Legends Never Die: Next Step (ch. 133) (Patreon)

Sore. If Hjalmar had to describe how he felt in a single word, then that one felt like a solid enough pick. There were others he could choose -- exausted was a close second choice, and weary a further third. But ‘sore’ had the implication of the other two, so Hjalmar felt very sore. 

Yet, the march continued. 

Another man, a different king, might have slowed down in the aftermath of the great battle of Novograd. Twenty thousand against eighty thousand on a single field, and the result had not even been close. They’d won so handily that the entire region just… gave up. It was something he could understand quite well -- if he saw a man lay out eight burly warriors, Hjalmar wouldn't want to pick that fight either, else he be the ninth laid out. 

Any other king would have been content with such a victory. They would have stayed in the region, policing it as a garrison to make sure no one got any ideas after they were done licking their wounds. Instead, they were on the move down the coast, following the plan as they left the settling of the new territories for those in their wake. 

As much as his muscles protested the decision, Hjalmar saw the wisdom behind it. There really weren't words that could adequately convey the reaction that the clans and tribes had upon hearing that King Siegfried and his army had smashed through nearly a hundred thousand men like they were barely even there. It was something beyond shock, awe, and fear while somehow being all of those things. King Siegfried might speak of a time when the Germanic tribes had once fielded armies in the hundreds of thousands to throw off the Roman yoke, but such a thing had been unthinkable in living memory. 

The various tribes had expected resistance. They’d hoped for failure -- that King Siegfried would falter at the first step, that some of his shine would fade, and they could convince themselves that they had nothing to fear. However, they expected resistance. They believed that against such numbers, King Siegfried and his army would be diminished. They believed that even upon the Rus defeat, they would turn the entire area into a quagmire that would slow his approach. 

They thought they still had years to prepare for his arrival. As little as one or as many as ten. It wasn't without reason. With all the territories taken before, King Siegfried first acquired the territory, secured it, then waited until the next year to expand again. 

Their shock was genuinely unimaginable when they learned that the battle had been won with ease with few losses, and that they were already on the move almost as fast as word could spread. For many, the fight just bled out of them for a number of reasons. They knew they were outmatched, and any hasty alliances they may have made could not be enacted as they’d arrived too swiftly. Others, however, gave up because… the gods worked in mysterious and subtle ways most of the time, but sometimes they grab you by the ear and scream in it. 

Such a victory could only be granted by the gods, they thought, and who were they to argue with the gods? If King Siegfried's ambitions were wrong, then surely he would have failed at such a crucial crossroad?

That wasn't to say that there weren't those who still resisted. There were many. Hundreds, to thousands, to hundreds of thousands. At least it felt like it. In the months that followed the battle for Novograd, Hjalmar had fought in more battles than he had in the past two years combined. Sometimes against a dozen people, other times against a hundred, sometimes near a thousand. 

And it was then that the King's plan was revealed. The campaigns in Geatland, Sweden, Sami, and Finland were all prelude to the conquering march -- they marched in a long column of ten thousand with Rangers moving a day ahead of them that informed them of enemy movement and resistance. Whenever resistance was encountered, depending on how many were needed, they would split off from the main army to battle them. Once they won, they would fall in with the reserves, and once a week, the army would stop its march to rest and regroup. 

Meaning that even after a battle, you marched and marched and marched. And in between battles, you marched. 

It was something that Hjalmar had hoped to avoid the worst of, as after the Battle of Novograd he and his battle group had been granted horses. The King was evidently pleased with their performance and decided that the five hundred of them were best used as an independent force on the battlefield that struck where the enemy was weak. Hjalmar should have known better. Good work was repaid with more work. 

He might not have blisters on his feet, but he did have them on his arse, and that was arguably worse. Not to mention, with the horses, more often than not, he found himself as part of the battle groups sent out to clear the way for the army since they had greater range and mobility. The only upside to that was the fact that, as a horse rider, once his own armor was complete, he could outfit his mount with a hauberk. It would take an age to finish, certainly, but it was a further piece of prestige that marked him as someone of importance. 

Provided that he didn’t die in the next great battle, his future was looking unexpectedly bright. 

“Hard to think that they were us a couple of years ago,” Trym noted next to him as they sat mounted on a horse, waiting for the fresh-faced recruits to disembark from one of the burgeoning ports on this side of the coast. Their losses were on the low side, but that didn’t mean there were none. Some just got unlucky with a bad blow, some got overconfident and broke formation for glory, a few perished because of sickness, while others were wounded and couldn’t keep up. 

