Chapter Forty-One: You Will Be Made into a Blood Eagle

"Damn those turtle shells!" Ralph cursed in fury, his heart filled with hatred for those sturdy, tortoise-like shields.

The soldiers moved slowly across the plain, holding their shields in a protective formation as they advanced toward the nearby woods. Under the suppression of incoming arrows, the archers and crossbowmen huddled behind the shields could not lift their heads to retaliate; any attempt to do so was met with lethal precision. Ralph and his companions could only rely on their bows to slow the enemy's advance, but their arrows failed to pierce the shields, leaving the Viking warriors behind them unscathed.

"Use javelins!" Ralph commanded fiercely.

He drew a javelin from his quiver, gripped it tightly, and spurred his horse toward the shield wall, followed closely by his riders. The Vikings felt the hail of arrows against their shields slacken by at least half. Although Jorgen and his men continued to harass them, the warriors dared not risk exposing their heads to assess the situation. They heard a rapid thunder of hooves growing closer, like an approaching storm.

"Defend! Defend! Prepare to repel the charge!" Ludwig shouted frantically, his voice strained to its limit.

Under his command, the Viking warriors thrust their spears through the gaps in the shields, angling the points toward the ground to create a rigid defensive line against the cavalry.

"Ready javelins!" Ludwig roared again. A group of warriors quickly drew their throwing spears from their backs, gripping them in reverse, ready to launch.

The hoofbeats neared like rolling thunder, accompanied by a chorus of whistling. Ralph and his men used the momentum of their galloping horses to hurl their javelins with devastating force. Ludwig heard a muffled grunt beside him, and a cold sweat broke out on his brow as another javelin, carrying immense kinetic energy, pierced a wooden shield and struck a warrior directly in the crown, pinning him mercilessly to the ground.

Seven or eight warriors fell in the same manner, creating gaps and chaos in the defensive line. Nearby soldiers scrambled to fill the breaches, struggling to stabilize their formation. In this moment of confusion, Jorgen’s riders pulled their horses to the side. Staying just within range, they switched to lighter, faster-firing bows and picked off several Vikings who were attempting to adjust their formation.

"Throw!" Ludwig screamed again. Warriors stood up to hurl their spears toward the sound of the galloping horses, but they were quickly shot down; many took arrows to their arms, rendering them unable to fight.

By all accounts, the riders should have collided with the spears by now. Yet, Ralph did not charge into the shield wall; instead, he skillfully veered away, maintaining a distance. The javelins, unable to travel far, merely thudded into the dirt.

Ludwig and his troops were pinned, unable to move the shield wall. Every time they tried to advance, Ralph would return like a persistent mosquito, closing in briefly to launch another volley of javelins. This cavalry tactic was maddeningly effective. Ludwig had never seen such a strategy before; in his experience, cavalry were rarely a match for infantry, and equal numbers of horsemen usually could not overcome an equal number of foot soldiers. However, the coordination and tactics of this unit completely overturned his understanding. Their attacks were swift and savage, catching the infantry completely off guard. He had to admit that their combat effectiveness far exceeded his expectations. He realized he needed to rethink how to counter this new tactical challenge.

He feared the cavalry would suddenly launch a full charge, so whenever the hoofbeats drew near, they were forced to halt, thrusting their spears through the shield gaps to defend and counter. He had never encountered such a cunning enemy; it felt like punching a cotton ball with all his might—utterly futile. If this continued, all hundred warriors from the two territories would eventually be exhausted.

"Who are you people? Did that despicable woman send you to kill me?" Ludwig’s voice rang out, but Ralph did not respond. The others didn't understand what was happening; they simply followed orders by instinct.

Using the same tactic again and again, Ludwig left a trail of corpses in his wake. Watching their companions fall one by one while unable to even glimpse the enemy, the morale of the Viking warriors plummeted to its nadir. They did not collapse or flee only because they were sustained by their unwavering faith in the Aesir.

"Odin, grant us the strength of the ancients!" Finally, unable to bear it any longer, one warrior rushed toward Ralph and his men, shield held high, followed by several others in a frenzy of madness. They were promptly struck down by Jorgen’s arrows, collapsing to the ground with wails of agony.

The shield wall’s defenses were suddenly riddled with wide gaps. As the warriors scrambled to adjust, they were harassed by Ralph and Jorgen, who had switched back to bows, prepared to meet the charge. Their numbers had been slashed in half, and anxiety consumed Ludwig. At this rate, they would all be buried here. Yet, his faith forbade him from choosing flight.

