Ragnar’s father had taught him, and all of his siblings, that morale mattered the most in a battle. That supplies and leadership mattered a great deal, but they mattered so much because they fed into the confidence of an army. When they were well armored, well fed, and under the command of trusted and tested leadership, they would simply perform better. They would fight harder, last longer. They would hold their nerve despite long odds because they would believe that victory was possible.
The past week and a half, Father had been slowly killing the Anglo-Saxon's confidence. Their morale. The disease that they inflicted upon them burned through their camp like wildfire, they kept them away with nightly raids to make sure they didn't rest easy, and they burned their supplies so they would march on an empty stomach. Now, on the eve of battle, Ragnar found himself seated upon a horse amongst eight thousand on one wing.
The enemy was spread across the battlefield, and despite it all, Ragnar felt trepidation rise in the back of his throat. They seemed genuinely endless as they marched onto the field in relatively disciplined ranks, creating an awkward V shaped formation by extending one line and taking advantage of the natural terrain. At the head of the larger army was King Ecbert, who was marked by his few horsemen on the field as much as he was by the flags and crown he wore. The other army was led by lords of high standing and fanatics in their hatred for them.
He had seen them in camp during the raids. The sea of tents and the people walking between them had been many, to the point he didn’t even try to count them. But it was another thing entirely to see them on the battlefield, ready to fight. His own confidence wavered, just ever so slightly, because despite everything that they had done… it was done out of necessity. Despite having better arms and armor, in spite of having more experience, King Ecbert and his assembled lords could win. They could win by sheer virtue of numbers.
It wasn't a matter of morale or experience. That many people, if properly directed, would break them. Their lines would crack, any escape route would be closed, and almost like a sand castle in the face of high tide, they would be swept over and nothing would remain of them by the time the tide receded.
Which is why they bluffed.
“Steady yourself,” Father warned him and Magnus. “And stay close to your guards. Neither if you have anything to prove, so don't take any unnecessary risks. Keep your shields up and don't let go of your weapon when the time comes.”
Experience, Father called it. They needed to learn what it felt like to be part of true charge before they would be expected to lead men into one. Ragnar doubted that he would even need to draw his blade, but his heart was thumping in his throat.
“We'll be careful, father,” Magnus was doing better than him because he found his voice. Their father offered a small nod, showing that he heard the words, and that was all the time that they had before a horn blew. The sound echoed in the air and set something unstoppable in motion as the entire army began to march forward, abandoning their entrenched position.
The sound of everyone taking the same step forward at once echoed out across the field, the enemy across it stupefied by what they were doing. They had arrived on the battlefield with the full expectation that they would be the aggressors, and now they found themselves on the defensive. Every plan that they had went up in flames, and from where Ragnar sat, he could see the mess of messengers running back and forth between the lords of troops of men. Each having a different idea of what their response should be.
Some had their archers match ahead of their portion of the army, intent to assault them with arrows for every step that they took. Others wanted to continue on with the plan and meet them in the middle with a charge of their own. Ragnar could almost trace the argument as passengers ran back and forth between lords, each demanding that the other follow their lead.
It caused confusion to sweep over the army, buying their advance invaluable time, but caution won out over aggressiveness. The archers began to emerge at the front of the vast force before they unleashed the first volley. It was a sight to see.
Father kept the number of archers in the army at around 5%. He preferred sharp shooters to pick off important targets. Quality over quantity, and until that moment, Ragnar had never doubted the decision. Yet, as hundreds… thousands of arrows were released into the air, becoming a wall of falling arrows, he began to question the approach. Yet, it wasn't anything that they weren't prepared for. The infantry continued to march in step, simply raising their shields overhead and layering them over one another, trusting that those at their right shoulder would protect them as they protected at their left.
There wasn't anything he could compare the sound of thousands of arrows thudding into wood at the same time or bounding off of armor. It was something so unique that Ragnar felt like he would never hear anything like it again, at least until the Anglo-Saxon archers let loose a second volley. It slowed their advance, but it didn't stop it. Their infantry still crossed the field under the storm of arrowheads, enduring a third volley, and then a forth, before the archers began to retreat behind their line of soldiers and their frontline leveled pikes at them.
It was only at a distance did Ragnar realize how small their army felt in comparison as they approached one wing of the enemy. How hopelessly outnumbered they were.
And that was the entire point of the charge that struck the Anglo-Saxon's with a roar and the clash of steel. It was to solidify their own resolve and will to fight. To show the men that there was no need to fear the enemies vast numbers. That they could take the fight to the enemy and win the day.
It also would weaken the enemy's confidence. Their faith would be shaken that Father and his army would be willing to be the aggressors. It would fracture their belief that their numbers would be their salvation. At least, that was the hope. Ragnar believed it because his father was certain of it, but he wondered if the enemy that looked down at them saw how small they seemed in comparison to the vast army that felt like it could effortlessly swallow them up.