“You think the veterans back then noticed our gawking?” Hjalmar asked, noticing how the recruits meant to replace their losses eyed them as they drew themselves up into formation. Hjalmar was proud of the fact that he cut quite a sight these days, especially clad in a full set of armor. He knew that they looked upon him and dreamed of earning their own set. 

They thought that they were prepared, given that they had come from the training camp meant to prepare them to become warriors. Given how his entire body felt like one giant pulled muscle, he was strangely thankful for his commanders back then for doing their best to kill him with exercise. Without it, the army would have had to leave him on the side of the road somewhere, unable to take another step forward.

“Oh, no doubt about it. Try not to make a fool of yourself, Hjalmar,” Ulfar spoke up from behind them, an ever present grin in his voice. 

“Shove off, you’re making us look bad,” Trym replied, all too pleased with the attention and sharing a laugh with their commander. 

“How many are ours?” Hjalmar asked, knowing that there would be at least five for his own command. It was unavoidable. Not when there were days when they fought two or three battles. They were well-trained, well-disciplined, and well-armed, but exhaustion took its toll. When people were tired, they made mistakes. A wound there, an injury there… it added up. 

“Thirty,” Ulfar answered. “They’ll need to be blooded before the next major battle.” 

The next major battle loomed over them, but the truth of the matter was there would be at least a dozen skirmishes until then. They would earn the beginnings of a set of armor, but not likely a whole set. 

“I almost feel bad for them,” Hjalmar admitted. “They're arriving at the tail end of the conquest.” Hjalmar was sure that there would still be battles to be had, but it would be quite some time until something like this happened again. A war of conquest. 

“Eh, garrison duty isn't so bad,” Trym replied with a shrug of his shoulders. “Worse jobs to be had. We would know -- we worked some of them.” 

To that, Hjalmar snorted, but it was Ulfar who replied, “There is always the next conquest. King Siegfried is a great conqueror. I expect we'll be at war for every year of his reign.” 

That surprised him. Normally, he would be inclined to just agree with Ulfar, as he was far more politically inclined than Hjalmar. Not to mention, far more well connected. “You think?” 

Ulfar cast him a glance, raising an eyebrow, “You disagree?” 

He did, strangely enough. “I would call him a great builder more than a conqueror. Honestly, this whole conquest seems more like a means to create a workforce than conquering for the sake of adding more crowns to his hoard.” It was strangely brilliant in a way that made a shiver race down his spine when he thought about it. The sheer scale of the plans… 

He saw it in Geatland and Finland, and then Novograd. King Siegfried just… moved populations to where he wanted them, but people were stubborn and stupid and prideful. They'd never obey a command to do so, and King Siegfried was wise enough to never give a command he knew would not be followed. So what did he do instead? 

He conquered them, threw tens of thousands if not hundreds of thousands in chains and named them thralls. Then he scattered them across his kingdoms, forcing them to build and settle, and once they did? He took off their chains and called them citizens. They were free to return to their homelands, but that was much easier said than done. Costly, to say the least. 

The result was what he saw in Miklagard being spread across Scandinavia -- tall buildings, bathhouses, arenas, and more. 

The scope of the King’s ambition was daunting. It made his own feel quite quaint in comparison. 

“You think he'll stop expanding?” Ulfar asked, his brow furrowing as if the thought had only just occurred to him. 

“Perhaps not entirely,” Hjalmar ventured with a small shrug of his shoulders. “I'm unsure if there will be another great conquest like this again, though. Wars are costly, and even his coffers aren't bottomless. Especially when he's erecting cities from thin air, building roads and whatever else. No, I think he'll set down his sword for years after this.” 

King Siegfried was a farmer. People like Ulfar forgot that when they weren't using it as a point against him. Only instead of growing crops, he was cultivating kingdoms. 

“In that case, what are you going to do after the conquest is over?” Trym questioned as Ulfar fell silent in contemplation.

And that was a question he’d thought a lot about, but still felt no closer to an answer than when he began. “I don't rightly know,” Hjalmar admitted. “I figured that I would go down to the Mediterranean. Take my spoils, charter a ship or two, and join King Hoffer. Seemed like an easy rich life.” 

“Heh -- success can be its own burden,” Trym laughed, knowing his problem well. Hjalmar had never expected to do so well during the conquest. But here he was, a tried and tested veteran of a hundred battles. He was a commander of a hundred men, and he’d grown rich through spoils and pay, all of it carefully saved and grown further through well placed bets and a deft hand at dice. 

