Legends Never Die: Fate of Kingdoms (ch. 144)

“You have done well, Hjalmar! Gods above, you have made my wildest dreams possible!" King Hoffer praised him a week later, clasping his shoulders with a smile that threatened to consume his face. “I'll see you rewarded for this, though I struggle to imagine what I could give that you have not already received!" 

King Hoffer was in a good mood, throwing back his head and laughing at his own jest. But, honestly, it wasn't much of a jest. 

In the days since they had seized the city in its entirety, Hjalmar had had his men picking the place clean of every scrap of wealth to be found. Wine, spices, and trade goods were plentiful, but they paled in comparison to the mind-boggling amounts of gold, silver, and gemstones they found in the numerous churches. Hjalmar was determined to see not one stone left unturned, and for it, the church that had served as their initial stronghold proved too small to house the wealth they had taken. 

Hjalmar's personal favorite piece was a golden cross the same size as him. 

Some of the treasures had been a bit disappointing for how closely they were guarded. A splinter from the cross that their god had died on was a bit disappointing, all the more so because Hjalmar was all but certain that it was just some random shard of wood. But, he consoled himself with the knowledge that he could probably sell it to some hapless Christian down the line. Along with the bones of various saints that had found themselves in his possession. 

A heap of nonsense, the lot of it. Unless of course some of the saints in question had a few extra body parts to speak of, like an extra arm or a second head. It was a point of inspiration, really -- he had made his name as the man who took Rome. He could spend the rest of his life selling random bones and claiming that he took them from Rome's vaults. 

“Your victory comes at a fortunate time as well,” King Hoffer continued. “Charlemagne has mustered his men. He has marched through the Alps with twenty-five thousand men.” 

Oh. That was worrying. 

“If he is half the warrior king that the Allvaldr makes him out to be, then I shall be glad to have Roman walls between us,” Hjalmar remarked. Twenty-five thousand men was a large army. A very large army. The Allvaldr had conquered Scandinavia with less, and unlike their enemies then that outnumbered them several times over, these were not boys and old men or even women. 

“You would not take to the field against him?” King Hoffer asked sharply. Sharply enough that it opened a pit of concern in his guts, because it sure sounded like King Hoffer had been planning to to fight Charlemagne on the field. 

“We outnumber him,” Hjalmar began slowly, keenly aware of how his voice echoed in the stripped church that they met in. The same church they had found the pope in. “But I fear that we are outmatched. The men- they lack discipline. They fell on this city like a mob and for every one man we lost taking Rome, we lost five to their fighting over spoils. Our young blood listens better than most, but that doesn't mean they listen well.” 

He had roughly five thousand men under his command. That number had swelled to eight thousand as hot blooded Norsemen abandoned their companies to join him. Though he expected that number to decrease as he put them through drills to try to instill some basic sense into them. 

“Charlemagne’s is an army of veterans. The man has been at war every year of his life and with Rome threatened, he would only bring his best.” He could afford nothing less. Rome falling was a stain that would never quite wash away, but should a personal defeat follow? The dream of a lasting reunification would be just that -- a dream. 

“You do not trust our mercenaries, then?” King Hoffer questioned, taking a step back and appearing thoughtful. And it truly was a turn in his life that he was offering advice to kings.  

“I trust them to run as soon as the battle starts if they don't accept a bribe to turn on us on the field,” Hjalmar answered easily. 

“I hear you,” King Hoffer answered, and from the sound of it Hjalmar was just voicing concerns he had already been holding. “But to be bogged down in a siege is the last thing we need. We need to defeat him. A defeat here and now would have him never setting foot past the Alps again. He won't be able to afford to.” 

Rebellion. The years that he spent in the Mediterranean proved to him one thing -- men loved winners. They loved being on the winning side. And no one in this realm would turn on you faster if you ever dared to lose. Defeat was blood in the water that summoned sea monsters to gorge when you were at your weakest. 

Forget a unified Rome. Charlemagne would be lucky to remain a king. 

