The March to Opava

“Enemy attack! Enemy attack!”

Arrows flew from the woods, and Polish mercenaries with shields and battle-axes charged out.

“For Odin!” The Northmen roared their war cry, swinging their great axes as they met the charge.

“For Hradec!” The city soldiers bellowed, thrusting their spears to shove the enemy back.

“I’ll use your skulls for bowls!” The golden-haired shieldmaiden screamed, and with her cry, a massive head flew through the air…

Blades flashed, blood and bones scattered…

…

The assault came and went quickly. The Polish mercenaries fled in panic, leaving behind twenty or thirty corpses.

“Casualties?”

“Two unlucky bastards took arrows to the neck. Ten city levies are wounded. One draft horse got spooked and kicked a few laborers.”

“Pursue?” Noren twirled her sword, wiped the blood clean, and sheathed it.

“No,” Svein replied.

The enemy might be feigning retreat. Splitting forces to chase would be unwise.

His marching formation also made them unfazed by small-scale ambushes.

Svein had placed all the army’s baggage on the side closest to the river, with the soldiers on the side nearest the woods. This arrangement protected the supplies and allowed the warriors to engage quickly.

Though it was winter and the river was frozen—enemies on the opposite bank could cross the ice to strike at the baggage—the ice was too slippery for riding, and even on foot it would take time, enough for the soldiers to pivot from the outer flank to the inner defense.

“Continue the march.” Svein gave the order. The priority now was to reach the outskirts of Opava and set up camp.

“As you command.” Noren vaulted onto her horse, playing her role as herald.

Before relaying the order, she shot her father a wink. “And the spoils…”

“Don’t ask me.” Svein gave tacit approval.

“Got it.” The girl smiled happily.

“Yah!” She spurred her horse and galloped toward the rear of the column, shouting, “Forward march!”

Whips cracked against the draft horses. They snorted, and the heavy wheels rumbled. The soldiers tightened their winter coats, glanced at the misty sky, then lowered their heads and pressed on.

…

After that, Hradec’s army encountered no more ambushes. The forward scouts found no trace of the enemy.

Hradec’s forces arrived safely outside Opava.

They pitched camp.

…

…

…

“Finally here.” The six-foot-three mercenary stood on the wooden city wall, gazing into the distance. His furry hand rested on the battlement, the other clutching a long-hafted war hammer.

In the distance, cooking fires rose, and tents were being erected.

The mercenary squinted, judging the enemy’s numbers from the count of smoke plumes.

“Captain Marian, we outnumber them. Why not hit them while they’re setting up camp?” The speaker was a five-foot-eight man with a thin face. His build was decent for the medieval age—on par with a well-fed knight. But standing next to Marian, who was built like a brown bear, he looked like a scrawny monkey.

“They won’t be easy…” Marian muttered. “They have about as many men as we do.”

He asked the thin-faced man, “How many of the ones we sent to ambush them on the road survived?”

“Fifty brothers went out. Half came back, every one wounded. A few are unconscious from severe injuries.” The thin-faced man reported truthfully.

“Did we get a clear count of the enemy forces?” Marian pressed.

“Numbers?” The thin-faced man was confused. “Captain, the enemy is already camped outside the city. You can see them yourself. Why ask me?”

“Captain, you know most of our men can’t count. The ones who can are all assigned to logistics. Commander Sengjei ordered that they never go to the front lines.”

Marian’s face turned stern, his authority unspoken. “Scouts? Didn’t we assign scouts to the ambush party? I recall scouts must be warriors who can count.”

The thin-faced man gave an embarrassed laugh. “They can count, but not much. Only up to twelve. Beyond that, they just say ‘a few dozen’ or ‘a few hundred enemies.'”

Marian was speechless. After a long pause, he muttered, “I bet your gambling is a mess. Can’t even count properly.”