In short, he already had the success he’d thought he would only find in the Mediterranean. 

“Aye, it can be,” Hjalmar admitted. “You?” 

“Settling down doesn't sound so bad,” Trym ventured. “Might follow in the footsteps of our forebears -- buy a nice plot of land, a wife or two, and spend the rest of my days in modest luxury.” For the longest time, that was almost word for word what Hjalmar had intended when he joined the army. Make enough money that he never had to worry about it again, retire, and live a modest life in which his greatest concern was which of his sons to favor during the inheritance. 

There was ample opportunity for that. He could return to Denmark and purchase a holdfast. Or he could buy larger plots of land in Geatland, leverage that and his wealth into the position of a Jarl. 

Or he could go another route. Invest his wealth into opportunities that would see his wealth grow even further. Commission a ship and crew to run a trade route along the budding empire he’d helped build, or beyond it. He could purchase buildings in Miklagard and rent them out. 

As a boy the world had felt like it had been full of possibility, but as he grew into a man he’d learned the hard way how limited the world was to someone like him -- someone born without consideration and with the wrong blood in his veins. Now, with respect and wealth, more doors had opened for him than he was honestly prepared for. 

“Doesn't sound like a bad life,” Hjalmar admitted. A few years ago, that would have been enough for him. Probably. But now that there could be more for him… 

“Well, my life is laid out before me,” Ulfar replied, a rueful note in his voice. “Stay in the military until it comes time to replace my father as Jarl. Earn a place of prestige in the court, titles, and what have you. Then repeat the process with my son.” He didn't sound upset by it, nor particularly excited. It was simply a fact, and one that he’d accepted long ago. “Now, come on. No point in dwelling on the future if we don't have one. We're going to be rather outnumbered in the next battle.” 

On that ominous note, Ulfar urged his horse forward and Hjalmar followed, despite his arse pleading for respite under the saddle. He wasn't wrong, Hjalmar knew, and he kept it in mind as they picked up the thirty odd recruits and they were folded into the regiments. 

He kept it in mind as the day of rest was over, and they once more marched down the coast. There were battles to be had here, but fewer than before. Simply because they were approaching the territory of their next major foe. Or, rather, two of them. The result being that when they marched through notable villages, they simply surrendered without a fuss. 

When they came across the fortifications that were erected to slow them down, the King ordered them besieged and assaulted. Most surrendered at the first sign of defeat, but Hjalmar had very little to do with them. 

All of it was so they could race towards the next notable battle. 

Hjalmar had kept an ear close to the ground, shifting through the rumors that filtered into camp from the defeated. Long before they stepped foot in Novograd, he had been listening to the tales whispered about their opposition. Jarl Radulfr was known to have a hundred thousand men in his army, but that was an exaggeration and Hjalmar would struggle to call half of his soldiers men. 

The next opponent was meant to be King Sturla. A minor king in the same way Horrik had been, just with a larger army. In the years before their arrival, he’d gone about his own conquest and, according to the rumors, had also amassed an army a hundred thousand strong. If not more. 

But, just like with everyone else, the ease of their advance and victory alarmed his court. King Sturla tried to steady the ship with a tighter grip, but the results were the opposite of what he wanted. At least, that's what Hjalmar assumed given that he had been assassinated a month ago, poisoned at a feast, which shattered the alliance he’d formed. 

Their rapid advance did have some kind of unifying effect on the fallen king’s vassals, however. Rather than completely falling into infighting, what had been a single united army instead split into two parts. They were fighting each other as much as they were King Siegfried, but they got their act together long enough to dig their heels in. The rumors on how much the army was divided varied widely, but the most consistent number that Hjalmar heard was fifty thousand. 

It almost seemed… lackluster, in comparison to the previous battle. Hjalmar had assumed it would be a clean sweep -- they'd join with the other half of the army, take down one of the enemy armies and then the other. Then they'd move on. 

But this was not the case, as Hjalmar discovered days later when they once more stood on the field of battle. He didn't quite know where they were exactly, but he figured that it was somewhere halfway down the coastline of the Baltic. He didn't really know who they faced across from them. Only that the fifty thousand man estimation felt like it was roughly accurate… 

And that King Siegfried had chosen to face them with half of his army, while the other was off fighting the other half of the enemy. In essence, there were two great battles taking place, and in both battles… they were outnumbered at least twice over. Or, in his case, outnumbered about five times over. 

