred's side.
The Ealdormen of Mercia, who had been so confident when they first arrived on this broad plain and sized up the enemy's numbers—now their mouths might as well have been sealed with wax, for not a single one of them spoke.
Edmund Cyning, who had moved every man present, himself included, with his devout faith, had led the vanguard with a resolute expression, yet in the end, the first day's offensive had failed, ending with the signal to withdraw.
'It was meant to test the enemy's strength, but they pulled back far too weakly.'
"Hah. Well now. I have heard that the Norsemen's Konungr is a monster, but I have never heard it said that even his underlings fight that well... They seem like men born for war."
As if he were not the only one stunned by the Norsemen's combat prowess, Burgred Cyning's voice came from beside him. When Alfred turned his head to look at him, Burgred Cyning was gazing at the battlefield with a gravity in his eyes he had never seen before.
His eyes, apart from his admiring tone, were cold and sunken. Such must be the true face of Cynings. From Edmund to Burgred, and to his own beloved brother Æthelred—'There is not a single ordinary man among the Cynings,' Alfred thought to himself.
"Edmund Cyning's charge was brave and honorable, but it fell a little short of breaking through the enemy's defense. Eorl Coenred!"
"Yes, Cyning. Speak."
"Their center is far more formidable than I had thought. What would you advise?"
Once Cyning Burgred and Eorl Coenred opened the flow of conversation, the mood among the other eorls, who had seemed restless, shifted in an instant.
This too was likely Burgred's design. And Eorl Coenred, as if proving he was no ordinary man himself, continued the dialogue without hesitation, playing perfectly into his Cyning's tune.
"There is no man who does not know the Northmen are skilled warriors, my Cyning. But this is our land. Our numbers far exceed theirs, and I do not believe the strong men of Mercia are any less than those beasts."
At Coenred's answer to the Cyning's question, delivered with a flash of intense blue eyes, scattered cries of "Hear, hear!" and "Well spoken!" rose from all around.
As a satisfied-looking Burgred signaled for him to continue, Coenred bowed his head respectfully and laid out the plan he had in mind.
"Thanks to the valiant charge of Cyning Edmund and his East Anglian warriors, we learned that their defense is quite solid. So, as Cyning Burgred originally planned, we need only eliminate their advantage."
As Coenred lifted his head again, his face was filled with strong conviction.
"Crush them with numbers, Cyning. Hold their attention in the center, and throw greater weight onto our left wing to push through their flank."
For everything you gain, there is something you must lose.
They had anchored their defense firmly against the hills, but the fundamental difference in numbers remained, and they had sacrificed their mobility.
Coenred's words were meant to strike at that very weakness.
"Especially on our left, their right flank—it is practically open ground. We can deploy our forces there as freely as we wish."
"Or—"
It was at this point that Burgred, who had been listening silently to Coenred, interjected.
"Or we could go beyond their defense and make a wide flanking movement... would that not work?"
"Indeed, Cyning."
"Hmm—"
'If only we could use the whole breadth of the battlefield, nothing would be better.'
Cyning Burgred commanded three hundred cavalry. No matter how powerful the warriors, using only them to strike the enemy's rear was nonsense. That meant the infantry would have to move deep into the enemy lines, but the stream running behind the hills posed a problem.
'If it succeeds, we could encircle them perfectly, but...'
Would their Konungr simply stand by and watch such a maneuver?
In Alfred's mind, the memory of Cyning Edmund's charge arose—the one that had failed to push the enemy's defensive line back by even a single step. Could Mercia fare any better?
'Would we not simply be defeated in detail...'
"The enemy is strong, but we are no less so, and with numbers on our side, my heart has no desire to take on such great risk."
"As you will, my Cyning."
"My thanks, Coenred. Your support is always a great strength to me. Cyning Edmund has shown that his own oath was by no means given lightly, and so the men of Mercia must answer in kind. Is that not so!?"
"It is! Cyning!"
"The men of Mercia are the finest men in Britain!"
"That pack of lawless beasts will soon learn whose front yard they have wandered into!"
After gazing with satisfaction upon the lords who responded as one, Burgred nodded.
"Tomorrow, our army will fall upon the enemy from three sides at once. The first man to strike down one of their warriors, the first to breach their shield wall, and the first to slay their Jarl and their Konungr—announce to our warriors that to him shall go a great reward!"
"Understood! Cyning!"
Among the eorls, who already seemed flushed with victory at the prospect of rewards, Burgred's smile was bright, but his eyes were not smiling at all.
And beyond his face, the figures of the East Anglian warriors who had succeeded in retreating, and of Cyning Edmund, overlapped in the distance.
'This will not be a battle finished in a single morning. Damn, perhaps I truly will have to send a letter to my brother...'
Thinking of his brother in the palace at Winchester, Alfred could not shake the thought of the enemy leader, Konungr Helgi, from his mind.
For the Northern Dragon had not yet even shown his face upon the battlefield... and if even half the countless rumors surrounding him proved true, this battle was all too likely to grow far more difficult than expected.
'God, protect us.'
Recalling the holy cross that had hung in the great cathedral of Rome, where he had once stood as a child beside his father, Alfred sought God.
*****
At the same hour, off the southwestern coast of the island of Britain.
"Hey, Chief! We're not going to get stabbed in the back doing this, are we?"
"Haah— just how many times are you going to ask that? How many times have I told you, he's not that kind of man! I said if you don't like it, then leave!"
"No, who said they didn't like it? Damn, always so crooked! I'm asking because I'm worried! Worried!"
"Don't you raise your voice at me back and forth like that, damn it! I'm a Jarl!"
"Ah, now that hurts, Chief! Who was it that took an arrow meant for you when we fought those turban-wearing bastards? And when you got drunk and fell into the sea—"
"You're bringing that up again? I get it... so please, just shut up...!"
In contrast to the tumult on the eastern side of the island of Britain, the southwestern coast, which bore an almost tranquil air, was host to figures of uncertain identity raising their voices.
Had anyone with a bit of knowledge of languages been listening, they would have recognized their speech as the Norse tongue, mixed with a Frankish accent.
"I'll explain it to you one more time. The words of Björn, whom you all love so well, and what I saw with my own two eyes—it's certain! Konungr Helgi Ragnarsson is a man who does not speak with two mouths. In the first place, he has no need to! To Konungr Helgi, a few paltry silver coins as our share isn't even worth worrying about! I mean, isn't it something that he says he doesn't even need the plunder? He's giving us money instead, I tell you!"
"...Good grief. You have to be able to believe it, now don't you. Getting paid to go fight—that's a first for me, I'll say that."
"You've got the right of it there. If not for Jarl Björn's word, I'd never have stepped forward."
"And here I thought the Chief had been taken for a fool, I did."
These bastards...
[Adeuk— ppadeuk—]
Roughly thirty longships.
The man bickering with his men at the head of them was none other than Hásteinn.
Hásteinn and his old comrades were at last making for the western coast of the island of Britain.
The first objective was not to happily plunder the western part of Mercia, now emptied of its main force, alongside the Cymry... but to occupy it. The second objective was not to sweetly plunder western Wessex... but to stamp their footprint there and divert the attention of the Wessex king.
With every man worth fighting having pulled out to the east, where else could you find a better chance to make coin than this? Long live Konungr Helgi!
However, the longer the years they spent together, the more skill his men seemed to develop at getting on his nerves with their wagging tongues, and because of it, Hásteinn was finding his desire to retire growing painfully deep.