Vikings: Lords of the Ice Sea

Chapter 2 Melee
After finishing his lamb chop, Viger pondered where he should spend the night. Coincidentally, a family nearby was renovating their roof and had hired him to do some odd jobs. The payment was a small bag of salt, plus two days' room and board.

After dinner, he helped cut and saw planks by the hearth. The family was also busy; the husband was sharpening an iron axe, while his wife and daughters sat around the hearth making butter. A thin film had formed on the surface of the goat's milk sitting in the earthenware jar. The wife first skimmed it off with a long-handled wooden spoon, then stirred it back and forth with a wooden stick.
As time passed, the lord's longhouse not far away became increasingly lively, as if a banquet was being held. Vig listened intently and discovered that Lord Olaf was singing at the top of his lungs, praising Ragnar's raids on Britain and calling him a legendary hero.

However, at some point, the laughter gradually subsided and eventually escalated into an argument:
"You're just a lucky mercenary who rented my ships and took my people out to plunder. What right do you have to make demands of me? A 20% share is already a favor. What more could you want?"

Then Ragnar's voice came through, filled with barely suppressed anger, "We agreed on a 30/70 split before we left in the spring, why are you going back on your word now?"

The argument lasted for a few minutes, and Vig couldn’t help but peek through the crack in the door. He saw a circle of about forty men standing outside the longhouse, each holding a shield and axe, six of whom were wearing iron armor.

A trap? Judging by this, the lord probably doesn't even want to give up 20%.

Not long after, Vig watched as Ragnar left the longhouse with fifteen companions, each carrying a small bag of valuables, their faces contorted with barely concealed anger, cursing as they disappeared around the corner.

"Is this the end?"

He was somewhat incredulous. The host shook his head and casually mentioned some information about Ragnar:

Ragnar is thirty-six years old this year. He is of commoner origin and has three sons. Over the years, he has been hired by lords in various places to go out to sea to plunder in the spring and return to the port in the autumn to settle accounts. As a result, he has accumulated a great reputation and the whole Nordic region knows of his existence.

However, he was ultimately just a commoner of low status, and faced with local tyrants like Lord Olaf, he could only silently endure this humiliation.

“I see,” Vig stroked his chin thoughtfully. Ragnar’s group was more like a labor outsourcing team. They had a prestigious reputation, but in essence, they were the service provider and had to act according to the wishes of the client (lords like Olaf).

"It seems even this legendary figure isn't having an easy time."

No sooner had he finished speaking than a scream suddenly came from outside, followed by shouts of killing. The man quickly told his wife and daughter to hide in the cellar, while he stood guard inside the house with a shield and axe.

Seeing this, Vig also drew his iron axe from his waist and used the gap to observe the battle situation.

After a brief moment of panic, Olaf left the longhouse carrying a two-handed iron axe. He was wearing chainmail, a thick black woolen cloak, and a simple Germanic helmet.

"Assemble! Form a shield wall!"

At his command, about forty men formed a shield wall and advanced forward. To boost morale, they rhythmically struck the shields with the backs of their axes as they moved, creating an indescribable sense of oppression.

In front of the shield wall, Ragnar led his companions back. In the moonlight, his face was ashen, his eyes sharp as an eagle's. "Why did you send archers to ambush me?"

“Odin’s will is for you to go to Valhalla to serve the gods.” Olaf offered a flimsy excuse and ordered the shield wall to continue advancing.

At this point, the mercenaries abandoned their last shred of hope for peace and tacitly formed a wedge formation, with Ragnar positioned at the apex to break through it.

"inn (Odin)!"

The next moment, the sixteen mercenaries roared in unison and charged towards the enemy, who outnumbered them twice as many as they were. Like iron axes chopping into tree trunks, they easily pierced through the shield wall. The enemy formation broke apart, and Ragnar had no time to kill the henchmen around him. He charged straight toward Lord Olaf, only to be blocked by four shield guards along the way.

The first person struck in the shoulder by his sword made a clear sound of bones shattering. He screamed and fell to the ground motionless.

The second enemy swung his axe, and he ducked to dodge, then slashed the enemy's femoral artery with his other hand. Blood spurted out and splashed onto his face, warm and foul-smelling.

The third man hesitated slightly, holding his round shield timidly. Ragnar kicked him to the ground and then turned to face the fourth shield guard. This man tried to block the attack with his shield, but Ragnar was too strong and cleaved the round shield in two with a single sword strike, severing the shield guard's left hand in the process.

In the blink of an eye, the four shield guards fell to the ground, and Ragnar stood there panting heavily, his iron sword still dripping blood. The surroundings fell silent, with only the biting cold wind blowing by, carrying a strong smell of blood.

Staring into those captivating eyes, Olaf felt a chill rise from the soles of his feet. "Whoever kills Ragnar, I will reward him with thirty pounds of silver!"

Money moves people's hearts.

Tempted by the enormous wealth, the remaining shield guards' morale soared, and more than a dozen civilians even ran out from the houses on both sides, attempting to seize the bounty.

The battle turned against Ragnar again. After cutting down several more grunts, he began to chase after the fleeing Olaf, and the two figures rushed into the darkness one after the other.

"What agile movements."

Vig swallowed hard. Ragnar's fighting style was fierce and ruthless, without any hesitation, possessing both the brute strength of a bear and the agility of a fox.

"A giant standing 1.9 meters tall, yet able to nimbly dodge enemy strikes, as still as a virgin and as swift as a rabbit—is this the pinnacle of combat power in the Viking Age?"

Witnessing this sudden battle, his heart pounded violently. After watching for a moment, he felt a dry mouth and turned to go inside to find some water.

Gulu, Gulu.

The moment he put down the cup, a loud crash came from behind. Two bodies smashed through the door and fell into the room, wrestling fiercely—it was Ragnar and Olaf.

After a fierce battle, Ragnar was exhausted and he and Olaf were locked in a chokehold, neither able to gain the upper hand.

"Quickly, two lowly farmers, help me kill this mercenary, and you'll be richly rewarded afterwards."

Seeing that both men were terrified, Olaf was forced to focus on dealing with Ragnar. Soon, using his weight advantage, he pinned the exhausted Ragnar down, his left hand reaching for the ornate short blade hanging from his belt.

"Damn mercenary, may Jormungandr devour your soul."

The lord raised his short blade, ready to strike, when Vig instinctively grabbed a piece of firewood from the hearth and threw it, hitting the man squarely in the face. He then swung his short axe, severing the man's wrist, removing his helmet, and driving the axe deep into his skull.
(End of this chapter)