Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 150: Berserkers

As one of the first orphans adopted by the school, Sebert held a very poor impression of his Nordic homeland, considering it a barren and desolate world entirely unfit for habitation.

Sailing along the winding, jagged coastline, the passing scenery only validated his thoughts. Looking at the impoverished locals living in squalor with their tattered clothes, a sudden shudder of dread washed over him.

'Odin above, I must never end up in such a state, and neither will my future children. They deserve a better world.'

In mid-April, their longship arrived at Kalmar on the Swedish East Coast. The port area was heavily guarded, boasting two towering arrow towers. Behind them, a wooden palisade was still under construction to prevent sudden naval strikes from across the sea.

The moment they docked, a squad of fully armed warriors approached to interrogate them. Even though Erik Jr.'s guide presented their token of passage, they could not avoid a thorough search.

"According to the new rules, we must confiscate your weapons. You can reclaim them before you depart."

Sebert did not object, casually handing over his one-handed axe and personal dagger. After receiving permission, he made his way toward the lord's longhouse.

Along the way, he frequently spotted warriors patrolling the streets. They occasionally stopped passersby to question them, looking as if they were bracing for an imminent invasion.

"Are the locals terrified of Halfdan's Swords of the North?" he muttered to himself.

After a brief moment of thought, Sebert understood the root of their fear. Kalmar lacked sturdy defensive fortifications and could not afford a massive standing army. The slightest negligence could invite a devastating ambush from the Swords of the North.Entering the longhouse, he stated his identity following his guide's introduction and requested to discuss trade matters with Lord Rekker.

"Of course. The northern regions of Britain produce pig iron, which we are more than willing to import. In addition, we also want wheat, ale, and woolen cloth."

The lord rattled off a series of goods before his tone suddenly dipped. "Because the berserkers of the Swords of the North have been ravaging the countryside, our available goods for trade have significantly dwindled. We cannot afford to buy too much. Unless..."

Guessing what the lord was about to say, Sebert quickly interjected, "No. Following the complications with the former lord of Bergen, my master insists on clearing all accounts upon delivery. We absolutely do not offer credit."

"Then there is nothing we can do," Rekker sighed, listing off his current inventory of furs, amber, pine resin, and other goods. Their total value amounted to a mere forty pounds.

'Is that it?'

Sebert once again experienced the sheer poverty of his Nordic homeland. Just as he was about to speak, a breathless warrior burst into the longhouse.

"My lord, those damned pelt-wearing savages are forcefully collecting taxes in the surrounding villages again!"

The lord abruptly shot up from his seat, sharply demanding to know the enemy's numbers. Upon hearing there were only eighty of them, he ordered his servants to fetch his armor and commanded the assembly of his shield-bearers and commoners.

Leaving a portion of the commoners behind to guard the settlement, the lord led a force of three hundred men, ready for battle. To his surprise, Sebert also followed the procession out past the palisade.

"You are an envoy of the North's Serpent. Has the North's Serpent already torn up his relations with Halfdan?"

Sebert shook his head. "My lord, I will not participate in the battle. I merely wish to gather more intelligence on the Swords of the North."

Hearing this, the lord's expression darkened. He said nothing more, simply leading his men straight toward a village situated southwest of Kalmar.

Along the way, Sebert listened to the warriors discuss the current situation, realizing that the region's deterioration was far more rapid than his duke had anticipated.

In recent years, a massive influx of Vikings from Norway, Sweden, and Denmark had poured into Britain. The annual migration totaled around ten to twenty thousand people, with the vast majority being young, able-bodied men. As the Swords of the North went about forcefully recruiting manpower, the labor force dedicated to agricultural production dwindled even further. Livelihoods withered, and what used to be lush wheat fields degraded into desolate, uninhabited grasslands.

The lord spoke with venom in his voice, "The Swords of the North are like a swarm of locusts devouring our crops. Aside from leeching off the villagers for free food and drink, they bewitch the young men into becoming apprentice warriors. Once they bleed a place dry, they move on to ravage the next village..."

Witnessing the weed-choked fields on both sides of the road, Sebert recalled his duke's definition of the 'Swords of the North'—a vagabond syndicate. These people produced nothing. Instead, through endless roaming, they coerced new members into joining them, ultimately forming a colossal force capable of shaking the old order.

In the early afternoon, the group arrived at their destination. Gazing at the faint plumes of cooking smoke lingering over the village, Rekker ordered his men to rest. Once they had eaten and drank their fill, they fell into formation and marched forward.

When they were barely five hundred meters from the village, the berserkers began emerging from the houses one after another, forming up in an open clearing.

The berserkers were well aware of how unwelcome they were. In the event of a battle, the villagers were highly likely to join the lord's side. Rather than huddling inside the village, it was better to take the initiative, march out to meet the enemy, and strive to crush them in a single, decisive strike.

Led by five bearskin warriors, the men ingested a special type of mushroom. In just two short minutes, their faces flushed a deep red. A scorching heat surged within them, making them feel as if their bodies were overflowing with boundless strength.

"Slaughter these weak sheep! To Valhalla!"

Draped in various animal pelts, the berserkers charged at the enemy. When the two sides were just over a hundred meters apart, the lord let out a thunderous roar. Sixty Vikings retrieved bows and arrows from the wagons, aiming at the approaching berserkers and unleashing a rain of arrows.

The lord smiled as he explained to Sebert, "The tradition of the berserkers is to fight without armor, so I deliberately hid a large number of bows and arrows in the wagons to give them a nice surprise."

The first volley of arrows struck true, sending five deerskin-clad berserkers crashing to the ground. The bearskin warriors at the very front remained entirely unfazed, howling as they continued their maddened sprint forward.

Regaining their composure, the archers took aim at the berserkers and loosed a second and third volley, bringing down a total of ten men. The bearskin warriors bore the brunt of the assault, yet only a single one fell. At this point, even a fool could tell they were wearing iron armor beneath their bear pelts.

"Quickly, aim for their thighs!"

Seeing the berserkers rapidly closing the distance, the lord frantically ordered his archers to adjust their aim, blindly firing one final volley of feathered arrows.

The next moment, the remaining fifty berserkers smashed brutally into the crowd. They discarded their arrow-riddled shields and wildly swung their two-handed iron axes, instantly throwing the lord's formation into absolute chaos.

As a non-combatant, Sebert instinctively evaded the demon-like berserkers. Their minds were solely consumed with offense, rendering them seemingly immune to pain.

Against three hundred hastily assembled conscripted militiamen, this suicidal combat style proved highly effective. The militia dared not trade their lives for those of the berserkers, cowering and retreating until their ranks completely shattered.

After a brief but intense clash, the militiamen, despite holding an overwhelming numerical advantage, were utterly routed by a handful of berserkers. The survivors fled in blind panic.

Listening to the agonizing screams sporadically echoing from behind, Sebert ran frantically along the path they had taken. Frigid air flooded his lungs as he gasped for breath, detecting a faint, sickly-sweet scent of blood on the wind.

"Huff, huff... It has been over two years since graduation. I never expected to relive those old days," he panted.

During their five years at the school, aside from academic studies, the children were subjected to two extra training sessions every day. They had group long-distance runs in the morning and practiced close-quarters combat and bow and arrow before dinner.

Thanks to his ample nutrition and years of rigorous training, Sebert successfully lost all his pursuers—as well as his allies. Moving at a blistering pace far ahead of the rest, he was the first to sprint back inside the safety of Kalmar's palisade.

With no time to explain, he rallied his guide and a dozen crew members, hurrying to the eastern docks, fully prepared to flee at a moment's notice.