Fifty thousand against twenty-five. They outnumbered him two to one, but his own experience told him how little that advantage truly meant in the face of a seasoned and motivated force. And Hjalmar imagined they would be rather motivated given they had raided one of their holy places and took their most powerful priest hostage. 

He felt it in his guts. 

They wouldn't win. 

“What do you plan, King Hoffer?” He asked, withholding judgment because King Hoffer was no fool. He would understand the risks and weigh them against the rewards. The response he received was a clap on the shoulder as King Hoffer made to leave. 

“I have a few plans in the works. Just have a little faith,” he urged with a smile. 

Ah. 

Yeah, they were definitely going to lose. 

And Hjalmar began to plan accordingly. 

…

The following weeks were a flurry of activity. The first order of business was to ferry all of the treasures taken to Sardinia, and even after seizing every fishing and merchant vessel they could find along the coast, it was a constant effort that all but built a bridge of ships to the island. Meanwhile, recall orders went out to the many roaming bands, ordering them to return to Rome and prepare for the fight to come. 

They came in a trickle at first, the ill disciplined mercenaries content to gorge themselves on the unprotected countryside. At least until Charlemagne sent forth scouting parties that resoundedly chased them off. By that point, the army started to regain its full might and it was around that time that Hjalmar started to realize his change in fortune. 

Before, as a veteran of the conquest and an Ironclad, he had enjoyed a great deal of respect. As the Allvaldr had said, people looked to him for guidance naturally because he had proven himself in war and hundreds to thousands already looked to him and called him their leader. But, as their fragmented army reunited, Hjalmar found that his popularity had reached heights he couldn't have imagined.

He wasn't just an Ironclad and one of the Allvaldr's chosen leaders anymore. He was the man who saw Rome fall and its wealth plundered. And that made him a very influential man. A very wealthy man. Something that Hjalmar quietly worked to his advantage in the long days leading up to Charlemagne's arrival. A flurry of messages were exchanged between the two kings during Charlemagne's march, though the contents weren't shared with him. 

But, to summarize, Charlemagne wanted them out of Rome, out of Italia, and to release any and all prisoners taken. King Hoffer, meanwhile, wanted Charlemagne to relinquish all claims of everything south of the Alps, to pay extortionate ransoms for the holy people, and for his formal acknowledgment of the claims by right of conquest to the territories that Hoffer had seized thus far. 

It was a delaying tactic, letting both sides gather their strength. King Hoffer's numbers swelled once more back to near their original strength. Meanwhile, Charlemagne found a battlefield that he liked and had planted his army there, before delivering a final message. ‘Let God decide the victor.’ 

After the fall of Rome the men's morale couldn't be higher, and they were eager to march out against the Roman Emperor. With a call to march by King Hoffer, Hjalmar and some forty-five thousand others left the Eternal City behind and moved to face Charlemagne on his chosen field. Hjalmar couldn't claim that he felt the same eagerness as the men surrounding him, but the sheer confidence that everyone marched with was almost infectious. 

Almost. 

Hjalmar kept his doubts to himself as they marched to the battlefield that was some two days away. And what he saw when he arrived made him glad of it. 

Charlemagne had chosen his battlefield well, and he hadn't sat idle during the days it took for them to arrive. The battlefield was a flatland that was flanked on one side by a river that had been partly diverted to fill a trench before the army itself was arranged. There were bridges built into the trench which would allow them to attack with greater ease, but in doing so, eliminate all thought of a formation. The displaced dirt seemed to be placed behind the Roman army, allowing their archers a vantage point to shoot down from. 

Even with just a quick glance, Hjalmar didn't at all care for the sight. It was a well-prepared battleground, and one well suited to nullifying whatever advantages their greater numbers offered. All the more so when he saw the men who made up the infantry. 

They weren't peasant levies, unsurprisingly. While they weren't Ironclads, Hjalmar saw that each man was outfitted with a long hauberk of chainmail and a cuirass clasped around their torso. They were equipped uniformly, all possessing similar gear, while the leaders of whatever link in the chain of command were marked by a stylized helm with colored plumage. 

