Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 247: Short Spears and Lances

The following morning, prompted by the shrill, urgent ringing of a bell, four hundred hired laborers left their barracks. Some were tasked with digging irrigation ditches, others were assigned to the logging camp, while the rest tended to the wheat and sugarcane fields.

In truth, the Sugarcane Company had also acquired grapevines and citrus seedlings, but they had not been planted on a large scale.

Transplanting grapevines during this era relied on "cutting propagation," requiring at least four years from planting to stable production. The maturation period for citrus seedlings was equally lengthy. With limited resources, the company could only prioritize planting sugarcane, leaving other crops for when their funds were more abundant.

Under the scorching sun, the laborers, clad in coarse linen shirts, worked diligently. Occasionally, they would slack off when the overseer was not paying attention, chatting among themselves about the circumstances that had brought them to such a state.

The laborers were broadly divided into two categories: destitute commoners who had come voluntarily, and exiled criminals.

The commoners typically signed a three-year labor term. Once it expired, they could either return to their home country or stay on Sun Island, where they would be granted a twenty-acre plot of farmland for free.

The duration of exile for the criminals varied. Some could return to Britain after two years, while others needed ten. A newly arrived batch had been implicated in a rebellion and were thus sentenced to lifelong exile, doomed to spend the rest of their lives in the Canary Islands.

"Hey, why did that idiot Earl of yours start a rebellion? Was he played by Gunnar?"

Faced with the teasing of the veteran laborers, the newly exiled men reacted in various ways. Just as their boisterous arguing reached a peak, a large horde of natives wielding short spears suddenly charged out from the distant jungle.

"Damn it, why are they here again?!"The experienced veteran laborers threw down their iron shovels and pickaxes, fleeing toward the camp as fast as they could. Some of the slower-reacting new laborers fell behind. They were pierced by the short spears hurled by the natives, collapsing to the ground with their fates unknown.

Five minutes later, the vast majority of the laborers had escaped inside the compound walls. After barely catching their breath, they were hurried along by the supervisor to collect weapons from the storehouse.

Looking at the bewildered crowd, the supervisor ordered them to grab light crossbows and spears. "Move faster! If the enemy breaches the walls, not a single one of us will survive!"

The laborers who received light crossbows headed to the back of the wall, with one crossbowman assigned to each firing slit. Those who took spears were divided into two groups: one hundred stood guard behind the main gate, while the remaining hundred acted as a reserve force to prevent stray natives from scaling the walls for a sneak attack.

Soon, hundreds of natives swarmed the area. Those on the edges of the mob used wooden shields to block the incoming crossbow bolts, while the ones at the very front brandished the discarded iron shovels and pickaxes, frantically battering the wooden gates.

The supervisor peeked out from a firing slit and turned pale with fright upon seeing the natives wielding iron tools. He loudly cursed the laborers for their stupidity. "Who told you idiots to leave your tools outside?!"

The native tribes on this island did not know how to smelt metal. Their primary weapons were wooden spears, stone axes, and slings. Over the past year of interactions, they had realized the equipment advantage of the outsiders and had begun intentionally hoarding all kinds of iron tools.

In less than ten minutes, a large hole was battered into the reinforced wooden gate. The supervisor raised a short crossbow and fired outside, coincidentally striking a native right in the throat. However, this only roused the feral nature of the nearby natives. Disregarding their casualties, they continued their relentless assault and finally broke into the compound's interior.

"Spearmen, hold your ground! Crossbowmen, fire from the back! No one is allowed to retreat!"

The supervisor swiftly cut down two deserters and commanded the troops to block the gate. After holding out for a brief moment, a crossbowman in the watchtower suddenly shrieked, "Cavalry! The Earl's cavalry has arrived!" To the east, twenty cavalrymen crested the hill. One of them carried the Earl's newly designed flag—a blue field with three vigorously growing stalks of sugarcane painted in the center.

They rode tall, robust Andalusian warhorses, clad in chainmail and iron helms. In their right hands, they held three-meter lances, and their leather boots rested firmly in stirrups.

Before the enemy could react, the Earl led the charge. The warhorses neighed as they galloped, their hooves striking the ground like muffled thunder. The cavalry formed a loose horizontal line and crashed directly into the enemy force of over four hundred men.

Along the way, some natives used slings to hurl stones. The vast majority missed, and the few stones that did strike the cavalry's chainmail caused no damage whatsoever.

With only thirty paces left between him and the enemy, Helgi clamped his legs tightly around his horse's belly, pushing its speed to the absolute limit. He then leveled his lance and smashed straight into the loose formation of the natives.

"Valhalla!"

Under his leadership, the cavalry tore through as if there were no obstacles at all. Their lances easily pierced the enemy's flesh, the warhorses sent obstructing natives flying, and iron hooves trampled the fallen bodies. Some tried to grab the horses' legs, only to have their skulls split open by sword blades. Others turned to flee, only to be impaled from behind by the charging cavalry. Panic spread like a plague, and the formation collapsed in an instant.

In a mere moment, dozens of corpses littered the clearing, while the surviving natives scattered into the jungle. Helgi reined in his horse and stood amidst the pools of blood. His demeanor was relaxed, as if he had merely been on a hunting trip. Glancing back, he noted that only two of his cavalrymen had sustained minor injuries.

Leading his horse by the reins into the camp, Helgi accepted a piece of sweet bread and a bowl of sugar water from the supervisor. "What is the meaning of this attack? Who provoked them?"

"No one, my lord. We were working as usual when a massive horde of natives suddenly rushed out from the jungle. The fifteen slowest laborers were killed. While defending the camp, another twenty were wounded by short spears and stones. The wheat seedlings and sugarcane in the fields were destroyed, and the waterwheel by the river was smashed to pieces. Boss, we cannot tolerate this any longer."

Given the severe shortage of manpower on the island, Helgi had been reluctant to start a war with the natives. He had constantly instructed his subordinates to exercise restraint and had even gifted the tribes liquor and linen to build relations. But after suffering repeated attacks, there was no room left for hesitation.

"Organize all the laborers for training," Helgi ordered. "Pass down the command: once we breach this tribe, all the women and grain will belong to them."

Hearing the Earl's orders, the supervisor felt a surge of excitement. He had long grown sick of these thieving natives. This was the perfect opportunity to deal with them once and for all, preventing any further disruptions to the plantation's order.

Suddenly, Helgi casually mentioned Hrogeir's name. "Where is he? Send him back to Britain as soon as possible. Don't let him cause any more trouble here."

The supervisor ordered several subordinates to search the area. They scoured the entire camp but found no trace of Hrogeir. One of the laborers then reminded him that Hrogeir had gone upstream to fish that morning and was likely dead.

"Shut up and go look for him!" The supervisor's mood plummeted. Hrogeir was a cowardly and greedy man who had never earned the respect of Helgi or the knights, but he possessed a unique advantage—his sister was the Queen. If anything went wrong, the supervisor knew he could never withstand the Queen's wrath.

"Ugh... Let me go! I will pay you however much you want!"

At that same moment, Hrogeir was already a captive. A native was carrying him over his shoulder, marching swiftly through the jungle. Unknowingly, the surrounding vegetation began to thin out. Hrogeir knew things were looking grim, but he did not dare resist. This native had killed two sword-wielding guards with nothing but a wooden spear; dealing with him would be effortless.