182 Servant of the Axe, 82 – Forming the Line

Chapter Type: Character Development, Light Action

I had been used to squads of ten soldiers plus a sergeant. Having two hundred sixty some men organize into five person teams (four and their sergeant)... It was different and exhausting, and without paper lists or something equivalent in my System, I could never have managed it so quickly.

In truth, what I needed was a master list, thus-and-so goes to this sergeant. But I made do with what I had, filing the papers into a stack in my inventory as each squad was completed.

Remember when I said that Industrialist, one of my social classes had abilities that helped motivate others and give them bonuses? Yeah, those abilities were there, and within what I could pay. If I wanted to give up on opening the reticule.

I decided, foolishly, that hard work and a simple method would do. When my quill broke, I used my talons to ink mark on the pages.

I had complete squads move to the northern end of the field, while incomplete squads were closer to the gate. There were last minute changes in the early hours of the morning as unlisted people showed up, and others didn’t.

And THEN there were those people who were late, forcing me to make entire new squads.

Somehow, somehow, we got through the lists. I combined the few fragmented squads into full or even over-full squads, trying to be certain that each squad I merged had at least one bowman or crossbowman.

There was no forced march; it was afternoon before we arrived to a surprisingly not-upset jarl.

.....

“Sergeants to the fore! Weapons inspection for all sergeants!” He had two tables set up in front of the grand hall, weapons spread over and around them. It looked like everything in the armory. I noticed whom my Flavian sword went to, but made no comment. Shields, helmets, pairs of metal boots, individual pieces of chainmail forged of bronze, iron, and steel... everything found a soldier, and those so gifted seemed a little less tired.

Was it possible to imbue equipment with fatigue points? If so, it was something my System only allowed during item creation, repair, and sometimes cleaning. But I couldn’t see anything that... ah, it was a motivational ability, across multiple classes.

And, of course, it was based on Charisma.

historical

Whatever, tents were made from staves and blankets there in the homestead, and the pigs were noticeably absent, to make an appearance at dinner as tiny ham steaks, flavored with parsley and mint, and covered with small roasted seeds of some kind. There were breads and cheeses and sausages, there were cookies and fried onion wedges and flatbreads made from ground maize.

Yet, somehow, there was a bowl of salted oatmeal with shredded leaves of cabbage for me. Whatever, there were leftovers enough to fill my stomach. Some were even not stepped on.

I dared not to skip another night’s sleep, but I helped to carry and clean dishes, of which there just simply weren’t enough.

Frieda even got her training in, learning how to keep her footing in the trampled mud of the camp.

And in the morning, we soldiers left.

“Frieda, are you supposed to be coming with us?”

“I’m spear-bearer to my father.” She beamed at me. “Where is he?”

I pointed him out among the jarl’s men, ostensibly in the middle of the vanguard. In practice, I’m not sure the line wasn’t too spread out for control and feedback.

“And what are you doing here, little duck?” Tomas Istre asked.

“I’m your spear-bearer, father.” She proudly announced.

“Your mother said this?”

“Yes! Well, if you approve it. She says I’ll be safer closer to you.”

“Well, that may be, but I’ve already promised the honor of bearing my spear to Yordvulf, here.”

“Maybe one of your huscarls needs a spear bearer.”

“I’ve seen the wee lass at practice. She can carry my spear.”

“Jurgen, you wield an axe.” Her father said.

“Axes break. I’ll keep her from harm’s way. Besides, that looks like new mail she’s wearing.”

It was in fact, new chainmail, and she was huffing and puffing under the weight of it.

But she kept up, as the line approached the wood.

And that was when the first arrows emerged, not a volley, but odd arrows. They landed before our troops, or worse, hit them in the legs.

“Forward!” came the shouts from center, where warriors were already charging the trees.

There was nothing I could call battle that day. Nothing was organized enough. Most of the commonfolk did not have metal pants, and so many arrows were directed at their thighs, their shins, and even groins. A steady trickle of men and other men helping them walk flowed back to the great hall.

The closest report of battle was where three herdsfolk had been caught trying to move their flock out of the path of the warrior line. One of the men was captured alive, and over two dozen heads of sheep. I didn’t put much stock in either set of prisoners surviving the night.

I, with my wood axe, cleared away whatever piece of brush most annoyed the jarl at any particular moment. It wasn’t an organized effort, but I was surprised when at the end of the day there was enough chopped brush for every man to carry a piece. (Those who were not carrying corpses of the fallen, friend or foe.)

There was much crying and cursing, and the laments were loud and many. There at the camp, a common pyre was lit (involving a keg of oil, to help get it started), and some twenty folk laid upon it.

The heroes who founded the Itinar had a word for that. Decimation. The death of one man in ten.

True, there were enemies on that blaze as well. But it was obvious what the herdsfolk were doing. They were ensuring that the jarl, and everyone loyal to him, would bleed. It was a Hunter tactic, normally used to bring down large game. Enough casualties, and the morale of the army would break.

Frieda was nowhere near that point; she was so energetic and focused on DOING that it was hard to instruct her at all. The practice was more like actual combat than I preferred, and I ended up down by eight health points at the end of it, gambeson and all.

I missed my chainmail.

#

That night, in a move they probably considered brilliant, the herdsfolk attacked by launching fire arrows at long range into the camp.

Before doing such a thing as letting skirmishers leave cover, take measure of how many warriors among the enemy have abilities such as Flash Step. On our side it was six, and none of them had used their abilities while the sun was up. Even at night, four of ours could reach the enemy, and seven of them did not make it back into the woods alive.

It was, for the herdsfolk, a disaster. For our side as well, as the fire tore through a third of the camp. But come dawn, there were only two dead, one from trampling and another from smoke smothering.

“Half of their bowmen now sleep in Valhalla.” The jarl proclaimed. “Their defenses are broken. Find them, and let the slaughter begin!”

The cheer that arose was ... well, I wasn’t inspired, but the loyalists clearly were. With vengeance strong among their mind, they progressed up both banks of the river, seeking and at times finding, abandoned parts of the herds.

But there were no men or women found, although there were tracks.

With great reluctance, the jarl proclaimed victory and told the muster to return to their normal jobs.

“Victor.” He said where I could hear him.

“Brother?”

“Rotate the thanes through the duty of patrolling the forest, until we can train our own woodwise folk to do so on our behalf. Also, I would know who should have been here these days and was not.”

“Find the little lizard boy, then. It is he who kept the records.”

“You trust him to keep those records?”

“I’ve seen it, brother. His Truthspeaker Oath seems to be unbreakable, ingrained into both his System and his personality. I’ve little doubt that he doesn’t even want to break it, miserable as it makes him at times. It saddens me that we must kill him.”

“Not immediately. His ties to the Fenris wolf will draw him into our clutches. Let me fight it and slay it. Alone, or with all of you present. There is glory enough for all. Then, and only then, does the scaled leather join the furred, and twin heads be mounted as trophies in my halls.”

There were days when I would have reacted with fear to such words. In truth, Sigmund Findseth was a fierce warrior, and not one to be taken lightly. However, having met Rakkal, I can say that he was still within the limits of mortal man. I didn’t fancy his odds if he went up against Blackfur alone.

And, although I’d have liked to see that, that wasn’t the death that we had planned for him.

#