Chapter Fifty: This Is War

There was no time to mourn the dead on the battlefield. The knights struck their raven shields with their sword hilts, their movements uniform, creating an imposing momentum like the pounding of war drums. Such a display was enough to scare off bandits and brigands; if their aura faltered, it would expose a fatal weakness.

But Vidar was not intimidated by this bluff. Numbers alone did not inspire fear; the oppressive force these men exerted was far less than that of the silver-ranked Viking professional. Vidar could already imagine what would happen if they encountered Sweyn—the heavy sword would be raised, and those steel armors would be smashed inwards as easily as cracking open a tin can.

This squad of ten elite soldiers was more than enough to deal with ordinary iron-ranked professionals or hunt down an ice bear. But they were certainly no match for a silver-ranked professional. Vidar had already bested Sweyn, both through cunning and in open combat. By the simplest measure, the outcome was clear.

So he felt no fear, only the conviction of inevitable victory. As four heavily armored knights and two light infantry surrounded him, closing in, he continued to fire arrows calmly and unhurriedly.

Three arrows flew, three found their mark—like death itself calling out names. The remaining three archers fell.

Balder and Lukas, inspired by his composure, abandoned thoughts of retreat and took their place at Vidar’s side.

Some of the young men, seeing what was happening, stopped running. Balder’s son Avery, and Koaw, who had nearly been struck by an ice shard the day before, both clenched their jaws, seized the axes and longswords taken from the Viking pirates, and charged back with a shout.

Their hearts raced, faces flushed, veins bulging on their hands. The scent of blood and the red stains on the snow drove them into a frenzy, making them forget their exhaustion and fear.

Avery raised his heavy axe, filled with youthful courage and fervor, and swung at a knight. As a strong young man of Tania, Avery was no less robust than any cavalryman, accustomed to farm labor and often hauling barrels weighing more than ten kilos.

He may have lacked technique, but he possessed brute strength. The heavy axe crashed against the knight’s raven shield, forcing the knight to stumble back a step.

Avery roared, swinging his axe with wild abandon. But these were elite full-plate cavalrymen; every one of Avery’s farmer’s blows was blocked by a shield.

Their strengths seemed matched, but the chasm of equipment, training, and experience was impossible to bridge.

Seizing upon a gap in Avery’s onslaught, the knight thrust his sword, while an infantryman coordinated at his side—spear and sword coming at Avery from front and rear.

“Avery!” Balder cried out his son’s name, his heart stopping as the spear wounded Avery’s abdomen, then slid off, the sword slicing through empty air.

At the critical moment, Vidar kicked Avery’s backside, saving him from the deadly pincer attack. Avery clutched his left side, blood pouring out as he collapsed into the snow, breathing hard, sweat soaking his brow, the world a noisy blur around him.

It felt as if his chest would burst. The spear came at him again—he was like a perch stranded on the riverbank, a sharp harpoon about to pierce him.

The scent of death finally brought fear.

But the black-clad wandering knight stood before him, sword in both hands, blade angled right, deflecting the infantryman’s spear.

Then, in a move none had anticipated, a flash of steel—he hurled his battered iron sword like a throwing knife. The heavy blade pierced the infantryman’s chest; another soldier fell.

“Fool!” thundered the nearest heavy knight. On the battlefield, discarding one’s weapon was the height of folly.

The knight charged like a war chariot, having marked Vidar as the greatest threat among the Tanian villagers, swinging his greatsword in a sweeping arc.

But again, Vidar evaded the blow.

The knight quickly recovered, forcibly redirecting the sword’s path. Even among the Icelandic Iron Cavalry, few could wield a blade as he did. The greatsword was about to split the man in two, but Vidar twisted his waist at the last instant, slipping past the blade’s edge.

To the knight, it was as if he faced not a man, but a phantom with no corporeal form. He had never encountered such an opponent—seemingly frail, clad in rags scavenged from ruins, yet always anticipating his moves.

“Die!” the knight bellowed, though whether from anger or fear, he himself could not tell.

Before he could muster his strength for a second assault, Vidar had already retrieved a Viking’s great axe from the snow.

An iron sword could not pierce plate armor, but the blunt force of a great axe could shatter steel.

That was why he had discarded the sword for the axe.

