“Repeat yourself.” There was a waver in King Ecbert's voice that Pepin heard. A tremor of disbelief that echoed out in his tent, around the table full of the lords that answered to him. “I fear I must have misheard you.”
The messenger shifted uneasily before clearing his throat, yet his gaze did not rise from the ground even as he complied with the order. “S-six thousand have perished, your grace. Another fair thousand are injured. Aid is being given, but with the sickness…” The messenger understood the dire news that he delivered. Enough so that he knew he risked his head to deliver it. Kings weren't particularly known for how well they received terrible news, after all.
Ecbert, to his credit, did not lash out. “I see. That is… most unfortunate. Thank you for your efforts, young man. If there are further developments, do bring them to my attention.” It was a dismissal that the messenger was glad for, raising to his feet and bowing his head low before he all but fled the tent. Ecbert clenched his jaw but still restrained his reaction. “Come morning, will will have ten thousand dead. Possibly more, depending how many the pox claims.”
A well and truly unthinkable number. An absurd number. Pepin had thought himself prepared and well warned about the absurdity of Siegfried. Yet, he had underestimated the young Emperor. Allvaldr. Ten thousand dead in a single day of battle was astounding. His father had fought in battles with comparable numbers, and the casualties were in the hundreds.
‘The difference in experience and armor,’ Pepin deduced while the tent became its own battlefield. Siegfried's warriors were just that -- warriors. Veterans of a hundred battles against their farmers and cobblers. But the biggest cause for the lopsided and downright sickening casualties was the difference in arms and armor. Plate that could turn away a blade against their soft cloth armor, if they even had that.
The mental component was another point of difference. For all their fervor and hate, it would be daunting to see their comrades beat their weapons against a seemingly unstoppable foe before cutting them down. To say nothing of that monster Siegfried himself.
‘Warfare has changed.’ Pepin wasn't sure if anyone else in the tent realized that. Since Cain first picked up a rock to bash in the skull of Able, humanity had been waging and perfecting war. They developed spears to stab at the enemy from afar, bows to shoot at them outside of the spear range. Tamed horses so they could enter and leave the enemy range. They developed armor to turn away blunt weapons, then blades. They formalized it. Refined it. And now, the next step of warfare had been revealed.
Plate armor on a professional army.
It was something that his own father had been developing, but he couldn't produce it en masse as Siegfried could. Simply because what Siegfried did was raid neighboring kingdoms, stealing all of their iron down to farming scythes and iron nails holding up a peasant's home. Then he fed that surplus of iron into his steelworks -- dozens if not hundreds of blacksmiths then worked all day and night to endlessly produce arms and armor for their soldiers. It was a wholly unique approach that was afforded to Siegfried due to the nature of his people.
It was something that could only be copied by empires. Such as the Roman Empire and the Caliphate. Empires with vast resources, populations, and robust logistics to create and support such an army. Worse, it was going to be a necessity. As Siegfried had amply proven…
The days of levied forces were dead. Ill equipped and poorly trained peasants simply couldn't hope to contest such a force. While Pepin doubted that a levy would entirely go away, as it could be used in smaller more specialized roles, it would be used to support the standing army of an empire rather than to be used to provide an army.
But that was a thought for a future they very well might not get to see.
“My lords! My lords! Calm yourselves!” Ecbert commanded, and with far greater difficulty than normal, the table full of nobility obeyed. “I will confess, I find these losses as disturbing as the rest of you, but should we lose ourselves to panic, the battle will be lost before we take to the field again!”
A lord spoke up, “Ten thousand is catastrophic… but it's a small portion of the army, isn't it?” It felt like madness, but he wasn't wrong.
“Pressing the fight was the correct decision. Our morale is as high as it can be,” another seconded. Again, he wasn't wrong. Yet, he wasn't entirely right either. The common soldier knew that there had been terrible losses, but they didn't understand how terrible. Their expectations were tempered by the belief, one which was deliberately spread, that they had been on the cusp of victory. It would not take long for that particular lie to run its course and for those that believed it to realize it was a lie.