But they would choke on them. That much Ragnar was certain of.
Their frontline consisted of Father's veterans. Some who had been with him since his time in the Mediterranean, who had fought in a hundred battles against longer odds and possessed an unshakable faith in Father and his strategies. They met the line of pikes and pushed forward, reaching the men behind them before cutting them down as a farmer through stalks of wheat. The Anglo-Saxon's weren't prepared for the deadly impact and it showed. The first line faltered and before the second line could step forward to take their place, they too fell.
The raw disparity between their arms and armor was almost as vast as the disparity in their experience. Their men could take blows and shrug them off to continue fighting. Their armor was forged in war, designed to do exactly what they were doing -- be in the face of the enemy and cutting their way through.
Yet the Anglo-Saxons were not cowards. Far from it. They stood on the field with hate in their hearts -- if not for the sacking of Rome and the looting of their churches, then because their own homes and families had been ravaged by their raids. And if not for that, Father had given them plenty of reasons for their ire over the past week and a half. They surged against the frontline, throwing themselves at them to not just stall their advance but to push them back. To tear at their armor with tooth and nail if that's what it took.
It was enough to rouse the second army. The sickly army. With King Ecbert there, the chain of command was clear and they were able to act on his orders on a more uniform scale. And that was exactly what Father had intended.
Another horn blew and Ragnar's heart was in his throat because that was the signal for the cavalry charge. Just as there wasn't a sound like thousands of arrows striking shields, there wasn't anything like the sound of thousands of horses galloping at once. It was just a rhythmic noise of hooves digging into dirt. His vision became obscured by those before him, but he was counting the seconds until their arrival, waiting for the first sound of it.
He knew the plan. Father had known that the Anglo-Saxons would divide their force and present the stronger of the two as the face. When they went on the offensive, King Ecbert would see the opportunity to simply close the awkward formation to surround their infantry. They would meet the out of position flank with thirteen thousand horsemen ranked five men deep across a wide area. The flank would buckle under the impact, allowing the infantry to withdraw in a controlled manner.
Ragnar could see it unfolding behind his eyes, but his imagination couldn't capture the true impact of the charge when the first line struck the mass of Anglo-Saxons. More than the men screaming in pain or fear, it was the horses that cried out, cutting through the sounds of war like a knife. It set his teeth on edge, but he didn't have the time to dwell on it because his horse followed through on the charge and he found himself trampling people under his hooves.
Everything that his father said echoed in his ears, yet all the same Ragnar found himself striking out. His guards were at his sides, dabbing down with spears, and Ragnar did the same. The Blessing his father gave him let his spearhead punch through the guard of the Anglo-Saxons, stabbing at their throats and chests where he could. All the while, his warhorse followed the flow of the herd that began to cut to the side, the outer layer of the charge stabbing out at the enemy before they began to pull back.
Ragnar couldn't help but to glance over his shoulder, and his throat closed at the sight. He only had a narrow view of it, but it was a sight that he knew would be repeated everywhere they struck. And what he saw was a line of dead and dying men -- they laid where they had been trampled, bones shattered and they had enough strength left to scream and cry as they bled out into the dirt. Others were mercifully dead, struck down and serving as a warning to the others that survived the charge.
He saw naked terror in their faces. They thought themselves prepared for it, but they experienced the single worst thing that they could have imagined. The parts of the army that had been spared the charge were recovering, but they had to push through those that had survived it. It was a horror that he knew would only grow when the charging mass of horses slowly spun around to deliver a second charge into their recovering flank.
The second was more devastating than the first, somehow. Ragnar expected them to be better prepared for it, but their charge cut through them like a knife. There was a part of him that expected them to just run. To abandon the fight entirely because they knew they had no counter to their overwhelming cavalry superiority. That what just happened to them was going to happen again and again and again. The answer to that only revealed itself when they formed back up in ranks, positioned to cover the retreat of their infantry.
They had hit them hard. Brutally hard. More men had been killed in that charge than some of the battles Ragnar had fought in. Yet, they hit a relatively small portion of the whole.
They felt it, certainly. The aftershocks of the charge were rippling out, and despite their infantry withdrawing, the pursuit was shortlived and died when those who were eager to give chase found they were alone in it. That allowed their men to retreat to the fortification that they built days in advance for this day, and their cavalry to retreat to their starting position.
Just with one thousand fewer horsemen. They broke off in secret, abusing the sheer mass to hide their departure so they could join two thousand horsemen that waited in secret. After all, the difference in appearance between seven thousand cavalry and eight thousand was negligible.
“What will happen now, Father?” Ragnar questioned, watching the enemy recover from the unexpected blow. Men were being dragged off the field while others moved up to take their place. They were trying to hide the damage as much as they were trying to tell how badly they were hit.