Jorgen and Ralph swapped roles: Jorgen moved in to attack with javelins, while Ralph used his light bow to harass them. The warriors continued to fall until only twenty remained. Each was wounded, drenched in their own blood and that of their comrades.

"Leader of the enemy, do you have the courage to face me in single combat?" Ludwig’s voice echoed across the field, heavy with challenge. He was at his wit's end.

Faced with this traditional challenge, all the riders paused their assault, waiting for Ralph’s response. Ralph did not reply, only continuing to fire: "Have you forgotten the Lady’s instructions? The commander forbids accepting single combat!"

"Run! Run!" Ludwig’s mind shattered. He screamed in terror. Simultaneously, every warrior cast aside their shields and sprinted toward the nearby woods like madmen.

"Charge! The wild goose formation!" Ralph roared, gripping his horse lance. The first rank of riders followed suit, switching to their lances. The rapid clatter of hooves returned, sounding like a death knell in the ears of the fleeing Ludwig.

"Cowards! Shameless! You have no warrior spirit!" Ludwig cursed while running, gasping for air. His armor had become a burden, and combined with his stout frame, he found himself the slowest of them all.

The hoofbeats grew deafeningly close. Ludwig turned in panic, only to be met by a three-meter-long horse lance thrusting toward him. The short blade on the lance easily pierced his armor—the scale mail given to him by Oni proved as flimsy as paper—and punched through his torso.

"Aaaaaah..."

Amidst his agonizing screams, the warhorse slammed into him, sending him flying a meter away. The rider pulled the blade from his body. Ludwig rolled several times, his bones shattered by the relentless trampling of iron-shod hooves.

The faster warriors met the same fate, impaled by lances. Those lucky enough to avoid the points were knocked down by the horses and trampled to death or injury. Jorgen’s unit had switched to maces, a weapon far more effective at finishing the job. One helmeted warrior felt a wave of despair; he had narrowly dodged several lances, but suddenly, he felt a crushing blow from a mace to his shoulder, causing him to lose his balance.

Just as he thought he would fall and be trampled, another mace smashed into his helmet, caving it in with a deep dent.

"Ugh..." The warrior’s vision went black. He felt a sudden tightness in his chest. In that moment, he thought of his family waiting for him at home, and his younger brother, who had been selected for the Huscarls and, by all accounts, had become an adjutant. He had always been so proud of him.

"Thud." A sharp-eyed rider in the last row spotted him and delivered a final, heavy blow to his face.

The warrior finally collapsed. He tried to prop himself up with his spear, but the strength in his hands faded, and he fell face-first to the earth.

In this battle, aside from two unlucky souls who fell and were dragged by their stirrups, resulting in fractures, not a single rider was injured by the enemy.

As the fighting ceased, Jorgen, who had been charging alongside Ralph, noticed something wrong. The armor on the fallen looked hauntingly familiar—it was the same gear worn by the soldiers of his own territory. Discipline had kept him silent, but now he finally spoke: "My lord, who exactly are the enemies?"

"Traitors!" Ralph replied dismissively.

"Lord Jorgen, something is wrong with these people!" a rider who was cleaning the battlefield and collecting weapons exclaimed.

Jorgen ran over immediately. Ralph did not stop him, waiting quietly for the judgment of fate.

"Brother... how could it be you?" Jorgen recognized the mangled corpse, his voice filled with disbelief and agony.

The corpse could not answer him. Shocked, several other riders began finding the bodies of their own kin, and the scene descended into chaos and grief.

"Murder! This is murder!" a rider realized, pointing an angry finger at Ralph. "You made us kill our own kin! I will make you pay!"

The rider punched Ralph to the ground and grabbed him by the collar, eyes burning with fury: "Why did you do this?"

"Stop!" A rider who, like Ralph, was an orphan of war, stepped in to prevent the conflict from escalating.

Jorgen, tears streaming down his face, carried his father’s body on his back. As he passed Ralph, his eyes were filled with hatred: "Coward! You betrayed me, you betrayed us all, traitor! I will hand you over to Lady Oni! You will be strangled! Beheaded! Turned into a blood eagle! I curse you—I curse you!"

Ralph, knocked down by Jorgen’s blow, said nothing, yet a manic smile spread across his face.