Chapter 58: The Relentless Onslaught

Indeed, this was Rodri's plan. He had more tenacious and battle-hardened soldiers than Roches. He could deploy these soldiers in batches, using wave after wave of assaults to wear down the enemy's stamina.

Continuous assaults are a significant blow to the enemy's stamina and morale. With enough rounds, the enemy would inevitably collapse.

Roches felt somewhat numb at this point. He divided his soldiers into two groups: one to hold the camp walls and the other to rest in the camp. Facing the enemy's relentless attacks, this was the only strategy Roches could think of.

"Hold on, Prince John's reinforcements will arrive soon!" Roches tried his best to maintain morale.

In truth, he didn't know if John's reinforcements would come. Perhaps he was merely a pawn here, used to attract the enemy's attention.

But as the commander, he couldn't lose confidence himself.

To maintain morale, Roches had to offer his subordinates a well-intentioned lie.

The sounds of battle on the camp walls were deafening. The knights fought fiercely, pushing the enemies off the walls to prevent them from entering the camp. Below the walls, the enemy corpses almost formed a staircase, allowing others to climb up.

Such bloody battles were rarely seen on the European continent. However, the Normans, who were accustomed to ruthless fighting, were unfazed. Their ancestors had similarly brutalized the Anglo-Saxons, and these battles were no less gruesome than those.

The Irish warriors were also fighting desperately. To them, the Normans were invaders, plundering their wealth and seizing their land.

Their anger turned into fierce assaults, wave after wave, willing to exchange their lives to take down an enemy.

But the knights of Lancaster were not easy targets.

These knights formed a defensive line with their bodies, withstanding the Irish onslaught. Their tight formation and steadfast will prevented the Irish from gaining ground on the camp walls.

As time passed, the Irish, losing their momentum, found it increasingly difficult to break through the knights. Their morale began to wane.

Sensing this, Rodri sent in his reserves. The last unengaged unit was deployed, marching steadily towards the Norman knights' camp.

The other units were now resting, waiting to be redeployed.

Across the river, the local people of Athlone watched from the banks of the Shannon River, hoping to share in the spoils after the battle.

The battle's brutality seemed irrelevant to them. They watched heads roll, blood flow, and bodies lay broken, showing no pity.

As for the warriors on the battlefield, they paid no mind to these onlookers.

"Sir, when will the reinforcements arrive?" 

A knight, holding an empty waterskin ungracefully, sat exhausted on the ground. Roches, passing by, halted and said earnestly, "They'll be here soon."

"Soon... They'll be here soon..." The knight repeated the words as if drawing strength from them to continue fighting.

Beside him, other knights were similarly worn down, their nerves eroded by fatigue, as if their souls were being drained away.

Rodri looked proudly over the battlefield ahead, a masterpiece unlike any he had achieved before. He felt the goddess of victory beckoning to him, signaling a great turning point in his favor.

Before long, Ireland would be firmly back under the High King's control.

"Send in the fresh troops. We must crush those Normans," Rodri ordered again.

The Irish nobles, who had just rested, returned to the battlefield, brushing past their withdrawn comrades. Despite heavy casualties, everyone felt victory drawing nearer.

Meanwhile, in Roches' camp, more and more wounded soldiers gathered. Their cries and plight were like heavy blows to morale. Everyone felt victory slipping further away.

They numbered barely a hundred, facing the siege of thousands outside the camp, persisting from midday until dusk.

Such prolonged, intense fighting left many soldiers utterly exhausted. No matter how skilled they were in combat, their bodies had reached their limits.

"Reinforcements! Reinforcements!" Many knights cried out, as if hoping their shouts could summon non-existent reinforcements.

Reports from the battlefield constantly reached Rodri, keeping him informed of the enemy's morale. He knew that if they held on a bit longer, the enemy would surrender.

Rodri smiled smugly, confident of his impending victory.

He felt that such a smile hadn't crossed his face in many years. The last time he had laughed like this might have been when he was elected High King.

The cries of battle on the battlefield seemed to have transformed into cheers crowning him. The clang of weapons colliding was akin to the symphony of trumpets, filling Rodri with exhilaration.

"We're about to win," Rodri told his courtiers. "After our victory, we must drink wine here in celebration of our great triumph."

The courtiers looked at Rodri, so joyous, and eagerly agreed.

Rodri became even happier after being flattered. "This John, he's just a young lad, got caught in my trap. If he hadn't split his forces, we wouldn't stand a chance, but he's clearly too arrogant."

"Your Majesty is right."

"This John, a mere whelp, how could he outmaneuver our Majesty?"

"Indeed, our Majesty is wise and mighty."

Observing this sycophantic display, the leader of the Aquitaine mercenaries pondered whether Rodri was truly worth his allegiance; after all, he didn't seem particularly clever.

Nevertheless, the current victory was indeed worth celebrating. Of course, the cost paid was quite steep.

The losses among the Irish nobles were equally heavy, considering they faced the elite forces of the Kingdom of England. Once this batch of enemies was eliminated, they would still need considerable time to recover.

Moreover, John might bring in a fresh batch of troops from England by then, forcing the Irish to remain on the defensive.

As the mercenary leader pondered these matters, exclamations from Rodri's courtiers drew his attention.

"What's that over there?"

Following his courtiers' gestures, Rodri looked toward the east, the setting sun at his back. There, slowly unfurling from the hilltop, was a banner.

Soon after, one banner after another emerged, resembling a forest, like the sea, adorned with countless family crests.

Seeing this spectacle, Rodri's hands trembled. He had thought he had done everything so well, so why was there trouble now? Wasn't John supposed to be heading west? How could he appear here?

"Your Majesty, Your Majesty?"

The courtiers looked at Rodri, the aging High King trembling all over, his eyes seemingly about to pop out of their sockets. His chest heaved, rapid breaths making his complexion unusually grim.

Meanwhile, John appeared on the hilltop, his demeanor relaxed and composed, creating a stark contrast with Rodri.