The first millennium of this world—namely the year 1000—saw Scandinavia still blanketed in unbroken snow in May. At this very moment, two armies—those of Felix and those of Olaf III—were assembling among the vast farmlands on the outskirts of Bergen, in northern Norway.
Both armies numbered roughly the same and were similarly equipped for combat. In this battle that would decide life or death—and determine who would claim the title of Grand Duke of Norway—victory would bring absolute glory and riches. Every warrior brimmed with fighting spirit, each convinced of ultimate triumph. Even the hastily mustered irregulars, drafted merely to fill ranks, were fired up; a bloody clash was now unavoidable. War is always merciless, without exception. Survive you must by killing your foe.
On the battlefield, scouts and light cavalry from both sides first skirmished briefly. By then the main forces had finished mustering; the conscripted peasant levies aside, at least the regular troops looked presentable.
Yet though deployment was technically complete, both armies' dispositions were chaotic—like street thugs brawling, only with many more participants.
Count Felix's personal contingent numbered scarcely over five thousand. The remaining twenty-two thousand-some soldiers belonged to his allies, his vassals, his allies' vassals, his vassals' vassals, his allies' vassals' vassals, and so on. A basic fighting unit typically consisted of one chain-mail-clad knight, two or three knightly retainers, and a handful of pressed-into-service untrained militiamen.
At last Count Felix had roughly divided his forces into several groups and appointed the most powerful counts as their commanders, concentrating different arms into formations. Barnett—a count commanding about one-tenth of the total strength—also received a commander's title, though under him he added not a single militiaman beyond his own men.
Preparations began at dawn; the real battle did not commence until near noon.
In the first salvo Olaf III—young and impetuous—threw his entire contingent of eight hundred chain-mail cavalry into the fray, forming them in a straight, single-file "long snake" formation and charging directly at Felix's lines.
Heavy cavalry as vanguard; chain-mail-clad Viking warriors and heavy spear infantry as the core; pressed peasants protecting the flanks—a massive surge with no reserve at all, no concern for formation, no strategy whatsoever.
Good heavens, this fellow's battlefield command ability must be zero! As the Chinese saying goes, "Incompetence has already exhausted three armies."
Count Felix, long hardened by war, watched this all-in assault with silent exasperation and a wry smile.
Though virtually anyone alive today might feel intellectually superior to Olaf III, his disposition wasn't entirely without logic. Should his gambit break through underprepared defenses, all the cunning stratagems, all the tactical command would come to naught: the untested peasant levies would rout first, and the elite regulars would follow suit. Under relentless pursuit by the victors, the routed side would be utterly destroyed. Of course, if the rout were feigned to lure the enemy into an ambush, the outcome might differ—but in these times, few generals possess the skill or foresight for such sophisticated deployments.
"Archers, fire!" Count Felix watched Olaf's cavalry thunder toward them and issued the order with calm resolve.
In this era, crossbows were not yet widespread, and the simple bows of the North pack little punch. Chain-mail cavalry can largely shrug off arrow fire. When Olaf's eight hundred horsemen roared within archers' range, scores of arrows peppered their armor like quills on a hedgehog—yet they stood firm, unbloodied, howling on.
As the enemy cavalry drew ever closer, Felix gritted his teeth. Unexpectedly, he did not send out his own horsemen to meet them, but instead chose a far riskier tactic.
"Form the phalanx! Spearmen, close ranks! Fix pikes!" he cried again.
On the European continent, warfare was still primitive; no one thought to dig horse pits or set chevaux-de-frise to blunt a cavalry charge. To stand against charging horsemen—aside from matching cavalry with cavalry—the only recourse was a dense formation armed with long, stout pikes.
Barnett and his 2,700 men had been placed on the flank, some 400 meters from the center, idly observing both sides. Though Felix once patted him on the shoulder with a "I'm counting on you," Barnett was not of his inner circle—and Felix did not trust him fully. Moreover, Felix did not wish Barnett to earn any battlefield glory. After all, once this battle was over, Felix would be installed as Grand Duke of Norway—and rewards would naturally follow. If Barnett proved to bring no merit, his share of the spoils would amount to little more than some barren salt marsh as a token consolation.
