The Battle Of Hedal And Modor (4)

The next day.

A room in Modor Castle.

Olaf had left Hedal Castle to meet Seveldrun at Modor Castle for a strategy meeting. While discussing troop placements in the mountainous region between the castles, a lancer officer rushed in.

“Scout’s report: about 400 enemies are gathered on the plain between Hedal and Modor.”

It was the scout’s report.

“Four hundred? Probably a vanguard. They’ve already reached that far.”

Olaf growled.

Seveldrun stared at the map for a long time.

“On this plain? Why would 400 gather on this wide open plain?”

“Maybe they’re waiting there to join and regroup with their main force?”

“No, why would they gather in such numbers on a plain so easily scouted or encircled?”

“Hm…”

At Seveldrun’s words, Olaf tilted his head. It was a valid point.

Then, an adjutant spoke cautiously.

“Could they be unaware we’ve gathered nearly all our forces at these two castles to form a defensive line? They might think our entire army fled to the stronghold. They’re moving carelessly.”

With Seveldrun silent, Olaf pondered for a moment.

“Then this is a protruding stone… 400 out of their 3,000 troops is over an eighth.”

The adjutant nodded, voicing his opinion.

“If we annihilate them, their forces will suffer massive losses, and their overall balance will collapse. Four thousand against 2,600 is a huge difference.”

Seveldrun shook his head.

“Their leader isn’t that foolish. If those damned Nastrand bastards are allied with them in this invasion, the Norger leader surely knows how to see the bigger picture.”

At that moment, another officer rushed in.

“What now?”

“They say the man leading the Norger, Oden, is among those 400 enemies.”

Seveldrun and Olaf shot to their feet.

Olaf shouted.

“Is that true?!”

The officer, brimming with excitement, answered.

“Yes. They say he has a helmet and tent symbolizing a king. A soldier who retreated from their main force recently identified him clearly.”

Seveldrun slammed the table with a loud ‘thud.’

“This is a gamble we can’t avoid.”

Olaf nodded.

“If we kill their king, they’ll become mere rabble, fighting to die or fleeing. It’s their foolish trait—their leader fighting at the forefront.”

“All forces, march to the hill overlooking the plain. As quietly and stealthily as possible. We must absolutely leverage our army’s advantage. Moving as one, we can crush any potential trap with superior numbers. Don’t forget.”

The castle buzzed instantly. Olaf mounted his horse and hurriedly returned to Hedal Castle.

‘They’re coming.’

Oden smiled, looking beyond the forest ahead.

No matter how quietly they moved, a large army’s march would startle birds into flight. In this, those who arrived early and hid, familiar with the terrain, held a great advantage.

Behind him, the 2,600-strong main force was split, hiding in the left and right canyons. The 200 Skjaldmær, led by Bryld, were also divided, concealed in trenches on both sides of the bait unit.

Overnight, they dug trenches, hid inside, and covered them with shields. The bait warriors then perfectly concealed them with dry earth, grass, and wood, enduring nearly a day underground.

Oden and the 200 bait warriors each had a log fixed behind them.

Those logs, dug into the ground, were draped with helmets and clothes.

This made them appear as over 400 men.

“They’re coming.”

“I know. By the way, is there still no response from Nastrand?”

“If they haven’t sent a messenger by now, they’re probably heading straight for the stronghold.”

“Disappointing. Then they’re limited men. They’ll be foes to face later—if they survive.”

Oden smiled.

The odds were fifty-fifty.

Whatever Nastrand chose, they’d have their reasons. Even Oden might think cutting off the stronghold’s lifeline was more symbolic in that situation.

After all, it was natural for both sides to use each other.

“Still, I hoped for someone with a broader perspective. Whether we win here or ascend to Valhalla, holding their army here is enough for them.”

Oden raised one hand high.

At that, the 200 warriors donned bear hides, ate dried poisonous mushrooms, and drank a brew of gerom flower and evening primrose roots.

“Ugh…”

“Guh! Hack!”

Forcing down the bitter taste, swallowing mushrooms and drinking the concoction, the warriors began to tremble violently.

White foam poured from their mouths, their bodies turned dark red, and black and blue pigments under their eyes melted with heat and sweat, streaming down their cheeks.

The first to reach the hill overlooking the plain were the swift lancers and Olaf. Despite Seveldrun’s objections, they’d gone ahead under the pretext of scouting, far ahead of the guards and Seveldrun’s Heavy Armored Knights.

“How is it?”

At the adjutant’s question, Olaf smirked, as if it couldn’t be better.

“Isn’t this the perfect place for us? How many battlefields are better for horses?”

He scanned the forest on the opposite hill. A faint unease stirred, but the thrill of excitement drowned it out.

