Invasion Of The Norger

From the direction of Arendal, flames of catastrophe rose as a guard whipped his horse madly toward Kunslatten Castle.

“Urgent news! Urgent news! The Norger are invading in full force!”

At his hoarse cries from atop his horse, the gates of Kunslatten Castle creaked open.

Until Count Schoener, who ruled the Kunslatten region, appeared, the guard calmed his bursting chest by drinking water given by a soldier.

Soon, Count Schoener approached him hurriedly with several knights.

“A massive invasion of the Norger? What do you mean by that?”

“The exact number is unclear, but it appears to be in the thousands. By now, the border posts must all have fallen!”

“The villages!”

“I warned every village I passed. Another guard rode toward Arendal Castle and its villages, so I do not know their situation precisely…”

“Understood! Sir Sigfrid, prepare the defenses at once!”

Schoener gave the order, looking to a knight.

But the knight shook his head grimly.

Inside the castle were twenty knights and about 150 soldiers.

Including border garrisons, the total might have been 200 men, but no one expected the fifty out on duty to all return safely.

“Lord, even if we defend the castle, how long can we last against thousands of Norger? It will only be piecemeal slaughter.”

“And what then, that we just sit and watch their invasion? Send word to the Fjorland capital, and here we must hold them as long as possible!”

“Better to abandon this castle, retreat, and join with other forces to build a stronger defensive line. Only with the main army from the capital can we gain numerical superiority and drive them back at once!”

“And what of all these villages and their people!”

“We must think strategically. When the defensive line is built and the counterattack launched, twenty knights and 200 soldiers will be critical. They must not be wasted here! Time is scarce!”

Already screams echoed throughout the castle, and fear was etched deep into the faces of those running frantically.

Sigfrid seized Schoener’s shoulders and shook him hard, urging a quick decision.

Even now, the swift-footed Norger were burning villages and plundering as they marched toward the castle.

Schoener nodded.

“Open the back gate! Retreat swiftly to Hedaal Castle! Soldiers, hurry the people along! Sir Sigfrid, ride at once to Hedaal and the capital with this news!”

Sigfrid relayed the order to the soldiers.

Before the massive invasion, this small castle quickly opened its escape routes.

But the situation at Arendal Castle was different.

Though smaller than Kunslatten, Baron Sketil of the Arendal family, who had long protected this land, had no intention of yielding it to the Norger.

Moreover, due to frequent Norger raids and border incursions, the people here were well-accustomed to wielding swords and spears.

Sketil believed defending the small castle and inviting a siege was meaningless.

He sent the women, elderly, and children to Hedaal, then with about ten knights, a hundred soldiers, and armed peasants gathered nearby, he took position on a hill along the road to the castle. The old priest of the assembly hall and an acolyte went about laying their hands on foreheads, giving blessings.

A scout returned on horseback.

“The Norger are sacking Lote village! It seems a detachment split off from the main host to plunder!”

“Really? How many?”

“No more than thirty!”

“All troops, advance on Lote village!”

The Arendal force, under Sketil’s command, climbed the ridge overlooking Lote, their family banner and the Fjorland flag flying.

Amidst flames burning everywhere, corpses of men lay scattered, and a young woman with her blouse torn clutched her bare chest as she ran from a house, only to be seized by the hair and dragged back inside by a Norger man.

All around, clothes, dishes, and valuables were being looted and piled up. An old woman staggered forward to protest, only to have a fist slam into her face.

“You bastards!!!”

Sketil roared like thunder and ordered the charge.

The mounted knights charged into the village, followed by infantry pouring down with shields, spears, and swords.

Startled, some of the Norger abandoned their looting and quickly formed a small shield wall between houses. But they were too few, and with others still rummaging inside homes, their formation was broken.

The knights’ horses smashed through the shields, and their swinging blades sent blood spraying from Norger heads.

“You dare invade Arendal, dare invade the Fjorland Duchy!”

Sketil, among the knights, thrust his spear, leading by example as lord and spurring his men to fight.

Other Norger warriors belatedly rushed out of houses, swinging axes and swords as they clashed fiercely with knights and soldiers.

The power of their axes shattered soldiers’ shields, and their sharp, sturdy swords pierced scale armor.

“Guaaaahhh!!!”

