The Battle Of Hedal And Modor (5)

A desperate struggle.

The pride of the Fjorland Duchy, renowned throughout Nordenheim, the Fjorland Lancers were now on the brink of annihilation.

Even Olaf plunged into the fray, swinging his sword frantically, struggling to hold the unit together and press forward.

But the Norger tribe was overwhelmingly fierce.

With opaque gray eyes, trembling violently, they roared and swung swords or axes with their remaining arm even after losing one.

Their seeming immunity to pain, that frenzy, and the female warriors, crouching low, shielding themselves, relentlessly targeting the legs of horses and men alike.

This unprecedented attack style plunged the lancers, specialized in charging on horseback and thrusting spears, into utter chaos.

Having lost mobility, the lancers were as good as limbless. The tangled melee, forcing them to discard familiar spears for swords, drove them deeper into despair.

Crack!

Barely dodging an axe, Olaf slashed the warrior’s throat with his sword.

Drenched in spurting blood, as Olaf tried to catch his breath, a slender blade flashed toward his thigh. Startled, he stumbled back, tripping over a fallen corpse.

“Die, Fjorland scum!”

A female warrior with red hair braided under her helmet laughed, raising her sword high. At that moment, a blade pierced through her chest.

“Dodge! Dodge!”

Pushing aside the convulsing female warrior, frothing blood from her mouth, an adjutant screamed frantically.

Olaf turned to look behind.

Far off, at the hill they’d descended, the Guard Corps and Heavy Armored Knights were arriving.

“Hold on! Hold on! The Heavy Armored Knights and Guard Corps are here!”

Shocked by the horn blast signaling Olaf’s charge, the Guard Corps and Heavy Armored Knights rushed to the hill, but the battle had already turned dire.

Seveldrun’s vision darkened.

The standard Fjorland tactic for large-scale battles was to have the Guard Corps charge first to create chaos, followed by the Heavy Armored Knights adding devastating force, while the lancers cut off retreat routes, striking the enemy’s rear or flanks to annihilate them.

Charging with only the lancers was feasible only when the enemy was vastly outnumbered, in rout, or utterly demoralized.

Ultimately, the goal of taking Oden’s head had completely blinded the already belligerent Olaf.

“What do we do!”

At a knight’s question, Seveldrun clenched his teeth.

“We can’t lose Olaf. He commands the Guard Corps, doesn’t he? And their king is still in there. All forces, charge and erase this melee. Encircle them completely so the Norger king cannot escape.”

At the command, the Guard Corps and Heavy Armored Knights charged down the hill toward the plain. The sight of over 3,500 troops descending, as if filling the plain, was spectacular.

‘Please stay safe until we arrive. I’ll hold you accountable later, but we need you now!’

The heavy armor slowed them, widening the gap, but the Guard Corps still numbered over 3,000—nearly matching the Norger’s total forces.

Amid the earth-shaking sound, Oden calmly watched their approach in the melee.

By now, over half the lancers had fallen, dead. In near-total defeat, the remaining soldiers, seeing reinforcements approach, held on with every ounce of strength.

Though faring better, the approaching Fjorland reinforcements were equally breathless. Rushing up the hill and charging back down without pause, they panted heavily, their urgency heightened by the lancers’ annihilation before them.

As their formation faltered and all forces descended, Oden blew his horn three times.

Boong, boong, boong~~~~!

“Waaaaaaah!!!”

The 2,600 Norger warriors, split and waiting in the forests with strength intact, poured out, crashing into the flanks of the Guard Corps and Heavy Armored Knights.

“This is bad.”

Seveldrun raised his hand, urgently halting the advance. They needed a defensive formation here.

But the order didn’t reach the Guard Corps, stretched long from charging full-speed toward the lancers.

“We have no choice. We fight as we can. After all, we outnumber them!”

Abandoning formation for melee, Seveldrun shouted to boost morale.

It was an objective fact they had superior numbers. But having yielded not one, but two or three steps to the enemy, their morale was utterly crushed.

In this chaos, Seveldrun couldn’t be certain of victory.

“War is momentum, and that momentum is ours!”

Oden shouted, urging his warriors on. Most lancers were down, the few left retreating to join the approaching Guard Corps.

Then Oden’s eyes flashed. The one ordering retreat while fighting to open a path was Olaf.

Holding axes in both hands, Oden walked straight toward Olaf.

