Under the stirring leadership of the formidable berserker chieftain, the other several tribal leaders fell silent as though struck by an icy wind and, with no choice, acceded to the demand to press the attack. Immediately thereafter, to the long, lonely blast of dozens of Viking war horns, the allied tribes lying in ambush along both flanks of the road leapt forth from the underbrush with frenzied cries and charged toward Barnett's army.
"Hold your lines! Wait until the enemy closes into range before firing! After one volley, fall back immediately!"
This battle—perhaps Barnett's first true engagement—would have as worthy opponents only such Vikings as these. Yet Barnett, fully prepared, remained unruffled. He raised his battle-axe high and issued his orders.
At once, the knights of his guard swung open their visors and, likewise, drew war horns. After a pair of long blasts and one short, they stood ready for combat. At the same time, the crossbow militia deployed on either side of the guard squadrons cocked triggers, and over a hundred quarrels streaked through the air toward the enemy!
At a twenty-meter range, the power of the crossbow was astonishing—and at such distances aiming was almost unnecessary: one need only point toward the mass of foes and pull the trigger. In that first volley, the enemy's front ranks of Viking warriors fell in rows of pierced bodies—even those clad in mail could not withstand the bolts. Mail did offer some mitigation of the blow, so the few who wore it rarely died outright. They simply yanked free the quarrels from their wounds and, blood streaming, pressed on in furious advance.
Yet those in mail were only a handful; the overall effect of sixty-odd fatalities was decisive, and not one of those struck rose again.
After that first volley, Barnett's crossbowmen withdrew to the rear to reload and fire a second round. Already impatient, the axe-armed Vikings let out a wild war-cry and surged forward, their broadaxes whistling down as they clashed in close combat.
The enemy's charging formation was loose, whereas Barnett's Viking infantry stood in tight ranks: battle-axes and round shields, mail armor, and the sheer strength of the Norsemen forged a formidable line. Although the enemy tide came in greater numbers, they gained no advantage.
Meanwhile, the irregular tribal fighters—armed with harpoons, makeshift spears, and logging axes—charged clumsily. Their hunting skills did not translate to the battlefield; at the sight of axes descending in arcs of steel, their once-high morale vanished in an instant. Some lost the will even to resist.
In that first clash, Barnett's army felled over a hundred enemy soldiers. A small number of the enemy's professional Vikings, outnumbered, also fell to Barnett's men.
"Archers—fire, you bastards! Shoot down those scum!"
Seeing that the first charge had already cost them hundreds of lives, the allied chiefs ordered their archers forward.
Their bowmen took up positions on low knolls flanking the road and loosed volleys from their hunting bows. But by now the two forces were intermingled; though adept at shooting game, firing on men was quite another matter. Shaking hands sent arrows astray, some lodging in their own fleeing comrades.
"Damn it… cease fire, cease fire!"
Seeing their bowmen's poor performance, the tribal chiefs had no choice but to call off the archery.
The conflict remained razor-edged. As time passed, Barnett's force gradually formed a shield-wall circle. On the outer ring stood four battalions of slightly depleted Viking infantry and two battalions of warriors; inside them stood crossbow militia and patrol cavalry; at the very center, Barnett was guarded by his knights.
On the far flank, the allied tribes—already several hundred men down—suffered a collapse of morale. After repeated failed charges, seeing their warrior-dead's headless corpses strewn before Barnett's line and hearing the raiders' savage howls and laughter, their spirit broke utterly.
"We're going to lose if this goes on…" one whispered.
Spotting that allied morale wavered—and seeing Barnett's chieftain eyeing opportunities—the allied berserker-chief decided to gamble their remaining strength.
"Follow me!!"
With that roar, the red-haired berserker raised his axe high and led thirty-four of his elite Viking warriors in a spear-headed charge. Their great axes whistled down upon Barnett's lines; many of Barnett's men, taken completely by surprise, were cleaved in two.
"How is this possible? With such heavy axes, how can they swing so fast?" Barnett exclaimed in disbelief.
Thus this elite assault rent a hole in Barnett's defenses.
"Damn it—hold the line!" Barnett bellowed.
He had no reserve. The crossbow militia were weakest in melee; if ordered forward, they would collapse swiftly, and a retreat could spell total rout. Yet Barnett's lines truly wavered.
The allied elite Vikings matched Barnett's system-spawned warriors blow for blow. More crucially, their berserker leader—wielding his wheel-sized axe with uncanny skill—had already slain seven or eight of Barnett's men. Even shields afforded little protection, as many shields and arms were cleft together. No one could stand against this berserker.
