A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

The rallying cry of faith seemed to be working. The prisoners gradually found their rhythm; the panic subsided, and the number of casualties began to drop.

This battered, ragtag army of prisoners, with nothing but a crude shield wall, was somehow holding back a force nearly twice its size.

They were constantly being pushed back, and the enemy cavalry charges remained a huge threat. The inexperienced shield-bearers on the flanks struggled to hold their own, but every time a man on the perimeter fell, the others would quickly move to fill the gap.

They seemed to be losing ground, but it wasn’t a rout.

Hot, red blood splattered endlessly across his face. It was impossible to tell if it was from the enemy in front or the comrade beside him. Eric, standing in the front rank, was already a blood-drenched figure. The pain in his side was a constant, sharp stimulus to his nerves.

The thick, coppery stench made Eric want to vomit.

BANG!

A Long Spear from the opposing side shattered the top-right corner of Eric’s Shield and thrust straight for his head. Eric instinctively jerked his neck to the side, but the spearhead still sliced open his ear.

The tip of the spear nearly pierced the eye of the soldier behind Eric.

Eric grabbed the Long Spear shaft, then hurled his Shield. It smashed an enemy soldier’s forehead, and the ricocheting Shield knocked another Lance Soldier behind him unconscious. The man fell to the ground, where he was trampled to death by the unwitting soldiers surging forward from the rear.

With a powerful tug, he pulled the Scot Lance Soldier in front of him, using the man’s body as a human shield.

But the enemy’s assault remained relentless. A Long Spear pierced the corpse and grazed Eric’s arm.

Splattering blood got into Eric’s eyes, blurring his vision. The world became shrouded in a layer of crimson.

’Am I going to die?’

The thought suddenly shot through his mind.

’If I die here, that bastard Bohemond would laugh himself to death. Killed by a bunch of Scots, as a prisoner...’

’No, maybe... no one will ever even know.’

”God is with us!” Eric shouted again.

”God is with us!”

”God is with us!”

Only this time, the voices were far weaker than the first.

Many had already died.

’We can’t hold on for much longer.’

Behind the prisoner army was Alette’s small contingent of elite guards, mostly Archers. But they had no intention of helping.

The performance of this prisoner army astonished Lagman. Crude weapons, crude Warriors, yet they remained tenacious.

He also noticed the unknown Priest at the very front.

Yet no matter how stubborn they were, the gap in equipment and troop quality was too vast to overcome.

Without aid, no amount of tenacity would let them hold out for much longer.

Soon, the twenty Scot horsemen formed up and charged violently at a corner of the prisoners’ shield wall. The left flank began to collapse.

”Enough, Uncle! It’s time for your guards to move in. A group of Light Infantry holding against cavalry has reached its limit. Any longer and this is just a meaningless slaughter! They have already proven their Courage.”

Lagman frowned, looking at the scene before him, and pointed his riding crop toward the front of the prisoner line.

”No, it’s not enough, Lagman. Their purpose is to be slaughtered. What we need is for them to rout after putting up a fierce resistance. We need to let these Scots have their fun.”

”Then, when these smug Scots are joyfully hunting down the routing soldiers, and your father launches his attack, that is when we can advance. This is your father’s command.”

Alette spoke dispassionately, then gestured toward the prisoner army.

”I have no need to throw my elite troops away to save a bunch of worthless slaves.”

”No, they’ve already proven their value! Warriors should not die in such a shameful and futile way. Does such a despicable victory hold even a shred of honor? Even Sol would not rejoice in such a vile triumph!”

Lagman rode his horse up to Alette.

”Honor is outdated, boy. You can’t learn the art of war just from the Eddas; that’s too naive. Slaves aren’t worthy of pity, and Sol has no pity for slaves.”

Alette glanced at Lagman, then turned his indifferent gaze back to the prisoner army in the distance.

”No, they aren’t slaves anymore. You said yourself that those who fight without fear of death shall earn their freedom. They are freemen now, without a doubt! Sol will surely rejoice for them!”

Lagman roared at Alette.

But Alette remained unmoved.

”Fine. You don’t think it’s wise, but I think this is a dishonor. You said those who flee from battle deserve punishment. No one will punish you now, and maybe no one can. But Sol will surely be ashamed of you.”

”When you believe you can cast aside everything in the thirst for victory, how do you still dare to call yourself a Viking? How do you still dare to invoke the names of Sol and Odin! Is it so hard for other peoples to descend into darkness, to be cunning and deceitful? Perhaps Vikings are born with these traits, but I still believe we have something more, something special.”

”We revere Odin, praise Sol, and call upon Tyr, and everyone knows they love only the Hero. I think Valhalla must be filled with the lament of ravens, because the Heroes of this world have already vanished. The longship is no longer a warship, no longer a bridge to freedom and bravery, but has become a coward’s haven!”

Seeing his uncle Alette still impassive and the guards behind him unresponsive, Lagman sighed and drew his Longsword.

”Odin is with us!”

Shouting the same war cry as Leif, Lagman whipped his reins, urging his Warhorse to charge toward the prisoner army ahead.

”Odin is with us!”

As Lagman departed, a few men in the guard contingent couldn’t help but echo his shout.

’Different eras, yet we walk the same path. We really are alike. Is this destiny? This is destined to be a difficult road, when you could have had it so much easier.’

Alette watched Lagman’s retreating back, murmured despondently, and sighed before drawing his own Longsword.

He once had a similar chance, but in his youth, consumed by fiery passion, he had given it up, just like Lagman, like a fool.

And after all these years of struggling on his own, this was all he had become: a destitute, aging mercenary captain. Meanwhile, his older brother could be so arrogant, ordering him around at will. And to think, the two of them were once so close.

”Yoms Warriors, go and please Odin and Sol! In Valhalla, we shall drink mead with Odin, with Sol, with all the gods of Asgard! The gods protect us!”

”The gods protect us!”

”The gods protect us!”

”The gods protect us!”