At this moment, Felix's front-line regulars—clad in heavy chain mail—leveled their four-meter pikes horizontally. To Barnett's modern eyes, these crude, hastily forged spears defied mechanical logic—back-heavy and unwieldy, requiring two men to wield. Yet two men's movements seldom synchronize perfectly, and any misstep would sap the weapon's thrusting power. Behind each pair of spearmen stood two more who, despite being "luckier," still held identical pikes—at least they had human shield comrades before them.
Frankly, those in the vanguard faced almost certain death. Conscripts drew lots for this sacrificial duty; the one who drew the short straw would feast on fine wine and meat that night—just like a suicide squad.
As the enemy cavalry bore down, the front-line spearmen gripped their pikes and cursed under their breath: "These bastards are ferocious. Damn, I should've deserted." Many on the front line harbored such thoughts. Those unacquainted with cavalry charges were frozen in terror.
Olaf III's chain-mail horsemen closed on Felix's spearmen. With a shriek, horses were impaled through chest and belly. Some knights, despite heavy armor, met the same grisly fate under sheer momentum. Likewise, Felix's pike-men suffered broken arms and dislocated shoulders—modern medicine being centuries away, they faced near-certain disability.
In truth, most did not survive to become cripples; they died outright.
A charging warhorse cannot simply be stopped on a dime. Wounded though the beasts were, they staggered on—and living or dead, the first rank of enemy cavalry plunged into Felix's lines.
By inertia, the mounted lances swept forward, impaling the pair of pike-men ahead—then snapped off with a loud crack.
Despite the cohesive pike block, Olaf's cavalry slaughtered over a thousand of Felix's men in that charge: skewered like meat on a spike, trampled under hoof, crushed beneath dying horses and cowed bodies. On the battlefield, the fallen might as well be dead; no one pauses to help you up. Whether foe or ally, attacker or fleeing soldier, all stampede over you—over and over—until you are ground to pulp.
Eight hundred chain-mail horsemen accounted for at least three thousand of Felix's troops—and that loss, though severe, was not the worst blow. Worse still was the panic that swept through the ranks. Seeing Olaf's cavalry wreak such havoc, even professional soldiers quailed. The conscript levies trembled, caught between flight and immobile dread.
After that initial strike, Felix's side had lost over three thousand men—but Olaf's lavishly commissioned eight hundred chain-mail horsemen were themselves nearly wiped out. Any monarch would lament such a costly success. Yet Olaf had neither the leisure nor the emotion for regret, for his remaining twenty-odd thousand troops now roared forward toward Felix's lines within minutes.
Count Felix felt dreadful misery. He had never witnessed cavalry charges of such destructive power.
"Could this battle be lost already?" he thought, as those twenty thousand horsemen bore down. In that instant, he felt the urge to withdraw and flee—so shattered was his army's morale.
Yet from his vantage point, Barnett noticed a cavalry detachment of over eight hundred silently galloping past him.
That was almost half of Felix's entire cavalry—noble knights' retainers and light horse.
The other half must be on the opposite flank? Preparing a pincer charge? Hah. A mere trick.
Barnett watched them with sour envy, then allowed himself a cautious thought: "But I'd better keep an eye on them."
He flicked his wrist, ordering his two companies of four hundred crossbow-armed levies, three companies of three hundred Viking soldiers, one company of three hundred Viking warriors, and a fifty-man field clergy unit to follow quietly…
Meanwhile, on the main battlefield, the clash had reached its climax. Olaf's cavalry strike had shattered Felix's morale and cost him many professionals; Felix's situation was dire. Alarm rang all along his line. In a few sectors, small pockets gave way—and were brutally suppressed by Viking shock troops dispatched under Felix's cold orders.
Still, that could not turn the tide. Felix stood atop a rise, flanked by his last reserve—a few hundred axe-and-shield Vikings. This was his final force.
On the front, Felix's weakened line was being steadily overwhelmed. Total collapse seemed imminent. Yet his face was as iron; his gaze, coldly fixed on the carnage.
"It begins," he whispered.
At once, a hideous grin split his lips. Across the field, Olaf's left flank descended into chaos—hit by a massive cavalry clash. Conscripted peasants scattered, fleeing for their lives. Behind them, Felix's sword-armed knights, retainers, and light cavalry tore into the rout, slaughtering them without mercy.
The battle instantly swung. Olaf's army faltered—but Felix felt no relief. If anything, he was more astonished than ever by the course of events. He roared aloud:
"Damn it—where are the cavalry on the other side? Why haven't they appeared yet?"