Chapter 38: Crushing Decay! Shattering an Army of Thousands!

Although Hossa was dead, the battle did not end immediately.

Several of his elite units remained. Even with their chieftain slain, they fought to the death and even managed to orchestrate a organized retreat.

At moments like this, the gap between elite troops and ordinary soldiers became glaringly obvious!

The second- and third-rate Saxon spearmen and shield-bearers, Saxon raiders, and Saxon light infantry suffered an instant collapse in morale, fleeing the battlefield in a chaotic swarm. In contrast, the Saxon hearthguard warband—which had been locked in brutal close combat beneath the city gates—managed to rally a considerable number of men, leaving behind a rearguard while the rest fell back step by step.

They even gathered their remaining cavalry and successfully retrieved Hossa's headless corpse!

True warriors.

To still remember to rescue the body of their supreme commander amidst such chaos showed them to be utterly fearless, forcing even Duncan—who had just emerged victorious from a grueling battle—to temporarily pull back his bodyguard unit and avoid taking the brunt of their desperate charge.

Duncan let them go.

He ordered his royal bodyguards to withdraw from the battlefield to regroup, while he himself switched to a fresh mount and rode out alone. Wielding the Bow of Norden, he picked off five or six elite chieftain guards with successive shots. Having paid the price of over a dozen elite casualties, the enemy finally hoisted Hossa's headless corpse onto a horse and retreated in panicky disarray, dragging the chieftain's remains with them.

They wanted Hossa's body?

They had to pay with their lives!

Duncan's objective had been clear from the start, and the fact that these hearthguards and chieftain guards had actually dared to pay with their lives made Duncan hold them in slightly higher regard.

The enemy was now in full rout.

Nearly all targets were flying white flags, marked with special negative status effects such as 'Terrified', 'Awe-struck', and 'Facing Overwhelming Odds'.

However, one enemy force was still fighting fiercely.

——The Saxon Elite Axemen!

Whether they had finished their war cry and entered a berserk state was unclear, but despite suffering nearly thirty percent casualties, they fought with desperate tenacity, inflicting heavy losses on Quivito's British legion.

Duncan spurred his horse forward.

The Bow of Norden in his hands was drawn to a full moon, and an arrow tore through the air, striking the most conspicuous enemy unit dead center.

——The Decapitator, Isolde (Two-Star Silver-Gray) (Blood of the Giants) (Champion Gladiator) [Warrior of Thor]!

Blood of the Giants?!

This was the second enemy Duncan had encountered who seemingly possessed special bloodline powers; the previous one had been a Sanctuary Templar, whose designation at the time was 'Blood of the Holy Grail'.

This fellow was practically a human killing machine, capable of heavily injuring enemies with a casual blow or even cleaving British legion infantrymen through both their shields and bodies!

His strength was astonishing!

Duncan's arrow struck the center of his chest. The Decapitator Isolde let out a muffled groan, snapped the shaft right off, and then roared. Brandishing his heavy executioner's axe and beating back a dozen men in rapid succession, he actually charged in a wild sprint directly toward Duncan.

Fierce he certainly was, but his brains were clearly lacking!

He must have been berserk.

How could Duncan possibly be run down while on horseback? Unhurriedly, Duncan nocked another arrow and drew his bow. A whistling armor-piercing arrow pierced his armor and punched straight through his lung, causing the barbarian warrior to stumble and rapidly lose his momentum.

Rapid fire.

Duncan drew his bow continuously, loosing a full five arrows before finally bringing the brute down. The man's chest bristled with arrows. Using his final breath—as if experiencing a brief flash of returning vitality—he let out a roar filled with defiance before collapsing to his knees with a heavy thud.

Duncan stepped forward, picked up the executioner's axe, severed the head of the Decapitator Isolde, and held it high as he charged toward the remaining Saxon elite axemen.

With that, Hossa's final elite legion was thoroughly shattered.

Soldiers poured out from the town to pursue the fleeing enemy, and Quivito, panting heavily, led his men in the chase. In truth, cavalry was best suited for hunting down routed troops; chasing two legs with two legs left everyone exhausted and vulnerable to counterattack.

Unfortunately, Duncan had very few cavalrymen under his command, and the Duke of Tintagel was a pauper whose mounted forces had long been nearly depleted.

Among the various British factions, only the supreme leader Uther commanded a force of Dragon-Standard Cavalry.

The fruits of this battle were utterly glorious!

If there was any regret, it was the lack of a proper light cavalry force to run down the retreating enemy, allowing many Saxon elites to escape.

Nearly half of the royal bodyguards had fallen, and Duncan did not order them to continue the pursuit.

Gills had been killed in action.

The young British squire had been knocked from his saddle by Saxon chieftain guards; his body was only recovered during the cleanup, trampled almost beyond recognition by warhorses.

"Give him a lavish burial!"

Duncan glanced at the scene, averted his gaze, and surveyed the entire battlefield.

Though the victory was won, the price paid was considerable.