“It won't last,” another refuted. “Between the dead and the pox spreading, if this draws out long enough, we'll lose the one advantage we have when our army is too busy shitting themselves to death.” Quantity was a quality of its own. The losses of ten thousand men was enough to be a decisive defeat. However, they still had more than a hundred thousand levies. They could afford to lose the same amount each day for ten days, provided the army didn't lose its nerve.
Which it absolutely would.
Something Ecbert understood quite well. “Tomorrow,” he proclaimed. “We must win tomorrow, or we cannot win at all.”
There was a chorus of agreement with one speaking out, “We press the attack. Commit entirely to offense. Both the hail and the ill. We'll sweep over them and surround them!” That earned a chorus of cheers, hope rekindled in their hearts that victory was still possible.
And when the meeting was adorned, Pepin retreated to his tent before once more finding himself on a battlefield inside of a carriage. The battlefield was a place of horror in the early morning with a dense fog clinging to the ground. It gave the seemingly countless corpses that were left to rot in the field, be where they were slain or gathered in piles outside of the ditch before the Scandinavians, an ethereal quality that made his hair stand on end.
Through the dense fog, he could make out the ready ranks of the Scandinavians. Their banners flapped weakly in a low wind, condensation gathering on their arms and armor. Despite how many people stood on the battlefield, it felt unnaturally quiet. Unnervingly so. As if both armies were so tense that they didn't dare breathe.
The silence was only broken by the sound of a horn, King Ecbert giving the order, and a war cry that followed was every bit as deafening as the silence had been. For a moment, Pepin couldn't even hear himself think, though he felt it -- the ground trembling underfoot, through his carriage, and into him. More than a hundred thousand men stormed across the battlefield, and it felt like an earthquake.
Across the field, the Scandinavians were ready. A trade of missiles wouldn't favor them, and Siegfried foresaw that conclusion. Siegfried's archers stood elevated behind the army, and they met the charging tide with thousands of arrows. It was impossible to miss in those conditions, but from his vantage, Pepin could see the uniquely deadly aim of the archers. Hundreds of men were struck and simply collapsed like puppets with their strings cut -- even if they weren't dead, they soon were when they were trampled by Theo comrades behind them.
A second volley was delivered, and it was no less deadly. Neither was the third or the fourth. Or the fifth-
‘The mud,’ Pepin realized. The battlefield was complete upturned dirt from the conflict yesterday from so many men stepping on it. It hadn't rained, yet the morning was humid, and that wetness was seeping into the dirt, which slowed their advance. Perhaps not by much. It was no thick muck that threatened to claim every boot initially for those at the forefront, but for those that came behind them? When their lifeblood soaked into the earth and the already upturned dirt was further mixed with hundreds of feet ahead of them?
It staggered the army. Allowing the archers to unleash not just a fifth volley, but a sixth and a seventh in short order. They focused their fire, weakening the wall of bodies that they faced, which in turn allowed the infantry to act.
They kept their nerve despite the odds. That, more than anything else, was what Pepin focused on when the lines of infantry shifted before unleashing a wall of spears into the mass of charging men. A pila, Pepin realized with dark amusement. Siegfried was using Rome's own tactics against them. That amusement didn't last long when his stomach clenched, the screams of the dying and in agony reaching his ears and the scent of blood was so thick he could taste it.
By the time their army struck the Scandinavian front line, Pepin expected their charge to be blunted. To break like a fragile spear. He wouldn't blame them for it. After witnessing that slaughter yesterday, he wouldn't have stepped foot on the field. But they met the Scandinavians with defiant roars, and it was that moment Pepin realized he had underestimated their own army.
There were few motivation more potent than hate and love, and they didn't feel any love for those who ravaged their homes.