He searched their faces from across the field, and what he saw was hate. They had a surplus of reasons for it. The sacking of Rome would sting, Hjalmar imagined. Just as the butchery at Verdun had for men of his faith. And even if that had failed to rouse their hearts, then they still would have walked past miles upon miles of that same kind of butchery dealt to their people at the hands of King Hoffer. Villages emptied and burned, towns brutally sacked, and an endless stream of refugees begging at the side of the road. 

They didn't seem bothered by the odds stacked against them. If the odds were stacked against them at all. 

“Charlemagne hasn't been idle,” Ulfar remarked to him as they formed up the right wing of the army, and he felt exposed as a result. He'd much rather be on the left that had its flank guarded by the river. Instead, he had to put his hopes that the mercenary cavalry on his flank wouldn't buckle. “He's been preparing to fight the Allvaldr.” 

“Aye,” Hjalmar voiced, swallowing his nerves as the truth of the matter started to dawn on him. Across the field was the army that Charlemagne intended to face the Allvaldr with. It might not be ready yet. But, he knew the core of it would be an unyielding steel. “That's what I'm afraid of.” 

Their army formed up across the Romans. 

Hjalmar stood at the head of the right flank, eight thousand men under his supposed command. Most of which were his fellow Norsemen, in large part because of his fame and because they spoke the same language. King Hoffer chose the center, leading fifteen thousand men. The left was led by a man whom Hjalmar did not know particularly well, but he was also entrusted with eight thousand men. 

Arranged before them were some five thousand ranged troops -- archers, slingers, and crossbow men. 

The remaining twelve thousand were cavalry, split between light and heavy, all of which were on Hjalmar's flank. There were eight thousand light cavalry to act as advanced skirmishers with javelins and bows. The remaining four thousand were heavy cavalry, the cataphracts. It seemed dangerous to concentrate the cavalry on one wing, but with the river on one flank, Hjalmar supposed that it made sense. But what made him feel so uneasy was the fact that the fortifications Charlemagne had built hid his own cavalry. 

The scouts and spies claimed that Charlemagne had around twenty-five thousand men. But the composition of his army remained a mystery. Unless half of his army was cavalry they should have the advantage in numbers, but there was a big difference between five thousand heavy horsemen and ten thousand. Especially when all of it would be concentrated on a single flank. 

It was high noon by the time that the army was fully assembled across the field, and when the horn bellowed, signaling the beginning of the battle. 

Hjalmar watched as the light horsemen rode ahead first, almost charging the Roman line, before pulling back at the last second. And, as they did so, they unleashed a hail of javelins into the Roman formation. Meanwhile, the horse archers unleashed a volley of arrows, targeting the deeper ranks. The Romans weathered the rain of missiles, all the while their own archers unleashed a volley from the safety of behind the frontline. 

The missiles exchanged in such volume that arrows struck arrows in the air, making both fall harmlessly to the ground. Their loss was negligible as two seemed to replace every arrow that missed its mark. Yet, the exchange was brief with the light cavalry reversing their charge and regrouping. Leaving behind a handful of fallen men, their horses shot out from underneath them, and some who had ventured too close to the moat and fell in. 

As they retreated, Hjalmar saw that the Roman formation had lifted their shields overhead to cover the men in front of them, trusting the men behind them to do the same. The result was a wall of shields that was dotted with javelins and arrows, but was otherwise undaunted by the rain of death. 

The cavalry went for a second charge, and as they did, the five thousand missile troops began to march forward, coming to a stop roughly halfway on the battlefield before they began to add to the rain of arrows released in the direction of the Romans. When the light cavalry pulled back, once again it revealed that the Romans had endured it without reaction, yet more light horsemen lay fallen on the field, a scant few compared to their thousands. 