"Attack! Attack! Slay these bastards!"
The other allied warriors were no fools; on seeing Barnett's lines falter, they screamed their war-cry and surged forward in renewed charge.
Damn it. Barnett had to unleash his knights; otherwise, his lines would buckle.
He snorted, ripped off his visor, and ordered his twenty knight-guards, "Charge!!!!!"
At his command, all twenty tore off their visors, drew their heavy morning-stars, and—armored like living tanks—spurred their mounts into the fray.
"Kill him, and the battle is won!"
The berserker, still pressing Barnett's men, suddenly spied the oncoming knight-guards. To him, their shining armor looked pleasing but surely soft silver—easily cleft by his axe. Given contemporary forging techniques, such superb, bulletproof plate could not exist. Thus he paid them no mind and continued striking down Barnett's warriors.
All the allies thought likewise, so their defeat was sealed.
Once the steel behemoths joined the fray, Barnett's wavering defense solidified. The tribal host had no bolt-throwers or matchlocks; they could not pierce Renaissance-style plate. The era's ironworking simply could not match that level of armor.
Watching his axe strike do nothing to the knight's harness, then seeing his comrades' brains splattered by morning-stars, the allied warriors were dumbstruck—facing what felt like monsters. They glanced at Barnett's twenty knights advancing at a human jog's pace, utterly relaxed amid the horror. Their posture was as carefree as lovers on a promenade.
The allied morale shattered.
"Monsters!!"
"We're doomed!"
"Help me, God!"
At that moment, with the heavy cavalry's one-sided slaughter, the red-haired berserker knew defeat was total and absolute.
—Yet what of it? A warrior's fate is to die on the battlefield. To wither in bed among kin was no death a Viking would choose.
"Ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!" In that crucible of reversal, the remaining allied troops began to rout—but the berserker did not flee. His axe sang silver death, cutting down Barnett's other warriors. Damn those steel knights—did he kill no one else?
Amid his frenzy, the berserker spied Barnett astride his steed. "Kill that man—kill that damned bastard!" he roared. He had identified Barnett as the chieftain and resolved to slay him before he himself died.
The red-haired berserker cleaved his way toward Barnett. Barnett's warriors, seeing his intent, likewise roared and sought to intercept, defending their lord. They wore similar gear, wielded similar axes, and raised similar battle-cries… yet the berserker was far too fierce, carving through over ten of Barnett's men.
A knight of Barnett's guard, seeing the berserker's assault, cast aside the foe at his feet and, instead of cantering at ease, spurred forward in pursuit. In three seconds he closed the gap and swung his morning-star at the berserker's head, aiming to kill this relentless enemy.
But the knights had never faced such a foe. The berserker nimbly avoided the first blow, then rolled and cleaved at the knight's warhorse's leg.
The steed screamed in agony; the knight lurched and fell from the saddle. The berserker dashed forward and, raising his axe to the unarmored neck, struck blow after blow. With each sinew of his axe, arteries severed, blood sprayed crimson ice over his body as the knight's spasms subsided to stillness.
Immersed in the triumph of pending victory, Barnett at last noticed this savage. The man's body was streaked with wounds, his own blood and his victims' frozen into bright-red ice. The berserker himself glowed as though blood-tinted.
"Impressive, that one," Barnett remarked, wholly unmoved by his own losses.
Then a macabre smile crept over his lips.
"Finish him."
At once, dozens of crossbowmen surrounded the berserker, weapons trained on him.
"Fire!"
Thwap, thwap-thwap…
Bolts tore through the air once more. The berserker's ragged mail no longer shielded him.
They struck true—over a dozen quarrels embedded in him.
He widened his eyes, stumbled forward, feeling strength drain away, warmth ebb, his soul slipping free. He could scarce believe it: he was a Viking berserker, mighty, slayer of dozens—how had he fallen?
With his last breath, he struggled to turn his head toward Barnett—and crashed face-first to earth…
"Kill him!!"
In the aftermath, Barnett's men—once pressed by the berserker—surged in excitement like famished wolves on fresh prey. They raised axes and hacked the berserker's body to pieces, then drove a broken spear through his skull, letting out triumphant roars.
"Finally, victory…" Barnett murmured with faint emotion—then was overcome by boundless exultation. Bloodlust, atrocity, and triumph flooded his senses. His body convulsed, his features twisted, and at last he unleashed a diabolical laugh:
"HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!"