“We’ll savor a glorious opening battle. No, the war’s greatest triumph. Right there, the Norger tribe’s fate will be sealed, thanks to their foolish carelessness.”

Olaf ordered the 400 lancers to ready their spears and form a charge formation.

The adjutant was shocked.

“The guards and Heavy Armored Knights haven’t arrived yet!”

“When they arrive, I’ll show them their king’s head, cut by my hand.”

“Their forces are nearly equal to ours!”

Olaf frowned.

“Their weapons are just swords and axes. Trample them with horses and skewer them with lances—it’s over. What easier prey is there for Fjorland’s lancers?”

“But, even so, didn’t Sir Seveldrun order us to wait until the full army arrives?”

“With the momentum of charging down this hill, we’ll crush their shields. Then we circle and stab them. Their king is in there, and I’ll cut his throat myself.”

“Even for a surprise attack, shouldn’t we consult Sir Seveldrun and get his permission?”

“What if they escape? What if we miss their king? Their foolish formation is our chance. Look at that line—can you even call it a formation?”

The adjutant, speechless, closed his mouth.

Confirming the charge formation was ready, Olaf blew a long blast on his horn.

At the signal, the 400 lightly armored lancers, spears forward, thundered down the hill with a roar.

The vibration from 400 warhorses was so grand it made everyone on the plain tremble.

The lancers charged down the hill, kicking up clouds of dust.

Before the warriors, dazed with clouded eyes, Oden drew his axe and chanted to the sky.

“Behold, there are our fathers.

“Behold, there are our mothers and siblings.

“Behold, there our ancestors feast with swords and axes.

“They say,

“Odin and Freyja watch to see who is worthy to join us.”

“Ughh, grrr…”

Warriors trembled, eyes rolling back, muscles swelling wildly.

His low voice continued.

“Olrun and Manafreya have spread the golden scroll.

“They prepare to inscribe your names one by one.

“Valkyries ride wolves, soaring through the sky, singing.

“Today, with the blood of enemies and our own,

“We will etch our names on that scroll.”

By now, the lancers were charging toward them at breakneck speed.

The front line, charging in a wedge formation, was shocked to see the Norger tribe neither scrambling nor forming ranks late.

On horseback, they exchanged puzzled glances, but it was too late to alter the momentum-driven charge formation.

“Break through and trample them! Then circle the perimeter and skewer them all with lances!”

Olaf shouted frantically from the rear.

Even without his orders, that was the lancers’ purpose. For decades in Nordenheim, alongside the Heavy Armored Knights, they were known as the mightiest unit with invincible tactics.

Oden, seeing the lancers closing in, shouted.

“Everyone, behind the trees!”

The 200 growling warriors retreated at once.

Then, 200 wooden poles hidden behind them appeared, with thick ropes tied between them—traps to trip horses’ legs.

“…!!!”

The lancers were stunned by the sudden sight of numerous obstacles.

The vanguard, already at the Norger’s doorstep, yanked their reins back. But the momentum-driven horses couldn’t stop and crashed into the poles, falling.

“Whoa! Whoa!”

Lancers who managed to turn their horses collided with the onrushing allies behind, tumbling.

“Just charge! Charge!”

Olaf screamed frantically.

The chaotic formation slowed drastically, weaving through the narrow gaps between poles. Lancers struggled to control horses and avoid collisions with allies.

In that fleeting moment, Oden ordered the retreated warriors to charge.

“Oooooohh!!!!”

Trembling, gripping swords and axes, shouting, the warriors plunged into the disordered lancers.

In the tangled chaos, with horses uncontrollable, the lancers’ long spears were useless. Warriors hacked and slashed their thighs and legs, dragging riders down to stab their throats.

“Drop the spears! Drop them! Draw your swords!”

The adjutant screamed wildly from horseback.

Seeing this, Oden picked up a fallen lancer’s spear and hurled it with all his might.

The spear pierced the adjutant’s stomach, protruding through his back.

Amid the vanguard’s utter chaos, Olaf, pale with shock, ordered the faltering rear cavalry to flank and attack from the side.

“The enemy is fewer than expected! Encircle them! Encircle!”

As about half the lancers broke ranks to move to the battlefield’s flanks, attempting to form an encirclement, Oden raised his sword and shouted.

“Skjaldmær!!!”

At that moment, the ground slightly away from the battlefield stirred, and, as if rising from the earth, Bryld’s dirt-covered Skjaldmær crawled out. They’d been waiting for the cavalry to discard their long spears and draw swords in the melee.

Wielding slender, pointed swords specialized for thrusting and shields, they began to attack the lancers’ rear from both sides as they tried to complete the encirclement.

“This, this can’t be… No!”

Olaf’s eyes filled with horror. His choice to swiftly take Oden’s head for glory was bringing the worst outcome for him and Fjorland.