By the time of the third charge, the slingers got close enough to unleash their stones, and because of it, the light cavalry was restricted. It was part of the plan, Hjalmar knew, and the light cavalry started to go wide, attempting to go around the fortifications. 

And then something happened. 

Hjalmar wasn’t sure what at first, but it was obvious on the field as the light cavalry suddenly recoiled. They yanked back their reins, coming to a skidding halt, and those who failed to react in time found themselves slamming into the backs of others. The air became thick with the sound of horses crying out in pain and fear, joining the men who did the same. His initial thought was that the Romans had countercharged, but he saw no sign of it when the light cavalry started to pull back. 

“Ditches!” Someone shouted, relaying the message to whoever needed to hear it. “The Romans dug ditches on their flank!” 

That’d do it. More so than Hjalmar thought, as he hadn’t realized how bad it was until the horsemen cleared the field, revealing a wall of horseflesh and corpses that had filled the ditch and served as a barricade for those who had thoughtlessly followed. Even at a quick glance, Hjalmar thought that at least a few hundred had perished in the charge. Likely more. 

Enough, evidently, that many of the light cavalry were refusing to take to the field again.

The pit of unease grew in Hjalmar’s stomach, thinking that it would be better to call it there for the day. Let the light cavalry regroup and consolidate, lick their wounds, and find their will to fight again. King Hoffer, evidently, disagreed as the order soon came to march. Hjalmar obeyed the order, regardless of his misgivings, and the vanguard marched across the field. 

Arrows from the Romans fell like rain, but his constant drilling of the men under his command saved them from the worst of it. Shields were raised in a similar formation to the Romans, letting the arrows slam harmlessly into the shields overhead, while they closed the gap between them. The men entered the ditch, wading through the mud, and the Romans revealed their advantage by jabbing down at them with spears. 

The natural walkways were contested, the Romans allowing just enough space to draw them in, but they remained a veritable wall and contested any attempt to dig a foothold against their formation. War cries and the sound of steel against steel rang out as King Hoffer was determined to use the sheer weight of their numbers against the Romans to push them out of their fortifications. 

It was working. 

The ditches were overcome, though not without difficulty. The spearheads hacked apart, or were used to pull men down to them. Every body that fell served as a stable footing and reduced the depth of the ditch, and once the initial line of men faltered, it allowed those behind to cross the ditch with greater ease. Meanwhile, Hjalmar used his men as a screen to hide the four thousand heavy cavalry. They crossed the additional ditches, going wide to outflank the Romans. 

It was then that Hjalmar expected to be greeted by a cavalry charge, yet it didn’t come. The Roman fortifications rounded the flank, serving as a barrier, but not one that couldn’t be overcome. And it was being overcome. The men hacked and slashed, pushing back the Romans, determined to chase them from the field…

And that’s when the cavalry charged. 

“The left!” Ulfar shouted, drawing Hjalmar’s attention from the battlefield before him. He followed Ulfar’s point, and over the thousands of heads that separated him and the left wing, he saw them. 

The Roman cavalry. 

“They mean to charge through the river?” He asked, clenching his jaw. He felt like he was in the mouth of a trap, but he didn’t know how or what kind. From his count, thousands of heavy horsemen were charging the left flank, seemingly appearing from thin air, and were undaunted by the thought of the river. 

The reason why was soon obvious as their horses seemed to gallop across the water as if it were solid ground. His first thought was some kind of magic, his heart lurching to his throat. But, even as the first line of Roman cavalry slammed into their left flank, he realized that it was something far more mundane. The Romans had prepared the battlefield for days in advance. 

The diverted river. It was used to divert any overflow because of what the Romans laid in secret beneath the water. A bridge. Likely dirt so that the waters would not be as deep as they should be, but possibly wooden planks for more stable footing. Hjalmar supposed that it didn’t really matter. 

Not when the left flank, completely unprepared for a charge, buckled like parchment. The Roman horsemen carved deep lines in the formation, eight thousand men offering barely any resistance, it seemed. The charge was also a Roman signal because the infantry, who had so far stoically weathered their charge, suddenly pushed forward. 

