Plunder (3)
My heart pounded fiercely. I worried that Duke Gerard of Lorraine wouldn't fall for my desperate gamble. But whether due to his arrogance or overconfidence that victory was assured, the duke was acting with reckless bravado bordering on folly. Seizing this sliver of opportunity like a beam of light, I sought to exploit any chance for negotiation. I was gauging how to broach the subject when the duke spoke first.
"Well, cunning Robert. Trying to stall for time, are you? Haven't you considered that if this drags on, you lot adrift in the sea will tire and sink?"
At his words, I glanced immediately toward the beach. As he said, the Vikings floating in the water showed faint signs of exhaustion from treading frantically.
"Even if you're banking on our cavalry not being able to enter the sea, if we just hold out like this, you'll be the ones defeated."
Defeated. Just as he claimed, if time passed like this, the Vikings would drown without even fighting. Sure, some might survive by swimming to shore, but the moment they did, the cavalry would chase them down. Yet showing weakness now would invite the duke to pounce. Gritting my teeth, I bluffed boldly.
"Defeat? It won't be us—it'll be you who falls."
"Bluffing, eh."
I kept my expression as calm as possible and pointed my axe toward the beach. "Soon, my brothers will arrive to save us."
In truth, my half-brother Geoffrey was set to join our forces for the plunder. The problem was, I had no idea when. I'd only been a Viking for two days, but from what I knew of history, Viking promises were notoriously unreliable. They didn't gather at a precise time and place for battle; instead, they fought whenever enough showed up. A campaign—that's what they called these chains of ongoing raids. If the plunder ended or enemies appeared midway, they fled, so latecomers got nothing. Given that structure, Geoffrey might decide the raid on Reggio Calabria was already over and skip joining us. On the flip side, if he thought plenty of loot remained or it was early in the campaign, he might arrive sooner than expected. In short, our fate hung on Geoffrey's decision.
But there was no reason to tell that to the oblivious Lotharingian nobles. I pressured the duke with absolute certainty that reinforcements were coming.
"Hmph. Even if more barbarians show up, they won't be a match for us."
The duke had a point. Vikings did use cavalry, but coastal raids were mostly infantry affairs—essential for quick strikes and escapes. Knowing this well, he responded firmly, as if seeing through my bluster. "Of course, Vikings would struggle against cavalry. But what if archers on the ships rain arrows down without approaching the shore?"
His brow furrowed at my words. If they shot from the longships without closing in, the cavalry couldn't retaliate and would take losses. They could pull back from the front or retreat inland to minimize damage, but that would mean letting us—their near-certain prize—slip away.
"Ridiculous. Our archers won't just stand by."
He gestured behind him, as if implying a rear guard of archers was imminent. I burst into loud laughter and countered. "If archers had truly followed, you couldn't have reached Reggio Calabria this fast."
The papal army's base was in Rome. No matter how prescient Duke Gerard was about a Viking raid, having archers prepped in advance was absurd. One might think cavalry took longer to ready, but archers actually required more time—due to arrows. They had to carry quivers with dozens, not just one or two. Even if the duke had miraculously prepared them ahead, matching archers' pace to cavalry was impossible. At best, any archers trailing would take at least a week—likely more.
I'd struck a nerve; the duke glared silently. Momentum was mine. Now to press the advantage.
"Meanwhile, our allies will arrive soon." I paused, locking eyes with him. The key was making him think only two paths remained. "You have two choices: get crushed in a pincer attack and lose, or retreat."
The tide had fully turned. He'd surely choose withdrawal now—anything else would sour relations with the pope. In actual history, Gerard had been the pope's loyal servant, fulfilling his duties as papal commander thanks to full papal backing. But this world was different. Geoffrey, who should have been a lord, was still a wandering warlord. Humphrey looked far younger than he should. Something had changed. Proof: Gerard, who ought to have moved with the papal army, was leading his cavalry independently. It hinted at tension between him and the pope—pure speculation, of course. But that wasn't the point now. To survive, I had to try anything.
"Cunning Robert. No—arrogant, as if you know everything." The duke sheathed his sword and eyed me. Just as I'd guessed, he seemed poised to retreat and preserve command. "...You've overlooked one thing: if we behead you before your allies arrive, it's all over."
His chilling words dripped with killing intent. I was stunned inwardly. In novels or games, such standoffs usually ended with the enemy backing down—that's what I'd banked on. But reality wasn't fiction. Kill me and Humphrey before reinforcements hit, and it was game over.
"Don't you Catholic bastards know honor?!"
Humphrey bellowed amid the tense air, but the duke didn't flinch. "Why should we honor thieves and raiders?"
His baton pointed at us. Instantly, the cavalry behind him charged.
"Damn...!"
Like modern tanks, these heavy cavalry—weight and momentum fused into killing machines. If they hit, Humphrey and I were meat. "Run now, Robert!" Humphrey surged forward to block them. "Brother, fall back—I'll hold them...!"
A gruesome crack. He raised his shield too late; it shattered instantly, useless. Our bodies launched into the air, then slammed into the sand.
"This..."
"Hah... hah..."
Pain like torn muscles. A split second later, and it would've been my skull, not the shield.
"Next time, crush their heads."
At the duke's order, the knight who'd struck us charged again. To live, I had to act. But my shield was splintered, axe flung far away.
"Damn..."
Then I spotted a spear—left amid plundered Viking loot. I snatched it and thrust at the oncoming rider. The sudden counter startled him. The mounted soldier tried wheeling his horse late, but the spear tip pierced the horse's neck and gutted the rider's belly.
Impaling a charging cavalryman with one spear thrust. Unbelievable from a modern perspective. But this body—Robert's Viking frame—made the impossible real. The knight crumpled, blood gushing from his gut.
The duke's face twisted in disbelief. "Downing cavalry with a spear."
Capturing knights with spears sounded easy but was insane. History recorded single cavalry mowing down hundreds of infantry. Their charge pulverized everything; even if it failed, their speed made counterattacks near-impossible. It demanded lightning reflexes and strength to thrust before the horse closed—enough to penetrate armor. Felling one knight with a lone spear was sheer luck. And I'd—Robert had—done it. If I could scarcely believe it, the duke, witnessing his man fall, was shattered.
"All units, charge! Trample him!"
No more mercy. He unleashed the full cavalry. One was luck; the whole unit was suicide. Death loomed inevitable.
Then, a horn blared from behind.
Bwooooooo!
The eerie Viking war horn, signaling plunder. Every Lotharingian soldier knew it.
"Th-that's... enemy reinforcements!"
"The barbarians' supports are really here!"
Hearing it, the charging cavalry faltered. Even the duke panicked. "Reinforcements actually arrived?!"
His face was incredulous. Humphrey and I turned in shock toward the sound. Dozens of longships with Viking shields appeared. The most ornate one bore our half-brother Geoffrey.
Spotting us on the beach—and the duke attacking—Geoffrey roared in fury. "Rain arrows on the enemy!"