Chapter 46: Battle of Ireland (2)

The impact force of the Norman knights had been proven over centuries of battles, and this time was no exception. The Irish warriors under Caimen were thrown into chaos the moment they made contact with the enemy, shattered by the overwhelming force of the Norman charge.

Following closely behind, the retainers joined the fray as they had countless times before. Compared to the knights, their fighting skills were more raw but their bravery unmatched. These were young men eager for glory on the battlefield, fighting almost recklessly in close combat with the enemy before them.

John, spurred on by his warhorse, charged forward almost uncontrollably. Just moments ago, his lance had pierced through an Irishman's body, the immense force reverberating through the lance and into John's wrist, which still tingled with numbness. He had yet to fully recover.

However, the knights around John, especially the seasoned ones, seemed unaffected by the impact. They discarded their lances and drew their longswords from their belts, slashing and cutting in all directions.

Around the knights, blood blossomed like vivid flowers from the lives of their enemies.

On the right wing, John's plan seemed to have been executed perfectly. Caimen's warriors scattered in disarray, with little hope of regrouping.

However, on the left wing, things were not going as smoothly for Les.

Following their strategy, he and his Norman knights charged the enemy. Their tactics mirrored those on the right wing, but the enemy they faced was not under Caimen's command.

Count Tomond, Domnar, was no Caimen; he knew the Normans all too well. His forces consisted of a large contingent of Anglo-Saxon infantry, supplemented by nobles' kin from various castle garrisons. These soldiers formed a solid shield wall, ready to repel the Norman charge.

The Norman knights were not fools either. After their initial charge, they sensed trouble.

In the past, they would have pierced through enemy formations like a sharp knife, creating gaps in the enemy lines. But this time, they felt like their weapons struck a solid copper wall.

Realizing the situation, the seasoned Les immediately ordered a retreat. While Norman knights valued honor, they were not foolish. They withdrew alongside Les.

In past battles, the Normans would have deployed a large number of archers to disrupt the enemy with long-range firepower. This would have provoked the enemy into charging out of their formations in anger. Regardless of their equipment, scattered infantry would face nothing but slaughter against cavalry.

In the Battle of Hastings, the Conqueror William used similar tactics to defeat the English army of that time. However, Les didn't have nearly as many archers at his disposal. He had no choice but to continue maneuvering his knights in hit-and-run attacks, circling before the enemy's formation. Yet, to the seasoned heavy infantry, this behavior seemed as laughable as a clown's performance.

The most terrifying test lay before the central forces.

"Hold steady! Hold steady!" bellowed Bruton, the standard bearer gripping the flag tightly.

Facing this standard were knights charging at them like a tidal wave, accompanied by heavy infantry following closely behind. This was the elite infantry under King Roderick, composed of nobles, well-equipped and experienced.

"The glory of God is with us, warriors! For God!" 

The armed knights from Gloucester wore chainmail and visored helmets, wielding warhammers. Except for the crosses on their helmets, no one would have guessed they were priests.

This was a distinctive feature of Western Europe; armed priests had once excelled in the Crusades and now did so again.

"The Lord will forgive your souls and ensure your ascent to heaven after death!"

Listening to the priestly words, Rolf's Norwegian warriors under the banner hammered their shields, howling like wild wolves. Though they had converted to Catholicism, they hadn't forgotten their ancestors' legacy of ferocity and savagery that swept in from the cold winds of the North.

"Soldiers, listen!" Bruton roared. "Lower your spears—"

The standard bearer vigorously waved the flag, a signal practiced countless times in drills, indicating the soldiers to lower their spears.

The soldiers in the front ranks lowered their spears, falling like a forest in unison—a spectacular sight that was ahead of its time for the Norman knights facing them.

After the brilliance of the classical era, such spear formations had vanished from continental Europe.

The Norman knights faintly sensed something amiss, but their upbringing and education drove them forward into the charge. Facing the disciplined infantry square, their legs trembled, but they feared the officers' punishment more. They chose to believe that by standing still, gripping their spears tightly, they might survive.

"God protect us... God protect us..."

Even Bruton, the seasoned veteran of countless battles, felt his legs quiver. It was his firsthand experience of the Norman knights' charge that instilled such dread in him. Memories flooded Bruton's mind, memories he preferred not to recall, prompting him to shut his eyes...

Suddenly, a cacophony of men falling and spears splintering shattered the air. The cries of agony ahead were not as devastating as Bruton had feared, prompting him to open his eyes.

Through the dust, he witnessed the infantry squares, led by their officers, skewering one Norman knight after another from their horses with their long spears. The knights felt like they were crashing into a hedgehog, their own lances too short to harm the enemy. They could only watch as their horses carried them past, impaled by the spears, their bodies flung by inertia, pierced through by the long spears.

This time, the infantry became a true bronze wall before the knights, a genuine blood-and-flesh hell. Knights who hadn't engaged closely with the spear formations prepared to pull back and regroup in the rear. However, the Norwegian warriors disagreed.

Roaring from the gaps in various formations, the Norwegians hurled their spears, dismounted the immobilized knights, and then raised their hammers high to crush the knights' helmets.

"What the fuck is going on?" Dekusy also joined the knights in their charge, but he didn't face the long spears head-on like the others.

He stared at the gruesome scene before him, his expression bewildered. This was an absolute impossibility in his memory. Knightly charges might not always succeed, but they certainly didn't fail so miserably like this.

The Norwegian warriors didn't give him a chance to think. A Norwegian warrior who charged out from behind Dekusis threw a javelin, which pierced Dekusis's left shoulder. The javelin didn't penetrate his shoulder, but the tremendous impact caused Dekusis's body to lose balance suddenly.

The sudden movement startled Dekusis's warhorse. The horse surged forward, throwing Dekusis to the ground. Dekusis was a professional knight. According to custom, as long as he shouted surrender, he should have been safe. But before he could utter a word, he saw a shadow looming before him.

In the moment the axe fell, Dekusis's head exploded into a burst of red and white. The warrior who ended his life didn't even spare him a second glance, immediately returning to the fray as if he had just harvested the life of an ordinary knight.

He didn't even know who this man was.

No matter, onto the next one.