Olaf, plunging his sword deep into a Norger warrior’s heart, saw the approaching man and picked up a fallen spear.

The giant man’s attire, intense gaze, necklaces, and armor.

“You’re the leader of these barbarians.”

Olaf believed his final stroke of luck had come. In a battle already won, the leader deliberately stepping forward to face him was a once-in-a-lifetime chance.

Olaf opened his mouth to taunt Oden.

“I must’ve cut down about a dozen of your loyal men? No, no, eight. Four were women, but Norger women don’t count as people, do they?”

Oden said nothing.

“Even so, as a man, my heart ached killing a pretty woman. If I’d caught her, I’d have had some fun.”

With no reaction from Oden, Olaf grew frustrated and lashed out.

“You filthy barbarians, heathens! Don’t rejoice over winning one petty battle. Winning a war matters more than a battle.”

Oden spoke for the first time.

“That war is built from battles like this.”

“I don’t know what courage let you give me time to pick up a spear. And to come face me yourself? This will be your last fight.”

“If you want, I’ll let you mount a horse. Aren’t you the lancers’ leader?”

“What, what?”

Olaf was momentarily flustered, but Oden stood calmly, nodding.

By now, all the lancers around were dead or have fled, leaving Olaf alone. Behind him, a massive melee raged.

Oden raised his hand, commanding the surrounding warriors.

“I’m giving this man a chance. If he defeats me, let him go wherever he wishes.”

“What nonsense!”

Olaf scoffed, but Oden caressed the bone necklace around his neck.

“I swear before Olrun and Manafreya, I’ll keep my word.”

A riderless horse approached. Grabbing the reins and mounting, Olaf mocked Oden.

“Letting me take a spear and now a horse? You’ll regret this forever.”

Olaf rode back, gaining distance, and thrust his spear forward in a charging stance.

Oden stood legs apart, gripping axes in both hands, as if inviting him.

“Go!”

Kicking the horse’s flanks, Olaf charged with a yell, spear extended. The reach advantage meant the spear would pierce Oden’s heart before he could swing his axes.

But Oden waited until he was close, then hurled both axes with all his strength in quick succession.

Caught off guard, Olaf swung his spear to deflect the first axe. But the second, following close, split his forehead and flew past.

Falling from the galloping horse, Olaf trembled, eyes rolling back white.

“Before your ears hear nothing, let me tell you: this is the last sound you’ll hear in this Midgard. Listen well.”

His whitening eyes briefly focused on Oden. Oden spoke with an impassive face.

“By my measure, you who abandon millennia-old faith for a god of unknown origin are the heathens, and you who pluck out eyes to fill with silver, slit bellies to fill with lead, and grind necks with millstones are the barbarians.”

As the words ended, the life in Olaf’s eyes swiftly faded.

“Bring an axe and sever this man’s head. Impale it on a spear, ride around the battlefield’s edge. It’ll have more impact than a thousand reinforcements.”

In the melee, Seveldrun desperately maintained command, issuing precise orders as needed.

The initial chaos dealt a massive blow to the Fjorland army, but his adept leadership and group tactics gradually leveled the battlefield’s balance.

Even so, the very occurrence of this situation was unbelievably humiliating.

‘We’ll never regain our former glory.’

The thought lingered in Seveldrun’s mind.

The Norger attacks were more ferocious than he’d imagined. Once raiders in mere dozens, easily subdued, their thousands-strong regular army now displayed unimaginable destructive power.

Even when the Heavy Armored Knights’ massive blades shattered their shields in one blow, they didn’t flee, grabbing other shields to keep fighting.

When a knight fell, they swarmed, opening helmet visors to slash faces with swords or sever limbs with axes.

Even as the Guard Corps’ swords and spears struck from behind, they never turned, focusing solely on killing the enemies before them.

‘This is unsettling…’

Then, the unbelievable, dreaded sound reached his ears.

“Sir Olaf is dead! Sir Olaf is dead!”

Seveldrun’s eyes turned to the far-off sight of Olaf’s head impaled on a Norger warrior’s spear, raised by a rider.

“……”

After a long silence, he ordered the knight beside him.

“Bring my spear.”

Soon, two knights struggled to bring a massive poleaxe to Seveldrun.

Mounting his steed, twice the size of others, Seveldrun held the poleaxe in one hand.

“Let’s go, Boleric.”

He advanced toward the heart of the battle with his personal guard.