Unlike the spare rusted sword he’d scavenged from the sled, this mighty axe had been a Viking pirate’s main weapon—heavy and powerful.

As Vidar gripped the axe, it felt oddly familiar, reminiscent of the round-headed hammer he’d swung for days on the steppe—longer even than he’d ever wielded a sword.

He wielded the great axe as he would a hammer, abandoning technique for brute force, facing the knight head-on.

From their earlier exchanges, he had gauged their strength. Now, he no longer dodged or deflected.

He smashed aside the knight’s sword with his axe, then hammered mercilessly at the knight’s helmet.

Once, twice, thrice—three heavy blows. The iron helm buckled, the knight collapsed, sinking into the snow.

Elsewhere, Lukas used his spear to pry open another knight’s visor. Though wounded, Lukas was a professional—a man who had stepped into the realm of the extraordinary. With others sharing the burden, he was able to kill a heavy knight.

The tide of battle had turned. With seven lost, the formation could no longer hold.

The remaining two cavalrymen and one infantryman were surrounded by Vidar, Lukas, Balder, and Koaw.

Lukas had intended to keep one or two alive for questioning, but the frenzied Koaw and anxious Balder finished off the last three.

The elite squad was utterly destroyed in the valley.

Ten bodies fell, blood staining the snow, the scene almost unreal.

The survivors all instinctively looked to the wandering knight, whose armor was now reddened with blood.

After a time to collect themselves, Balder gathered the villagers who had fled, making sure none were missing.

Avery’s wife anxiously bandaged her husband’s wounds. Their young daughter wept in terror. The villagers stood dazed and lost at the edge of the valley, unsure what to do or where to go, numbed by confusion.

Vidar and Lukas made their way to the center of the valley, where a wooden cart awaited. Next to the cart lay the bound corpse of a massive ice bear. It seemed the soldiers had been preparing to load the bear onto the cart.

On the cart, a dwarf with his mouth bound with cloth—the eleventh man Vidar had seen.

The dwarf, barely half a man tall, whimpered and groaned.

“You’re... Old York?” Lukas recognized the dwarf at once.

Though it had been years, Old York’s Mediterranean-patterned bald head was unforgettable.

Lukas untied the ropes. He was desperate to know what had happened in Alvador, how the soldiers of the Icelandic king had crossed the ice sea to the mainland, and why they now consorted with necromancers.

Old York coughed, breathing heavily, then spat.

“Damn Icelanders. One day I’m putting a dead rat in their stew!” he cursed, jumping from the cart and kicking a stone savagely.

But when he saw Vidar, he suddenly stumbled, trembling violently.

Vidar thought the dwarf must have been startled by the blood on him.

“Old York, what exactly happened here?” Lukas asked.

The dwarf frowned, eyeing Lukas and the people around him. “You’ve saved York, but who are you?”

“It’s me, Graypaw—Graypaw Porter.” Lukas pointed to his own face.

Travel-worn, unshaven for some time, he looked rather haggard.

“Graypaw?” The dwarf patted his rump, squinted, and stepped closer.

After a long stare, the dwarf slapped his forehead.

“York remembers. You’re the one who always came to sell furs!”

“That’s right, it’s me.” Lukas nodded. “What about those soldiers? Has Alvador fallen to the necromancer?”

“I... I...” Old York wanted to speak but only managed a deep sigh, his spirits deflated.

“Come with York, you’ll soon see for yourselves.”

Old York led the way out of the valley. Vidar followed behind, and the others exchanged glances before quietly trailing outside as well.

Beyond the valley, the view opened up. From their vantage point, they could look down upon the streets and red houses of Alvador.

And the Bragg River—when Lukas saw the river, he froze in disbelief.

The sight explained everything to Vidar.

At last, he understood why the river they’d encountered in the forest yesterday was thawed.

In the flowing river, Icelandic warships were moored at the mouth. More than a dozen ships arranged in a line, with a military camp already established beside them.

The raven banner flew high, snapping in the wind, and from afar, soldiers could be seen cooking over fires.

This was no mere incursion by a handful of necromancers or elite soldiers crossing the sea.

This was war.

At this very moment, they stood at the beginning of a war.

No—war had already begun before they even arrived.