novelraw Chapter 355: Sacrificing the Few to Save the Many
Chapter 355: Sacrificing the Few to Save the Many
"These Rangers are insufferable. They are exactly like a swarm of flies. Wave your hand to drive them away, and they immediately dart aside. The moment you drop your guard, they swarm right back, never giving us a moment of peace."
Lately, Gunnar had been thoroughly tormented by the Rangers. These men were natural reconnaissance cavalry, even more outstanding than the tribal light cavalry of the Moors.
He spurred his horse up a nearby hill. His mount nervously stamped its hooves, kicking up flecks of dry soil. Gunnar tightened his grip on the reins and gazed down at his army.
The sun hung high in the sky. Countless soldiers marched along the winding dirt road, trampling the roadside grass into a withered, flattened mess. Looking into the distance, the vanguard had already vanished over the horizon, while the rearguard had yet to emerge from the rolling hills behind them.
Gunnar sighed inwardly, 'What a chaotic, utter mess.'
Many of the militia wore roughspun clothing and carried farming tools brought from their homes: chipped sickles and rusted pitchforks. Heavy bundles bowed their backs, and their footsteps were sluggish and undisciplined. The military officers rode alongside them on horseback, their reprimands echoing endlessly. The entire procession looked like a wounded python, struggling to slither forward beneath the scorching sun.
The Southern Army numbered thirty thousand men, and more than half were poorly trained conscripted militia. They severely dragged down the marching pace, only managing to cover thirteen miles a day. In contrast, the Vikings marched at a speed of twenty miles a day. At this rate, it was only a matter of time before the enemy blocked their path.
That afternoon, Gunnar received a report. Twenty skirmishes had broken out between scouts that day, resulting in the loss of two hundred and thirty cavalrymen.
It was painfully obvious that the Vikings had intensified their search in this area. They were closing in fast!
Inside the central command tent, Gunnar and his commanders stared at one another in dead silence. Forced into a corner, he made a difficult decision:Sacrificing the few to save the many. He would have a portion of the militia continue marching in their original direction. Meanwhile, the main force of the Southern Army would double back toward the southeast, taking a wide detour to evade the Vikings' reconnaissance. Then, they would race north at full speed, striving to rendezvous with Charles the Bald as early as possible.
"Which unit do you intend to assign this task?" an Italian noble asked.
"The slowest troops, of course," Gunnar declared with resolute firmness, pointing a finger at a small dot on the map.
"In truth, this is a very simple assignment. After we split our forces tomorrow, you only need to reach this town as quickly as possible and rely on its palisade for defense. Wigg won't waste his time dealing with you."
July 11th, five o'clock in the afternoon.
After a fierce and bloody battle, the 4th Ranger Battalion broke through the blockade set up by the Frankish Army's cavalry and arrived at the outskirts of a town.
"We've finally arrived."
Acting Battalion Commander Håvarun observed the small town before him. It boasted a palisade and moats. Outside the town, clusters of tents were spread out, and numerous plumes of cooking smoke rose into the sky.
'Cooking smoke?'
Håvarun rubbed his eyes, his heart instantly sinking to the bottom of his stomach. If an army of thirty thousand men were stationed here, there would be vastly more tents and smoke than this.
At this moment, the main Viking army was rapidly advancing. Filled with anxiety, he ordered the Rangers under his command to scout the surrounding area. At sunset, the Rangers discovered a massive expanse of wagon ruts at a fork in the road thirteen miles to the south. It appeared the main force of the Southern Army had taken an entirely different direction.
Late at night, an exhausted Håvarun returned to camp and reported the intelligence he had gathered.
"Your Majesty, we were played by Gunnar. He used several thousand men as bait, stationing them in the target town, while the main Southern Army marched in this direction."
Once the officer finished his report, Wigg retrieved a ruler and compass. He traced the marching routes of both armies on the map, determined a new objective, and ordered Leif and the other staff officers to plan the marching route.
