Felix's original right-wing cavalry were, of course, hiding in the forest, only to be completely wiped out by the overwhelming force Barnett had dispatched. Barnett had spent three hundred gold coins buying from the system the beginner-grade flying device known as the flying axe, and this weapon proved remarkably effective in such tangled, complex woodland terrain. As for those cavalrymen, their fate was decidedly tragic. In open plains they were an extremely formidable force, but because they needed to move covertly they slipped into the forest—and once they lost the ability to charge at high speed, they met a most inglorious end and hurried to greet their Maker.
Before the battle, Barnett had reorganized all the soldiers under his command: both Viking levies and Viking warriors were formed into units of three hundred men apiece. Every member was issued the new-style weapon—the flying axe, which is slightly smaller than a hand axe—with three axes per man. Although their range was somewhat inferior to that of a spear and could not compare to the reach of bow or crossbow, their destructive power was immense; they could cleave straight through an enemy's armor!
Thus, a total of eighteen hundred flying axes, whirring with a hair-raising shriek, spun through the air toward Felix's cavalry.
"Eh? What's that?" one of Felix's knights, gifted with keen senses, heard a sudden rush of something slicing the air…
Bear in mind: to train a single knight, one must begin at age fourteen as a knight's squire—no pay, yet serving one's knight-master like a devoted grandson every single day. One must train in swordsmanship, spearcraft, horsemanship, and more… typically continuing until age twenty-one before one might be dubbed a knight. To truly rise above the ranks, one must then face the crucible of battle. Only by surviving the battlefield and earning at least one knightly medal can a squire truly emerge.
It takes ten years to forge a qualified knight—but it takes only five seconds to slay one! Indeed, from the moment that keen-eared knight heard the flying axe's whistle to his death was precisely five seconds!
Startled by the unknown slicing sound, the knight turned—and saw an axe spinning in mid-air hurtling toward his head. Before he could even react to dodge, the blade struck left of center on his skull—piercing cheekbone, eyeball, and cranium—and his brains exploded outward.
At that sight, the other knights instantly plunged into chaos, utterly baffled as to how the enemy had slipped behind their lines. Behind them should have been their own army's formation—the cowardly troops from Biyad Keep—so why were they under attack?
Thus, those foolish knights—still clueless as to what had happened—met their end without ever understanding how they came to see their Maker.
That single volley of flying axes alone slew over two hundred cavalrymen. Immediately afterward, the crossbow militia unleashed a synchronized volley. Though their bolts pierced armor somewhat less effectively, sheer numbers meant they still felled nearly a hundred more of Felix's horsemen.
With the enemy's numbers grievously reduced, their ranks thrown into disarray, and their fighting prowess shattered, over a thousand Viking warriors surged forth, bravely engaging the remaining cavalry.
In the forest, cavalry lost every advantage—and since the knights rode towering warhorses, they frequently caught their faces on branches, further degrading their combat effectiveness. Coupled with those two deadly volleys of flying axes, the enemy had become as panicked as birds startled from a snare. Before long, the Viking warriors, with scarcely any effort, cut down that entire host of cavalrymen one by one. Only a few horsemen, sensing the dire situation, decisively abandoned their mounts and fled headlong into the forest's depths.
Because Barnett chose to strike Felix's cavalry at this very moment on today's battlefield, the story must be traced back three days.
Rewind three days to Bergen, where King Olaf III resided. Upon learning that Lord Biyad had ultimately been forced into submission by Count Felix's overwhelming pressure, Olaf III erupted in furious curses, his mood deplorably foul. Yet before long he received a sealed letter from Barnett. After reading its contents, his anger gave way to bewilderment.
The letter read as follows:
"Your humble servant Barnett pays distant homage to my liege, Olaf III. I adhere to the teachings of the Holy Church and understand the path of loyalty and righteousness. As the late Grand Duke of Norway's eldest son, Your Majesty rightfully inherits the grand ducal throne—this is the orthodox succession, beyond question.
I long to devote my heart to my liege as parched earth longs for clouds and rain, as an innocent child yearns for parental affection. Yet Count Felix, a base opportunist, wields force to subjugate me. His army of thirty thousand men besieges the city walls, leaving me no choice but to feign compliance and pretend to surrender.
However, to take up arms against my true sovereign is the height of treachery. I have resolved that at the decisive moment of battle I will betray Felix and turn my forces. We agreed that when I wave a gray banner three times, it will serve as our signal; at that moment I shall strike against Felix without mercy, bound to him by blood and steel."
"…Is this for real?" Olaf III murmured, half in disbelief as he carefully refolded the letter. He knew all too well that if a force were to defect at the battle's critical turning point, his chances of victory would swell dramatically.
Thus, throughout the ensuing campaign, Barnett's contingent endured virtually no assaults from Olaf III's own troops—Olaf still harbored a sliver of hope, convinced he was Norway's true anointed ruler, destined to command the loyalty of all.