“I really might kill the king,” Hjalmar whispered the treasonous thought under his breath, knowing that it was lost in the sea of noise as King Siegfried, in his infinite wisdom, saw that army that outnumbered them five times over and decided ‘I have a plan of attack. Attack.’ The result was what he was bearing witness to, a sight so absurd that even the enemy seemed thoroughly caught off guard by it. 

The infantry was moving up underneath a storm of stones and arrows, a storm that thinned as their archers shot back from their position in the rear. The King advanced in a formation that was shaped like an arrow, with himself serving as the tip. Meaning that they were going to cut through whatever defensive line the enemy had. That wasn’t what he had reservations about -- it was the rest of the plan, or, rather, his part in it. 

He had to wait for the signal, ignoring how his guts were tying themselves into knots as the sounds of battle reached his ear. It really was incredible how easily you could see where the King was. Not merely because he towered over everyone, but because he was clearly where the bodies were being bisected with such force that limbs started flying in the air. 

The effects were immediate. The formation began pushing through the army that vastly outnumbered them -- it was impossible for them not to, in Hjalmar’s mind. After seeing the King in action… Well, they were getting a taste for watching enemies learning the hard way that the stories about him weren’t exaggerations. If anything they were played down to be remotely believable. As he carved a line through the formation, the line was reinforced by those behind him. 

From his position, he saw it widening as the enemy recoiled, stunned at what was happening, but not idle. He saw them responding, attempting to close the deepening wound in their formation. The result was that their arrow tip formation began to round out a bit, curving at the ends when the enemy started to spill over in an attempt to encircle them.

He waited for the arrow to be fired by the archers, the signal for his part in the battle. And, all too quickly, it came. 

He barely felt it when Ulfar gave the command to charge forward, and their five hundred horsemen galloped towards where the King had carved his line. It was constantly shifting, and for a moment, Hjalmar thought that they were going to charge into the backs of their own army -- but then he saw it as they galloped forward at full speed. 

The arrow-tip formation split apart, creating a channel directly towards the enemy reserves and commanders. The lines themselves bowed, becoming two curves as the others also received the signal to charge. In the corner of his eye, he could see the King’s Companions revealing themselves, pouring out in a charge into the unsuspecting back of the army that had thought that they were winning. 

It was an observation that lasted all of a second before their own charge struck, and the world became noise to Hjalmar. His poleaxe was leveled, skewering someone in the throat, and it nearly ripped him off his horse. It was only by expecting the resistance that he was able to fight it and remain seated. People were screaming in shock, pain, fear, and rage -- Hjalmar couldn’t pay it any mind. 

It was so easy to only focus on the enemy before you, but he had to keep an eye out for runners sent to give him commands and to shout orders to his own men. When he’d first fought, the battle seemed so chaotic. Messy. A place where the madness in all men was put on display. But with experience, and seated upon a horse, he saw that wasn’t the case. 

It was like throwing a rock into a still pond. The ripples expanded from the impact, and by following the source of the ripples, you found the impact. 

More importantly, what he saw was a man wearing a crown in the thick of the fighting. He was young. Possibly the son of King Sturla, but he didn’t know. Or much care. His face was pale, his eyes filled with the manic fury of someone who was in a corner that they knew they had to fight their way out of or die. From the looks of things, the man already understood that the battle was lost. 

There was no recovering from something like this being done to their formation. People were already trying to flee, spilling out between the gaps from their offensive line and the cavalry charge. However, there was always a possibility. So, he galloped forward, hacking and slashing with his poleaxe, knowing that he was supported by a hundred of his men while Ulfar led the other four hundred to the same destination. 

They were given a task and they would see it through. 

There was a part of him that felt a bit bad for the young king, who was going red in the face as he screamed orders, trying to get back some control over his army. Even as fear was plain as day on his face. He’d likely woke up this morning afraid but determined. He took to the field with the belief that he could win, regardless of what the odds said. Hjalmar could only guess at what motivated him -- a sense of pride, perhaps greed, or even a sense of obligation. 

And all of it was brought to an abrupt end because of a well-acted plan… and a well-placed swing.

‘There’s a lesson in that,’ Hjalmar mused, the head of the king all but hacked off as his axe tore through his neck. Securing glory and a nice reward for his ever-growing coin purse by killing the right man. ‘Something about the dangers of putting too much faith in what comes tomorrow.’ 

So until that tomorrow came, he would just live for today. One today at a time.