Cuchulainn had taken three blade wounds yet continued to fight fiercely, single-handedly cutting down five Saxon hearthguard soldiers and holding the gate line by sheer force of will. When rescued by the British legion, he was critically wounded and unable to stand, kneeling on one knee beneath the city gates with his sword planted in the ground, his full suit of armor soaked through with blood.

Had Duncan not slain Hossa, Cuchulainn likely would have perished under the coordinated assault of the Saxon hearthguard.

After notifying Quivito to join the fight, Creggan had ridden single-file to catch up with Duncan and the others, flanked by three Sarmatian riders. He fought his way through the fray until his abdomen was pierced, bleeding profusely. Tearing off a piece of his battle robe for a makeshift bandage, he plunged back into the melee to slaughter the enemy until, by the time Duncan slew Hossa, only he and one other Sarmatian rider remained alive.

The other survivor had suffered a severed right arm, hacked off by a longsword wielded by a Saxon chieftain guard. Gripping his blade in his left hand in a desperate gamble, he had lunged forward and fatally stabbed that elite chieftain guard.

Quivito had escaped with the lightest injuries.

As a fresh reinforcement who entered the battle later, he had merely taken a few stray arrows—nothing serious, just flesh wounds that would heal within half a month.

Duncan had sustained minor injuries as well.

It had to be said that the armor of the cursed Duke of Tintagel was truly exceptional. Duncan had taken three hits and remained completely unharmed, provided his vitals were covered. Given his current formidable physical constitution, clad in this lordly heavy armor, he could likely take over a dozen arrows and still continue fighting without missing a beat.

The Duke of Tintagel himself had been left critically wounded earlier, taking his two worst hits in the buttocks and the lower back.

Severus and Quivito set about rallying the troops and clearing the battlefield.

Severus had emerged uninjured from the battle, primarily because he had already lost two fingers and had not charged at the very front. Under such circumstances, it was not the right time to use his shapeshifting abilities. His attention had remained fixed on Duncan, ready to intervene and provide rescue at a moment's notice should any emergency arise.

When it came to battlefield medicine, they had to rely on him; Druidic herbalism was far ahead of this era.

Exeter.

The British legion marched their prisoners in, a dense, dark sea of heads. Having entirely disarmed and surrendered, they knelt in rows upon the blood-stained, muddy ground.

Duncan dismounted, radiating a murderous aura. Picking up a cross-hilted axe, he walked up to a Saxon hearthguard soldier.

"Surrender? Or death?"

He used the head of the cross-hilted axe to lift the chin of the defiant hearthguard. The man glared up at Duncan with a mixture of resentment and fear; this man was like a vengeful spirit incarnate, having slain Hossa amidst an army of thousands and striking terror into the hearts of even the untamed Germanic warriors.

His expression was a struggle between the urge to surrender and the stubborn pride of a Germanic warrior.

Splat!

Without a moment's hesitation, Duncan expressionlessly swung the cross-hilted axe, driving it straight into the man's skull.

Thud.

The corpse collapsed.

Duncan pulled the axe free and walked up to the second man—a Saxon elite axeman. The warrior glared at Duncan and rasped, "I will never submit!"

Splat!

He was given no chance to speak a second time as Duncan swung the axe, cleaving straight into his skull.

This sight made everyone present shudder with dread.

A demon!

Too savage!

Only at the rear of the crowd did a camp follower who had hurried over express regret, whispering under his breath, "These are all top-tier slaves, or at the very least they could fetch a ransom."

"Why slaughter them all like this?!"

Duncan walked up to the third man with an expressionless face—a Saxon elite spear-and-shield soldier.

"I am willing to surrender!... I am willing to swear fealty to my lord!..." the Saxon elite spearmen stammered, lowering his head and kneeling flat upon the ground.

Duncan nodded calmly and moved on to the fourth man.

That soldier was still hesitating, his face twisted in inner conflict.

Splat!

Duncan swung the axe and drove it directly into his skull.

This display frightened the man standing right beside him to the point of nearly pissing himself. Before Duncan could even walk over to question him, he frantically dropped to his knees, burying his head deep into the dirt and crying out, "I am willing to surrender!..."

The temporary mustering ground fell into a dead silence.

Duncan questioned them one by one. At first, some were unwilling to yield, and wasting no words, he simply split their skulls with a single blow before having his attendants drag the bodies away.

In the beginning, every few men someone would choose a defiant death; later on, it dropped to every dozen men or so before someone would stubbornly speak out and be executed on the spot. By the end, not a single person dared to hesitate or argue. Before Duncan even approached, they would hurriedly drop to their knees to pledge allegiance.

Out of hundreds of Saxon captives questioned one by one, Duncan had executed just over twenty on the spot!

Those who died toward the end were mostly victims of a momentary hesitation or a flash of stiff-necked pride that cost them their window to surrender.

Clang!

