The clearing at the edge of the forest looked like a carefully prepared execution ground.
Viken and his forty-odd Ironborn were completely exposed on the open grass.
Four hundred soldiers had already finished closing the net around them.
Spears stood like a forest. Shield-bearers formed a wall.
They were trapped in the center.
"Form up!"
Viken's voice was hoarse.
He should have left this place long ago.
A moment of underestimation had dragged him into this situation.
It was all because of those damn brainless fools, and now his nerves were paying for it.
The surviving Ironborn did not hesitate.
They were well trained.
Back to back, they quickly formed a tight circle.
They raised their round shields high.
The rims locked together tightly, creating a moving wall of shields.
Spears and longswords thrust out through the gaps, like the spines of a hedgehog.
Then they let out beastlike roars.
They stomped the ground hard and banged their swords and spears against their shields, trying to use raw, primitive intimidation to drive back these enemies who looked far too orderly compared with the ones they had faced before.
But the enemy before them showed no reaction at all.
Instead, they looked at them with curious expressions.
Rosso Bren rode up beside Solomon, staring at the roaring shield ring with a grave expression, a little awkward too.
After all, just moments ago he had told this lord that he would let him judge the results of his training.
"Lord Solomon."
"The Ironborn shield wall may be crude, but it's solid. Every one of them is good in close combat. If our squire riders charge straight in, there will definitely be unnecessary losses."
Solomon gave Rosso an approving look.
This newly attached knight had not been blinded by his earlier boast or his desire for glory. He had not been willing to sacrifice the squire riders for his own ambition.
Solomon nodded and looked past Rosso's shoulder at the desperate but solid formation.
"I never intended for them to charge."
His voice was calm.
He raised a hand.
"Bring the crossbowmen forward!"
"Tell them not to save their bolts. Shoot!"
The order was quickly relayed.
Behind the encirclement, a hundred light-armored windlass crossbowmen stepped forward at once.
Their range was not great, but their piercing power was terrifying.
They stopped forty paces from the shield ring.
"Raise crossbows!"
"Fire!"
There was no earth-shaking battle cry, only short, sharp commands.
A hundred bolts flew from their strings at once, shrieking through the air in straight lines, savagely striking at the small shield ring.
A dense clatter of impacts rang out.
The Ironborn used their shields to protect their heads, faces, and chests as hard as they could.
Solomon was in no rush.
He used this method, round after round, coldly and cruelly wearing down the trapped prey.
Bolts kept slipping in through the gaps between the shields.
"Agh!"
One Ironborn screamed.
A bolt pierced his lower leg.
He dropped to one knee, and the formation instantly opened a gap.
The companion beside him hurried to fill it with his body and shield, but more bolts came flying in.
Screams began to rise and fall throughout the ring.
The Ironborn's round shields could not protect their entire bodies.
There were holes and gaps everywhere.
They could only protect the vital areas. Everything else was exposed to merciless fire.
The ring began to loosen.
Inside it, Viken cursed loudly.
Whose army was this?
Why did they have so many crossbows?
Didn't they say these Seven Gods believers hated crossbows the most?
The Ironborn were forced to keep moving, burning away their already tiny reserve of stamina.
For Ironborn who glorified fierce charges, this kind of helpless beating was more painful than dying outright.
Their morale, under the steady volley, was like a flame doused with ice water.
It was dying fast.
Another Ironborn was shot in the shoulder, and the axe in his hand dropped to the ground.
Viken's eyes were bloodshot.
He watched his men fall one by one while never even touching the enemy's clothes.
He knew that if this went on, they would be worn to death here.
He let out a roar like a beast at the point of death.
"The Drowned God is with us!"
"Break out! Break toward the forest!"
That was the final order, and it was also a cry of despair.
The forty-odd Ironborn abandoned the shaky formation.
Like enraged beasts, they launched a suicide breakout from all directions toward the forest.
Solomon kept watching everything with perfect calm.