On the afternoon of July 12th, the 2nd Ranger Battalion located a Frankish Army camp. However, there were only over four thousand militia and a large amount of supply wagons left behind; the Southern Army's main force had fled once again. As they abandoned more and more of their militia, Gunnar's marching speed steadily increased. Today, they had covered roughly fifteen miles. The price, however, was that the Southern Army had already shrunk by over eight thousand men before the battle had even begun.
After a moment of contemplation, Wigg predicted that the three armies would converge and clash in the Rickfield.
He sought out Håvarun, the acting Battalion Commander of the 4th Ranger Battalion, and instructed him to set out early with his Rangers to occupy the hills on the western side of the Rickfield.
"As you command!"
Håvarun assembled his military officers, ordering them to pack entrenching shovels and sufficient dry rations. They departed the camp just before dusk, spurring their horses into a wild gallop toward the north.
As time slipped away, the last sliver of the setting sun vanished below the horizon. The Rangers slowed their pace to prevent their warhorses from stumbling in the pitch blackness.
The officers at the very front lit torches, relying on the stars and compasses to navigate. The cavalrymen's bodies swayed gently with the rhythmic gait of their mounts. Some began to doze off, their heads unconsciously drooping, only to jolt awake moments later. They would look around in bewilderment, staring blankly at the boundless, starlit wilderness.
Deep into the night, Håvarun ordered a rest. The cavalrymen dismounted one after another. The faint clattering of their saddles and the rustling of their gear sounded exceptionally sharp in the dead silence. Once unburdened of their tack, the exhausted steppe horses snorted wearily. They eagerly lowered their heads, hungrily tearing into the grass.
Aside from a few unlucky souls assigned to stand guard, the rest of the cavalry curled up on the ground and slept until the first light of dawn brightened the eastern sky.
"Get up, no more sleeping!"
The officers urged the soldiers to their feet. Everyone saddled their horses and resumed their march northward. Halfway through, they came across a small stream, and the steppe horses immediately lowered their heads to greedily lap up the crisp, clear water.
With their thirst quenched, the warhorses noticeably picked up their pace. Ignoring the scattered commoners they encountered along the way, Håvarun finally arrived at the hills on the western side of the Rickfield at two o'clock in the afternoon. The surrounding terrain was flat and overgrown with lush wild grass. In the distance flowed the River Marion, drifting lazily from northeast to southwest. Its riverbed was wide, but the water was shallow enough to only reach a man's calves.
After conducting reconnaissance, they determined that this stretch of the shallows was approximately three kilometers long. It was the only section in the vicinity suitable for a large-scale crossing.
"His Majesty guessed correctly. If Gunnar wishes to head north, he has no choice but to pass through this route."
Håvarun drafted a brief report in cipher and dispatched a messenger to deliver it to the King. It wasn't long before over a dozen black dots suddenly appeared to the north. They circled the hills from a great distance before promptly retreating.
"Damn it, the enemy is practically on top of us!"
Håvarun ordered his cavalry to seize the moment and chop down the small patch of woods at the base of the hills. Branches and tree trunks were dragged up to the front of the slope and stacked together to form a crude low wall.
As sunset approached, more than two hundred Frankish Army cavalry arrived. They briefly adjusted their formation, then leveled their lances and charged howling toward the hills. The Rangers did not meet them in a head-on clash; instead, they hid behind the low wall and fired bows and arrows at the Frankish warhorses.
Seeing this, the Frankish Army cavalry opted to dismount and fight on foot. Gripping shields and longswords, they stormed up the hills and engaged in a fierce, bloody melee with the Rangers behind the low wall.
The Rangers' sabers were primarily meant for slashing and struggled to deal armor-piercing damage. Forced to improvise, they unslung their entrenching shovels and swung them furiously at the enemy's iron helmets—finding them unexpectedly effective.
In less than ten minutes, the Rangers had beaten back the Franks. Watching the enemies' retreating backs, Håvarun ordered the soldiers who were still in good condition to continue felling trees in preparation for the enemy's next wave of attacks.