Father sat on top of his horse, Gram slick with blood, “They will attack.” He was absolutely confident of it. His doubt must have shown on his face because Father favored him a smile, “They have no choice but to attack. King Ecbert knows that if he lets that be the tone of the day, then half of his men will flee in the night. So they will attack even if they know they will spill blood for nothing because they can’t afford to do anything less.”
He said it so he would believe it, but it took time for his words to prove true. The enemy was licking their wounds, reorganizing themselves, but within the hour they marched. Archers walked forward first, coming to a stop at the edge of their range before they began to unleash a volley of arrows. Their men were in formation, and Ragnar himself was well covered by a number of shields, just in case.
Their archers were supported by their marching infantry, slowly getting into place in established ranks. However, they were content to sit on their hands and wait until the archers ran out of arrows before they made a move.
It was then that Father took action. Their own archers approached under a cover of shields. One that was the length of their body that could be propped up with spokes in the ground, while another would stand behind them with a second shield to cover them both between shots.
Father was amongst them with a monstrosity that he called a bow. It was styled after a metal bow that one of Charlemagne’s Paladins had used a long time ago, only expanded upon to make full use of his strength. It was a long bow that was near his height and what he notched into the bowstring was less an arrow and more a skinny javelin.
It wasn’t the most effective weapon. Father had admitted as much. However, it was a uniquely terrifying weapon and that was its true purpose. Killing the enemy was just an added benefit.
Their archers began to trade volleys with the Anglo-Saxons, felling them one by one with deadly aim. And it was then that Father unleashed the first shot of his bow, unleashing the long thick arrow at those across the field. Rangar tracked the arrow, making sure not to blink, and if he had, he would have missed it striking a man in the chest with enough force that it knocked him off his feet and sent him slamming into the man behind him. Both were dead before they struck the ground.
Those nearby the fallen stopped to stare, completely missing the next volley they were meant to unleash. However, word only began to spread when Father unleashed the next arrow, this time striking a man in the throat and it struck with such force, it took his head off. The other archers in their army did great work, felling them with every gap between volleys, paying no mind to how their shields became filled with arrows and splintered wood.
They didn’t have as many, but they did have better archers. Two thousand of them were amongst the army, and they did great work. Every arrow they delivered was fatal, and in three volleys, more men had died from their archers than from their cavalry charge. The Anglo-Saxons felt it keenly. Their archers began falling back, convinced that the next volley would mean their death.
Arguments broke out on the backline, commanders trying to get them for unleash another volley with threats and promises. That lull was enough for Father’s archers to shift their attention to the standing army behind them, dropping soldiers standing in the line. It was impossible to miss. Especially when Father unleashed an ‘arrow.’
Ragnar honestly expected them to pull back. To retreat, reassess, and maybe try to attack from a different angle. But perhaps King Ecbert sensed that they couldn’t afford that. Instead, they charged forward with a warcry spilling from their lips. Their formation collapsed with men running forward, accepting that some of them would fall to arrows. And they did. Without needing to duck between volleys, their archers unleashed three more before they were forced to retreat between the lines of infantry.
For a third time, Ragnar found a sound that was like no other. The sound of tens of thousands of voices shouting out as they clashed against their entrenched lines felt so loud that they could be heard around the world. They trampled over the dead, jumping into the ditches and rising up, because they could do nothing else with so many pushing them forward.
And for all they had bloodied the Anglo-Saxons, for all they tormented them and afflicted them with disease… They fought with a desperate fury, tearing at their frontline that met them with axes and spears. The ditch was filled with corpses in hardly any time at all, some of the dead forced upright simply because there were too many people around to let them fall.
Ragnar watched it all from his place on horseback. He watched how their line bent under sheer numbers and fury. Arrows rained down from above, the archers on their backline and the Anglo-Saxons continuing to shoot. Neither side seemed to notice. There was an itch to take action. To rally the cavalry and to deliver a charge into their flank. All the more so when he saw their frontline being overwhelmed, their shieldwall buckling by sheer weight of numbers.
Yet, he received no command to do so. And no matter how terribly things seemed to be going, Ragnar told himself that it was all going according to plan.
Then, almost without warning, a horn blew on the enemy side and the attack slowed to a halt. Their backlines and archers began to peel back after barely more than an hour of fighting, prompting those behind them to retreat with them. For all their fury, the retreat was orderly. A cry of victory spilled from Father’s army at the sight, but they made no move to pursue.
Ragnar found that he couldn’t join them as he surveyed the battlefield, seeing hundreds- thousands dead. Most of them the enemy, but their ditches were filled with corpses, the field were littered with them… by all accounts, they had won the day.
Yet, Ragnar couldn’t help but feel like they had survived it.