Plunder (2)
A peaceful city. In an instant, it was filled with screams.
“Sa… save me!”
“P… please…!”
“Don’t kill them all—capture them alive!”
At the man’s shout, the Vikings began hurling ropes or leaping forward to snatch people away. The townsfolk resisted, but they could scarcely escape the brute strength of these peerless warriors, mercenaries who had spent their lives on the battlefield. As women and children were helplessly seized, the men took up arms to protect their wives and children.
“You barbarians! Release my wife and daughter!”
These were men who had lived their whole lives as farmers, merchants, artisans, or blacksmiths. Though they swung their weapons with all their might, a single axe blow from a Viking subdued them effortlessly.
“Their resistance is fiercer than expected.”
The Vikings’ leader, Humphrey, scowled as he surveyed the battlefield. In the regions of Gaul where he had fought before, most people surrendered the moment Vikings appeared. To be precise, those who could flee did so, leaving behind the sick or lame as bait—like a wolf pack sacrificing part of the flock to evade the predator. But Reggio Calabria was different. Serfs were taking up arms in resistance, and the most vital adult men—essential for labor—were not fleeing but defending their families and property. It was a far cry from the norm, and their demeanor, as if awaiting something, began to stir unease in Humphrey’s heart.
“Sound the retreat horn.”
At Humphrey’s command, his adjutant drew the horn from his belt.
Bwooooooo.
“Kahahahaha! Come here, you feisty wench!”
“Mountains of food piled up!”
“Marble here, marble there!”
Blinded by plunder, the Vikings showed only halfhearted response to the retreat signal. Humphrey scowled and repeated the order. But with some still refusing to return, he had no choice but to deploy the elite guard.
“Send in the elite guard. Punish anyone who disobeys their orders.”
At Humphrey’s command, his personal guard—standing behind him—sprang into action. Drawing swords, they moved through the Vikings, and at their shouts, the wild colts among the raiders began to fall back.
“Retreat alone isn’t enough—I need to call Robert now.”
His clever younger brother, Robert. Humphrey trusted that Robert would share this unease he felt. He summoned his brother to address the situation.
“You called for me, brother?”
A tall, lean frame packed with muscle here and there. His young brother appeared—not yet a full warrior, but that hardly mattered now. What they needed was someone to grasp the overall situation and devise tactics and strategy. Robert fit the bill perfectly.
“Look down there first.”
Humphrey pointed to the base of the hill. There, men and elders were resisting with weapons in hand.
“It’s different from Neustria. Normally, they’d abandon the fight and flee, but they’re holding out.”
“As if they’re waiting for something, you mean?”
Humphrey’s eyes widened at Robert’s words, which seemed to read his mind. He cut straight to the point.
“Something’s up. Do you know what it is?”
Robert fell into thought for a moment, then answered.
“Do you remember Gerard of Lorraine, brother?”
“Gerard of Lorraine? I don’t recall every Lotharingian, but him—I remember.”
Gerard of Lorraine, Duke of Lorraine. During the Vikings’ raids on Neustria—the northern regions of Francia—he had been a constant thorn in their side. With Lorraine’s ongoing trade with northern France, they had no choice but to block the Vikings’ southward push to minimize damage. And Gerard had been the most irritating of them all.
“I sent out swift cavalry scouts. One of the Catholic army commanders this time is the Duke of Lorraine.”
Humphrey’s face registered shock. It was startling enough that his brother had sensed the threat ahead of time and scouted the enemy, but identifying the commander so quickly was a massive blow.
“Figuring out the enemy leader in that short time. Impressive as always.”
“You flatter me, brother. More importantly, if it’s the Duke of Lorraine, he surely knows our target already.”
“That fox would, of course. Then…”
Humphrey turned to gaze at the walls of Reggio Calabria. If time dragged on, these locals—who knew the terrain intimately—would surely counterattack using the landscape. That was why Humphrey had deliberately sown terror to incite internal division. Yet contrary to his plan, the townsfolk were resisting.
Which meant…
“The Duke of Lorraine will be here soon.”
Humphrey gritted his teeth. If the Lorraine forces arrived now, his army would be caught between Reggio Calabria’s walls and the enemy. Defeat would be inevitable.