Amidst the rapt attention of the crowd, Duncan drew the Oathkeeper sword from his waist, held it flat above the head of the kneeling Saxon elite spearman, and spoke in a deep voice:

"In the name of God and the Gods!"

"I, the Lord of Southampton, the man who shot down the King of Kent, and the leader of the British legion who slew Hossa, accept your surrender!"

"You shall not be reduced to lowly slaves. I respect your honor as warriors, and you shall be granted the status of auxiliary troops!"

"From this day forward, you are their commander."

Ignoring the surprised and bewildered look on the Saxon elite spearman's face, Duncan waved a hand and commanded, "Someone, take them away!"

"Give them some food and water."

They couldn't be allowed to stuff themselves, but neither could they be starved to death. Strip away all weapons and armor, lock them all up under heavy guard, and await further reorganization before driving them onto the battlefield as auxiliary levies.

The medieval era lacked such a rigid sense of national identity.

A standard example was the Hunnic mercenaries who, when the Empire fought the Scourge of God, even helped fight against the elite Hunnic cavalry. The Saxon barbarians had transitioned from a clan society, where tribal resources were concentrated almost entirely in the hands of the upper nobility.

To use a simple analogy: if you owned the fields, the land, the grain, the houses, the horses, and the servants, spending your days revelling with a bevy of beauties while holding the vast majority of the tribe's wealth, then when war broke out, you simply handed me a shield, a spear, and a tattered piece of leather armor, and ordered me to charge straight into the front lines as cannon fodder.

When that happened, you could hardly blame me for turning around and cutting you down!

That was essentially the gist of it.

Among the exiles Duncan had recruited, there were also Saxons, though they were of the humblest origin—pariahs among the barbarians who usually farmed and herded horses for the noble warriors and were issued trash gear in wartime to serve as low-grade Saxon spearmen.

Saxon or no Saxon, these exile-born Saxons were more ferocious than anyone else when it came to hacking down barbarians!

As long as it meant a better life for them, they would swing their axes on the battlefield until they left afterimages.

Loyalty!

When you live a life worse than a stray dog, forget about the Saxon chieftain—you'd dare pull a blade and kill the Emperor of Rome, the Augustus himself, without a second thought.

Thus, Duncan incorporated them into his ranks.

As for whether they could be trusted and used effectively, that remained to be observed. After all, they were newly captured and had just surrendered; he would have to temper kindness with might and carefully screen them.

——Valkyries!

Unlike previous occasions, three Valkyries had appeared simultaneously this time.

One wore a golden-winged helm, and two wore silver-winged helms.

These three Valkyries darted busily across the sky above the battlefield. Mortals were entirely unaware of their presence as they scooped up the souls of fallen warriors and vanished into thin air.

Undoubtedly, the afterlife quotas for Valhalla had hit record highs today!

"What, was one person too busy to handle it?"

"Called in two helpers?"

After scanning the scene a few times through the上帝视角 (God's-eye view), Duncan turned back to his own pressing tasks. With his soldiers suffering heavy casualties, he needed to console and reassure them. Legendary ancient commanders might have eaten and slept alongside their men, and while he couldn't replicate every detail, he had to put on a good show to win over the hearts of the Duke of Tintagel's remaining troops.

Although this battle was an epic victory, the casualties were still substantial. The British forces possessed far too few elite troops, leaving them dependent on sheer human lives to withstand the enemy's fierce onslaught at critical moments.

Had it not been for the morale buff provided by Duncan, the British legion would likely have collapsed long ago.

The setting sun bled across the horizon.

The three Valkyries labored until nightfall before finishing the collection of the fallen warriors' souls. As for Duncan, it was well past midnight before he finally found a moment to rest briefly and grab a bite to eat.

"Weren't there supposed to be nine Valkyries in the legends?"

"Are the others stationed elsewhere?"

Duncan watched the Valkyries vanish from his God's-eye view. The final golden-winged valkyrie lingered in midair, casting a long, deep look toward Duncan's position before finally dissolving into the clouds above.

For reasons unknown, Duncan felt that the attitude of the Valkyries toward him had shifted once again!

At first, they had been quite indifferent to him. Later, their attention grew, followed by a phase where they practically trailed his movements, and now they had even brought reinforcements—presumably because one person could no longer keep up with the workload. By farming kills for Valhalla on a massive scale, Duncan might have inadvertently farmed some favorability ratings with the Valkyries as well.

Well, perhaps so; he couldn't be entirely sure, considering he was slaughtering people who worshipped the Norse pantheon.

The Norse pantheon was a relatively loose coalition of deities. Their attitude toward the mortal realm was subtle—they cared little for ordinary people, placing far higher value on fallen warriors in an elite-centric philosophy where Valhalla was the core of all cores. The earliest barbarians to invade the Empire, such as the Ostrogoths and the Franks, had been subverted by the Church, and many had converted to the Christian faith.

Harvesting them promptly upon death prevented them from converting to the Church later on.

The Valkyries were nothing if not dedicated to their jobs.

………………