That push was spearheaded at key points. And, from his vantage on horseback, he saw one of them. 

It was a man in a full set of armor, his face obscured by his helm, but his cloak was a pure white, and in his hands were a longsword and a shield. He swung his blade once, cleaving through a man and his shield both before killing two more men with the backswing, taking a step forward and cutting another man in half from an overhead swing straight down. All three swings happened in the span of a blink of an eye, and Hjalmar’s heart suddenly wasn’t just in his throat, but fighting to jump out. 

“A Paladin,” Hjalmar breathed, knowing of the order of warriors sworn to Charlemagne. He didn’t know the name of the warrior that cleaved through men like a farmer did wheat, but there was no mistaking what the man was. Gods, he almost felt bad for everyone they faced during the Conquest. Seeing that sight and facing it as an enemy was terrifying beyond words. 

The Romans immediately gained ground, the Paladins cutting through all resistance like a knife through butter. The confidence in their army faltered, and Hjalmar could feel the morale plummeting as those in the line realized that they were losing, and didn’t know why. 

If it were the army they fought with during the Conquest, they could have pulled the situation around. It would be possible to rally their flagging morale, blunt the Roman countercharge, and deliver one of their own with their light and heavy cavalry. But, this wasn’t that army. It was comprised of mercenaries, half of whom didn’t share a language, and the confidence that previously filled them had left them completely unprepared for such a deadly blow. 

King Hoffer was attempting to rally the army regardless, riding back and forth to the men who were starting to melt away from the pressure. As Hjalmar watched him, he felt…

He wasn’t anyone special. Just a poor boy from a poor family who had managed to attach himself to the right people and rise higher than he ever dreamed. And now, in this moment, Hjalmar almost laughed at the sheer absurdity of the fact that it was he who stood at a crossroad of destiny that would decide the fate of kingdoms and empires. 

At one fork in the road laid a path that would see the Roman Empire fall. If he committed himself to the battle, threw himself into that human meatgrinder, maybe King Hoffer would be able to salvage the battle. Maybe it would buy enough time for their heavy cavalry to deliver a counter-charge. Maybe it would be enough to rally the men, and once the Romans were out of position, they could overwhelm them and win the day. 

Maybe. 

At the other fork laid the destruction of King Hoffer’s kingdom. He could take his men, the eight thousand infantry and command the four thousand heavy cavalry, to withdraw from the field. He would preserve their lives, and in doing so, he would set in motion a series of events that would all but certainly herald the end of the kingdom. If not today, then years, if not decades from now. 

Because, with this defeat, the illusion of unchecked raiding and reeving would be shattered. The men would start asking themselves, ‘Is staying worth the risk?’ and most would decide that… no, it wasn’t. Hjalmar expected that of the twelve thousand men that would fall under his command, most would decide to return with him and Ulfar. 

And that would be a fatal crack in King Hoffer’s foundation. Not the death of his kingdom outright. Hjalmar suspected that the king would remain a persistent thorn in the side of the Romans, but he knew with certainty that King Hoffer would never muster the kind of force that he had managed to field today. 

Hjalmar felt like he saw the entire battlefield in that moment that seemed to drag on, his mind racing and turning over the question of what he should do. What he wanted to do. 

“Sound the retreat.”

Maybe if he wanted to stay in the Mediterranean, he might have done something different. Maybe if he was a different man, the kind of man who cared about the destiny of kingdoms or empires, he might have stayed. But he didn’t, and he wasn’t. 

The Allvaldr had given him a task -- train up some men, bring them home for the Great Raid on Britannia. And quitting the field right now was the best possible thing he could do to accomplish that goal. 

Ulfar breathed in sharply, and for a moment, Hjalmar expected him to disagree. Instead, he offered a sharp nod. “Aye, that’s the right call. King Hoffer will disagree,” he warned, and Hjalmar laughed without mirth. 

“Then it’s a good thing that we aren’t staying.”