“Damn it… It’s not too late yet! Retreat immedia—”
Bwooooooo.
A leather horn blared from the hill. With it came fluttering cross-emblazoned banners.
“Vile barbarians! The judgment of justice has arrived upon this land!”
The Duke of Lorraine’s booming voice. Behind him, his cavalry raised their weapons. No matter how valiant the Vikings, they were ultimately infantry. Against mounted knights, they were helpless—especially these charging down the hill with terrifying momentum. They were walking death itself.
“Is this how it ends?”
Humphrey’s face went slack with despair. He had come to this distant land with grand dreams of carving out his own territory, only to meet a wretched fate: death. The other Vikings seemed to share the thought, their wills broken as they stared at the oncoming cavalry, awaiting the end.
But one man refused to accept death.
“Brother! We can still live! Pull yourself together!”
It was Robert. At his shout, Humphrey snapped to and looked at his brother, as if begging for a way out of this doom.
“Is there a way?”
“Yes. But you must grant me command.”
Robert’s firm declaration. Humphrey had no desire for a pointless death. He nodded at once.
“From now on, everyone obey Robert!”
Humphrey’s roar echoed, and all eyes turned to Robert. He raised his axe high and bellowed.
“Into the sea! Hurry!”
Into the sea? The Vikings panicked at the order. It would evade the cavalry, but not archers. And in heavy armor, they’d be floating targets, doomed to arrows.
But an order was an order. Reggio Calabria hugged the coast, so the sea was near. The Vikings hurled down their loot and armor, diving in.
“Pwah!”
“Glug glug.”
As the Vikings entered the water, Robert picked up an abandoned axe, gripped it firmly alongside his shield.
“No one passes this point!”
His shout, the stance of a true warrior. The Vikings afloat could only gaze in awe.
“A true Einherjar…”
“Who could stand so boldly before hundreds of cavalry?”
The Vikings fell silent in reverence. Greed-blinded, they had fled into the sea, abandoning even the warrior’s honor of armor to save their skins. Unlike them, Robert—who had shunned plunder—stood alone on the beach with axe and shield, buying time to save them all by blocking the cavalry from the stragglers.
The Vikings—and their leader Humphrey—watched it all.
“Shameful.”
Humphrey stared wordlessly at his brother, then—as if resolved—grabbed an axe and stood beside him.
“Humphrey of Hauteville stands here!”
Startled, Robert turned to him.
“Brother? What are you doing? You must flee! If you’re captured, it’s over for everyone.”
“I can’t abandon my brother and run. Better to slit my own throat than live with that shame.”
Humphrey’s resolute gaze. Robert gritted his teeth, then nodded.
“Do as you will, brother. But you must obey my orders.”
Humphrey realized his brother had a plan. A clever youth couldn’t possibly hold the beach alone against hundreds of cavalry—it was absurd. He nodded.
“I’ll follow your words as Odin’s command.”
With Humphrey’s pledge secured, Robert nodded.
“What touching brotherhood.”
Someone clapped as he stepped forward. Cross-emblazoned ornate armor—unmistakably the Duke of Lorraine in all his splendor.
“Do you pagans who persecute Christians know how laughable it is to ape honor now?”
Robert lowered his weapon and met the duke’s eyes.
“Duke of Lorraine.”
“You know me, barbarian?”
“Well enough. The Vikings you slew in Lotharingia await in Valhalla to judge you.”
The duke laughed loudly.
“Hahaha! Amusing. This world holds only God’s grace—no heaven for heretics.”
Slowly drawing his sword, he aimed it at Robert’s throat.
“Valhalla is just false hope for battlefield losers.”
At the duke’s insults—even against their ancestors—Humphrey stepped forward. But Robert thrust out his axe, blocking his brother from charging in rage.
“That bastard’s insulting not just us, but our forebears.”
“Forgot our promise already, brother?”
Humphrey ground his teeth, glaring at the duke. Intrigued, the duke addressed Robert.
“You’re an unusual barbarian. What’s your name?”
“Robert Guiscard.”
The duke murmured the name softly, like a cat pondering how to toy with a cornered mouse.