So they fought on, overcoming the piles of corpses and the ditches that were soon filled with them, all clashing against a frontline of interlocked shields. The clash rang out, almost like a clap of thunder, and it served as a rallying cry. There was no grand display of tactics. No clever ruse. It was a simple overwhelming force that pushed against the frontline, threatening to shatter it or move it. And, after long minutes of fighting, the full might of the army exerting its weight, it was the latter than unfolded.
The front line of the Scandinavians retreated a step to avoid buckling, but soon found themselves taking a second in face of the surge of morale. Inch by inch, step by step, Pepin watched as the Scandinavian retreated from their position and the army steadfastly chased them.
“They're abandoning the high ground!” Someone shouted out, taking it as a sign of victory. And the Scandinavians were -- Pepin watched the well entrenched position be steadily overwhelmed, forcing them to retreat down the hill and into the fading morning mists. It was better than what they could hope for.
Yet…
‘Their formations is still solid.’ Pepin was not a military man. He was not a hardened soldier or a brilliant tactician. He just had sharp eyes and a sharper mind to make up for his twisted spine. And what he saw was their army pressing on, chasing after their success in the efforts to break the Scandinavians and surround them… it was also what he didn't see that began to worry him.
“King Ecbert,” Pepin spoke up from the carriage, meeting the king's eyes to find his expression could have been carved from granite for all the emotion that it showed. “Their cavalry.”
“I know,” Ecbert replied. “But I'm afraid that it is too late.”
It took a split second for the meaning of the words to settle. Then he looked to the army that chased the Scandinavians off the hill that they fortified, into the valley beneath it. With grim understanding, he realized the truth -- they had effectively lost control of the army. It was too vast, too unwieldy, and too drunk on progress. They were convinced the next step would be the one that broke the enemy. Even if King Ecbet warned of the coming cavalry charge until he was blue in the face, their army wouldn't be able to respond.
Because it had become a mob. A well armed furious mob that wanted blood.
Still, runners were dispatched in an attempt to reign in the army. To establish some semblance of control over it before they heedlessly walked into a trap. Yet, if any progress was made to the goal, Pepin didn't see it when the trap was sprung.
A horn cut through the air like a knife, followed by the sound of galloping horses. They almost appeared as specters, erupting from the fog, streaming forth into the sides of their army. Pepin couldn't see the entirety of the impact, only how their forces shuddered under the unexpected blow.
However…
“I hear horses,” Pepin realized, his heart rising to his throat before he shuffled to the other side of the carriage, ignoring a red hot spike of pain in his back from the sudden movement before he ripped open a window. He wasn't the only one who had noticed, but it was far too late to do anything.
More horsemen appeared from behind their backline, and they weren't in small numbers. There were thousands of them. Had their scouts failed so utterly that they missed such a force? Or had they walked into a much grander trap than they realized? Pepin supposed it mattered little as their horsemen, all nobility and their chosen few guard, started to react. They circled around, some breaking off from the force to flee while others were gathering their resolve.
Prince Æthelwulf was doing what he could to rally them, barking out orders between lines of prayer. He was a warrior to his core. More so than his father, who watched the oncoming charge with the expression of a man who knew he had been outplayed, and accepted the consequences.
Yet, despite the Prince's valor, it wasn't enough to make up for the difference in numbers. The Scandinavian cavalry swept over them, clashing against those who would fight and tearing those who wouldn't off their horses so they couldn't flee.
Pepin didn't try to fight or escape. His carriage wasn't particularly suited to either, nor was he. Instead, he watched as the nobility were swiftly captured and subdued, the rest of the cavalry holding off what remained of their reserve forces. Which were those so ill they could barely stand and would likely be dead come morning. The capture was efficient. Practiced. Well executed, with Prince Æthelwulf being brought to the ground and secured with ropes, while spears were leveled in Ecbert's direction.