At a tremendous scream, all turned to see: a Norger giant, twice as broad and a head taller than others, raised a massive axe and brought it down on a knight’s chest.

The axe pierced armor, body, and into the ground, lodged deep and immovable.

A trembling soldier thrust a spear into the giant’s back. The giant flinched, then reached back, snapped the shaft, pulled out the head, and flung it away.

“Balrak! Balrak! Balrak!”

Nearby warriors chanted his name, rousing him on.

He wrenched his axe free, seized the broken spear, and in one stroke took off the terrified soldier’s head.

“I’ll kill that one myself!”

Sketil leveled his spear at Balrak, fury blazing in his eyes. But three knights spurred their horses around Balrak, thrusting lances and blades, as if to restrain their lord’s recklessness.

“Cowards! You’re not even men!”

Balrak raged, parrying thrusts of spears and blades. Nearby Norger warriors were too locked in battle to aid him.

“Die, Norger scum!”

A knight spurred forward and drove his lance through Balrak’s chest. But Balrak seized the shaft and the knight himself, dragging him from the saddle.

Balrak’s iron fist crushed the knight’s face through his helmet—nose flattened, teeth shattered, eyes bulging—until another knight’s sword finally severed his neck.

The body, spurting blood from its stump, convulsed and toppled backward.

The knight who beheaded Balrak rushed to his fallen comrade, but the crushed skull showed he was already dead.

Seeing their champion slain, the Norger grew wilder, but numbers weighed against them.

Yet not one threw down his weapon or surrendered.

For the Norger, death was no fear. The braver they fought, the higher their seat at the gods’ feast in the afterlife.

And so, to the last man, they fell with smiles on their faces, spears through their hearts.

“Phew…”

Sketil wiped the blood smeared across his face after all enemies lay dead.

The losses were devastating. Half the ten knights were gone, soldiers severely reduced. Against such numbers they should have been crushed—yet the Norger warriors had proven terrifyingly strong.

When the villagers saw all the Norger dead, they emerged disheveled from houses and cellars.

Faces full of terror, clothes torn, eyes wet with tears.

Sketil and his surviving men felt their hearts rend at the sight.

Still, it was a victory—and he needed to rally villagers and soldiers with it.

“Vigel! Where is Vigel?”

Sketil called out for a soldier.

“Here, My Lord!”

A middle-aged soldier, drenched in blood, stepped forward.

“Sound the horn of victory. The Arendal force has triumphed over the Norger. Gather the villagers, we return to the castle.”

Knights and soldiers nodded, cheering.

Vigel raised the horn to the sky—and froze.

“What are you waiting for, Vigel?”

Sketil urged him—then saw fear flood his eyes. Slowly he turned to where Vigel was looking.

The ridge they had descended earlier.

Hundreds of Norger now covered it.

Their shields, lined in ranks, formed a wall like a fortress.

And not only there—from the border side, dozens more advanced with shields and swords. Left and right, Norger warriors closed in, sealing every escape.

“Oh, Lord… please! Mercy!”

The priests who had been closing the dead’s eyes and tending wounds fell to their knees and made the Sign of the Cross.

They kissed the crucifixes on their necks, praying through tears, resigned to death.

Sketil gathered knights, soldiers, and villagers.

Only now did he regret his rash sally—but it was spilled water.

“Pile everything between houses—furniture, enemy corpses, anything—into barricades. Anyone with strength, be it child, elder, or woman, take up whatever you can!”

At their Lord’s command, knights, soldiers, and villagers moved in unison.

“We await the day we meet the Lord at the end of all tribulation, who is ever with us in suffering—”

Sketil strode to the kneeling old priest and acolyte, roughly hauling them to their feet.

“Your hands should not grasp rosaries now—but these sword hilts!”

He thrust into their hands the heavy Norger swords, slick with blood and fat.

With trembling hands, the priests accepted them.

“Hear me all!”

Sketil cried out.

“Remember this—every enemy we slay means more of Fjorland’s people live! We too carry warriors’ blood and hearts!”

All heads nodded.

“Today may be the last day of Arendal Castle and the Arendal family—but in Fjorland’s history, it will be remembered as the beginning of a great victory! Future sagas will recall our valor!”

“Ooooooohhh!”

All raised blades and spears, shouting in defiance.

And then, with earth-shaking thunder, the Norger swarmed in from all sides.