Barnett tilted his head and asked the knight beside him, "How many times has the gray banner been waved on the enemy flank?"
The knight, who had been briefed before battle, replied respectfully, "Four times. Once at the very start, once after the cavalry's charge, once after the flank assault, and now once more—four in total."
"Oh…Felix's cavalry on the flank has been wiped out?" Barnett inquired again.
"Indeed, the latest reports say they're nearly annihilated. A few escaped, but they fled into the forest—they won't pose any further threat," the knight answered.
"Very well—it's time!" Barnett's tension finally eased.
But moments later the tide shifted again. Count Felix's cavalry had launched a fresh charge against King Olaf's left wing, and for a heartbeat the left wing began to waver. Yet Olaf III proved a true berserker—without hesitation, he led thirty Viking berserkers into the fray. These were authentic berserkers, perhaps not quite as formidable as the red-haired warrior Barnett had slain earlier, but by no means weak. They represented Olaf's most formidable trump card, the greatest inheritance from his late grand ducal father.
Under Olaf's command, those thirty-odd berserkers plunged into the left wing. By that point Felix's knights had lost all momentum—their couched lances snapped in two or rendered useless amid the chaos. Discarding their broken lances, the knights drew their swords and hacked downward from on high. The levied peasant infantry wielded only short spears and rawhide shields, with no armor to speak of, and felled easily beneath the knights' blades. This explained how, despite losing speed advantage, the knights still overwhelmed the peasant levy—over eight hundred knights bearing down upon ten thousand inexperienced farmers; the disparity in combat skill, morale, and discipline was glaring.
Yet when Olaf's thirty berserkers arrived on the left flank, everything changed.
First, the berserkers' offensive power was inexhaustible—one strike from a berserker's axe would fell a knight outright, or at the very least send him crashing to the ground, utterly broken. Second, though the berserkers appeared brutish, their speed and agility far surpassed that of Felix's foot-bound knights. With peasant levies harassing the cavalry's flanks, the berserkers swiftly felled dozens of Felix's horsemen. Then, leading the peasants in a surge, they dragged the high-mounted knights from their saddles. Several men would pin down a knight's arms and legs, strip off the helmet and hauberk—both prized trophies in this age—and then fell him with repeated blows from weapons or blunt instruments. Even the most foolish commander knew to keep such armor as spoils of war.
Of course, the spectacle was undeniably grisly.
Thus the left wing under Olaf III held firm and stood on the brink of victory.
Meanwhile, the main infantry forces of both sides had fully engaged. Both wore mail hauberks and wielded axe-and-shield combinations or long-handled battle-axes, charging with a roaring war cry and striking at any throat they could reach. At this moment, more than half of all Viking warriors from across the Scandinavian Peninsula had gathered on this battlefield. They may once have been comrades under the same banner, looting together as Vikings. Yet here they were now, facing each other's blades—only one side would walk away alive.
Additionally, the spear-and-shield infantry—clad in leather armor, wielding short spears and shields, longer in service and more numerous than the Viking warriors—formed the backbone of the professional army. Their spear-thrusts lacked the visceral spectacle of a Viking axe strike, yet a spear to the heart kills, to the lung kills, to the stomach kills, to the spleen kills, to the kidney kills, to the neck kills…
Well, a strike to the intestines might not kill immediately—indeed, the very organ dedicated to waste storage proved remarkably resilient.
But that was enough. Humanity's many vital points offered countless ways to end a life with a simple spear thrust. After all, only one outcome mattered: the enemy had to die, regardless of weapon or wound location.
The fighting raged with ferocity. Having arrested the left wing's collapse, both sides descended into a brutal war of attrition. Wave after wave of cannon fodder—raw recruits, seasoned fodder, and veteran fodder—was slaughtered; bodies were hewn to pieces, then trampled into unrecognizable gore by friend and foe alike—so mutilated that even a mother could not recognize her own son.
"Damn it! If my cavalry had charged on both flanks simultaneously, I should already have won! What on earth happened over there? Where is my other cavalry contingent? And where the hell is that bastard Barnett—why isn't he here to help?" Felix, seizing a moment's respite, scanned the battlefield—but his remaining half of the cavalry was nowhere in sight.
Then, at the forest's edge behind Olaf's lines, Felix spotted Professor Barnett's army. Only then did he piece together the betrayal: Felix had ordered his other cavalry to lie in ambush within the woods to strike at Olaf's rear—he had never tasked Barnett with that duty. Yet there stood Barnett's forces at the forest's fringe, and Felix's own cavalry was gone. It was clear: Barnett had betrayed him and annihilated his mounted troops. How Barnett had accomplished this so swiftly left no time for Felix to ponder further.
At that moment Barnett met Felix's gaze. Their eyes locked midair as Barnett's lips curved into a sinister smile. He saluted Felix once, and then his three thousand Viking warriors unleashed their attack upon Felix's troops…
Felix felt the world spin, his vision darkening as he nearly blacked out…