His gaze landed on the apparent leader of the charge that trotted up to his carriage. He was a large man with dark hair and a neatly groomed beard tucked under a helm that he took off to meet Pepin's eyes. It was the first time that they met, but he knew the man -- King Haldur, brother of Emperor Siegfried. “You must be Prince Pepin,” Haldur observed, a calculating glint in his eyes.
Pepin held his gaze for a long few seconds before laughter spilled forth from his lips.
Only his enemies seemed to acknowledge that he was a prince.
…
“They're breaking,” I observed in a cold voice, looking across the battlefield. I had underestimated the religious fervor that would carry the army forward, but I had prepared for it. As it was impossible to fully repel the weight of so many people, I instead planned around getting pushed back. Abandoning the high ground would convince the enemy that our fighting retreat was genuine, allowing us to lead them where our cavalry was hidden. The mass charges on the side, combined with a dedicated push with our infantry had the intended effect.
They were being squeezed and panic was setting in.
Some at the back were breaking off to run, but many more still fought -- one part because of fervor, but mostly because they still believed that they were on the cusp of victory. It took time to put that delusion to rest. And by the time that it was, when the common soldier looked around for guidance, he found them all dead by our sharpshooters. It was only then that the army began to disintegrate, breaking apart to flee.
Something I would not allow, sending my cavalry after them. The battlefield was littered with corpses, some of them stacked so high they stood as tall as I did. Yet more would die in the coming hours as I cemented my victory. This land was always going to be a problematic land to rule from afar, and the greater the casualties were, the better. Not only would it mean fewer rebels in the future, it would discourage those who would pick up a spear.
It would be an example to point to, proving such actions were futile.
My men unleashed a victorious war cry, knowing that the day was won. Our losses were light. Extremely so given the number of men we faced, but the armor we wore wasn't infallible. The shield wall fractured in some places, my men pulled out of the line and swarmed like ants. However, our losses were around a hundred dead. A few hundred more wounded.
“I thought we were going to lose,” Ragnar admitted next to me, a note of quiet awe in his voice. He stared out at the field of the dead, and it was not the first time he had seen such death. It was the first time Magnus had, and he seemed pale at the sheer volume of bloodshed. He kept his composure, however. And that was the important part.
I chuckled, urging my horse forward and my sons followed along with their guards. “We almost did,” I admitted, earning a sharp look from Rangar. “If our line had faltered, we would have lost. If any part of the army failed to do what it was told, it would have had a cascading effect that there would be no stopping.”
I glanced at my sons, expecting an elaboration as we rode through the battlefield. There were corpses scattered across the hill, and already the bodies of our own were being pulled from the piles to be burned with honors. Their arms and armor would go to their next of kin, along with their bones.
“We won because of our discipline?” Magnus found his voice, and it was when we rounded the hill that the scattered corpses became piles. The stench of death was thick, the thin mist obscuring them ever so slightly. Still, it was a great killing field. I estimated that we had killed roughly ten thousand yesterday. Today, perhaps as many as thirty thousand.
It really spoke to their absurd numbers that there was enough of an army left over that if they regrouped, they would still outnumber us.
“Our training. Our armor and weapons. Experience played its part too,” I confirmed with a soft nod, spying our destination. The noble prisoners who were smart enough to stay on the backlines. The prisoners that King Ecbert wanted to keep close. His son among them.
The prisoners were huddled together, but as king, Ecbert was afforded additional luxuries. He sat on top of his horse, his crown still resting on his brow. He wore a decidedly neutral expression, watching our approach. Then, when we arrived, he threw on a well-practiced smile.
“I don’t suppose it would be too late to negotiate terms?” He asked, as if he were in a position to negotiate.
As if he hadn’t sent a runner in the dead of night with terms carried in a letter. A deal struck in the shadows, known only to myself, King Ecbert, and the messenger. A deal that made King Ecbert as much of an accomplice to our victory as our soldiers because I agreed to those terms.
King Ecbert was a man who knew he lost the war, so he was determined to win the peace. And that made him dangerous.
However, I played my part in the deception.
“No. I don’t suppose that it is.”