When he saw the enemy formation collapse, he turned to Brin and issued the order.
"Brin, your turn."
"Press forward! Don't let a single one escape!"
"Yes, my lord!"
Brin roared.
He drew the longsword at his waist and pointed forward.
"Square formation! Advance!"
The soldiers answered with a thunderous shout.
Their heavy footsteps sounded like drums.
They leveled their spears and raised their shields, forming an impassable wall of steel and wood to meet the wounded, exhausted Ironborn who had completely lost formation.
The battle became a slaughter without suspense.
One Ironborn swung his axe and charged a young soldier, expecting him to flinch and retreat.
Instead, the soldier stood firm, raised his shield, and took the blow.
At the same time, two comrades beside him thrust spears through the gaps in the shields.
The spear points accurately pierced the Ironborn's chest and abdomen.
Scenes like that played out in every corner of the battlefield.
Solomon's soldiers were all veterans hardened by fire and blood.
Some of them had fought in more wars than the young men in the Ironborn force had even imagined.
From the rear, Solomon rode forward at a slow pace.
He discovered that the Ironborn were not nearly as strong as he had imagined.
At most, they were born soldiers with morale and battle spirit.
They could crush farmers and outperform most ordinary soldiers, but their armor was not that impressive either.
Only some of them wore chainmail.
He looked toward the fiercest fighting.
There, a particularly tall Ironborn leader had been struck by several arrows. His left arm hung uselessly, yet he remained ferocious.
With only a longsword in his right hand, he had already cut down several soldiers in a row, like a tiger forced into a corner.
Solomon's gaze swept over Brin and Rosso beside him.
He asked loudly, "Who can cut off that man's head for me?"
"I...!"
Brin let out a thunderous shout.
But before his words were even finished, one figure had already shot forward like an arrow.
It was Rosso Bren.
Rosso lowered his body and squeezed his legs.
His warhorse neighed.
Its hooves flew.
He leveled the heavy knight's lance with perfect control, the point aimed straight at Viken, who was still fighting desperately.
It was a textbook knightly charge, flawless and unstoppable.
The newly joined knight had no hesitation at all.
He knew this was the best chance to prove his value and courage to his new lord.
Nothing showed a man's strength better than the battlefield.
Viken had just kicked a soldier away when the thunder of hooves made him whip around.
He only saw a spearpoint flashing with cold light, rapidly swelling in his eyes.
The lance pierced Viken's chest without the slightest doubt.
The sheer force of the charge lifted his massive body clean off the ground.
He flew through the air in a short arc, then crashed down like a sack of rotten grain, kicking up a cloud of dust.
Rosso dismounted at once, drew his sword, grabbed Viken by his tangled hair, lifted him up, and cut off his head.
A moment later, the battle was over.
In the clearing, only corpses remained, along with Solomon's soldiers still standing in formation.
The soldiers looked around at each other.
At first their faces were full of disbelief.
Then that disbelief turned into near-wild excitement.
One soldier wiped the blood from his cheek with the back of his hand and stared at Viken's body, pierced through by the lance, a little farther away.
He shouted excitedly, "The Ironborn are nothing special!"
"They're nowhere near as terrifying as people said!"
That line was like a spark.
It ignited everyone at once.
"Yeah! I just killed an Ironborn who was completely unharmed! His sword was slower than mine!"
"Haha! Did you see that guy? I knocked him over with one shield bash!"
"That bastard I cut down just now seemed like he was about to beg me for mercy!"
The soldiers' shouts rose and fell all around.
Before this, they had all feared the legendary cruelty of the Ironborn.
But this clean, overwhelming victory had shattered that fear completely.
The Ironborn were not so frightening after all.
A fierce confidence rose in their chests.
Rosso Bren held the severed head and rode back to Solomon.
He dismounted and knelt on one knee.
"My lord, I have cut off his head. I did not disappoint you."
Solomon got down from his horse and personally helped him to his feet.
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