The thin-faced man glanced at him warily. “Captain, when it comes to betting amounts, we usually let the logistics guys do the math…”

Marian’s jaw tightened. His lips twisted, his nose twitched, and his voice squeezed through clenched teeth. “You think I don’t know that?”

The captain was angry. The thin-faced man instinctively stepped back, then turned to flee. “Captain, I’ll go supervise their training!”

He hadn’t run two steps before his feet left the ground, and a moment later, he was back in front of Marian.

“Ha, ha, what a coincidence?” He rubbed the back of his head, grinning awkwardly, his mind a blank.

“Coincidence my holy ass!” Marian smacked him on the forehead. “Tell the brothers: plan’s changed. Night raid is off.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t ‘huh’ me. Go!” Marian hit him again.

The thin-faced man grimaced, rubbing his red, swollen forehead. He muttered as he descended the wooden wall and headed toward the stone castle at the city’s center. “Can’t you just talk without using your hands…”

After the thin man left, Marian continued to observe the distant camp.

He realized that a hard battle lay ahead. From under his neck, he pulled out a silver ornament shaped like an arrowhead forming a ball of lightning, or perhaps a crystalline snowflake.

He prayed, “O Perun, god of thunder and justice, embodiment of war, your power is boundless. People sing your praises… Grant us victory, and let the enemy be destroyed by thunder.”

The conversion of Poland’s upper nobility did not mean the common folk had become true Christians.

Marian served the Lublin Mercenary Company on Poland’s eastern border. Christian missionary efforts had not been very effective. Feigned converts were abundant if not universal.

While Marian prayed, the Northmen also prayed to Thor, the god of thunder.

Today was Wednesday—Thor’s day of the week.

Because of their conversion to Christianity, the Northmen’s prayers were covert and personal. Public, assembly-style prayers were impossible—that would be like slapping God in the face.

Besides, the northerners had a disgusting tradition of blood sacrifices. From that perspective, maybe conversion was a good thing?

After the prayers, the Northmen held a meeting (they usually met on Wednesdays if conditions allowed).

“Will we win?” asked a fourteen-year-old Northman on his first campaign.

“You should ask, ‘How long will it take us to win this battle?'” his father corrected.

“Then… how long will it take us to win this battle?”

His father turned to Svein. “Jarl! How long will it take us to win this battle!”

Svein’s brow furrowed into a deep crease. “How many years have I told you? Don’t call me Jarl here. Use my title (in Christian lands).”

The Northman chuckled. “Habit, you know…”

“Play it safe. Ten days,” Svein said, taking a cup. But as he raised it to his lips, he froze and glared at the Northman who had handed it to him. “Where did you get this horn cup? Replace it with a normal round cup!”

“Ten days? Can’t we speed it up?” The Northmen groaned in unison. They had no interest in this petty skirmish. If it weren’t for Sithis providing food, drink, and even their wives, they would never have joined this boring war.

“You haven’t fought a large battle in years! Don’t be careless!” Svein barked.

“Ah, yes, yes…”

“The Jarl is right!”

“A massive battle of a few hundred people~”

The Northmen responded with mocking, sarcastic jeers.

Svein shook his head, speechless.

…

…

…

High in the sky, tens of thousands of meters above, the two thunder gods of the Norse and Slavic faiths faced off. Thor, the Aesir’s strongest, with his goat-drawn chariot and hammer, glared at a deity across from him who wielded a shield and axe, his body crackling with blue lightning—Perun, the Slavs’ god.

No words were needed. They had both come for victory.

“Boom!” Sparks and lightning erupted. A cloud was torn apart by the two gods’ might. A massive storm formed, lightning filling the giant void at its center.

…

“Is that thunder?” A Hradec levy soldier looked up at the sky, shading his eyes with his hand. But all he saw was a misty gray sky.

“Hey, hey! Food’s ready!” Another levy soldier elbowed him. “Stop staring. Let’s eat!”

“I think I heard thunder.”

“Oh, that’s just my stomach growling.”