"Someone stop them! We can't hold out any longer!" A captain in the central army shouted, grabbing the collar of the regiment commander.
In front of them were the most elite troops of Connaught, the Supreme King's Guard. They used their heavy armor to fend off attacks, cutting a bloody path with their skilled combat techniques.
Although the spearmen were disciplined, they couldn't match these elite warriors in close combat.
The swordsmen resisted with all their might, but they were still outnumbered by the enemy. The central army, while not yet collapsed, was beginning to show signs of wavering.
"The cavalry..." Bretons murmured to himself, "Things aren't looking good over there either."
Indeed, the cavalry on both flanks were entangled in combat, seemingly unable to break through the enemy quickly.
Bretons felt a pang of regret, but it was too late for that now.
"Follow me, let's join the fight too." Bretons took a mace and a shield from a nearby attendant.
It had been a long time since he had fought personally, but his skills hadn't dulled a bit. When he and his attendants entered the battlefield, their side's morale instantly received a boost.
The flags of both sides faced each other, as if engaged in a duel.
"Advance! Advance!"
The spearmen shouted in unison, holding their long spears, advancing like a giant meat grinder, devouring the lives of the enemies before them. They moved with mechanical precision, step by step, pushing the front line back once more.
On the other side, the Irish fiercely resisted, attempting a counterattack.
Conchobar's attention was focused on Breton's command flag. He knew this was his last chance.
If he didn't take down the enemy commander now, once the Irish soldiers' momentum was exhausted, he would be doomed.
"Follow me, let's capture their general!"
Conchobar and his surrounding soldiers began their last desperate charge.
And it was this charge that broke the formation in the central army. The spearmen had already suffered too many casualties, hanging on by their last breath.
When they saw the enemy still had the strength to charge, they instantly collapsed.
Spearmen rely on discipline to win in battle. Once they lose formation, they are at the mercy of the enemy.
Conchobar in the center didn't expect victory to come so quickly. He hadn't even fully reacted when the surrounding soldiers began to cheer.
"Your Majesty, Your Majesty, we must continue advancing!" Several loyal attendants reminded him.
Conchobar quickly regained his composure: "Yes, continue advancing!"
His mind was now remarkably clear. He knew that capturing Breton alive was the key to completely shattering the enemy's morale.
At this moment, Breton was also panicking. He watched his trained soldiers crumble, their retreat leaving him exposed to the enemy.
"Charge! Charge!"
Breton could almost hear Conchobar's roar.
His guards tightly surrounded him, bracing for the impact of the Irish warriors. The charging Irish, using the last remnants of their strength, were determined to fight to the death.
At the moment of collision, Breton felt utterly disoriented.
Conchobar fared no better. His helmet, already improperly secured, fell to the ground during the charge.
A loyal attendant following Conchobar shouted, "Your Majesty, put on your helmet!"
But Conchobar ignored the advice, continuing to charge forward with his attendants.
As the eldest son of the Supreme King, Conchobar had always received the education befitting a warrior. Whether in hunting or combat, Conchobar excelled in martial skills and was the bravest of warriors.
Conchobar slashed down the enemy blocking his path, his eyes fixed on Breton ahead of him.
There was only a short distance left between them. Conchobar resembled a lion or a tiger, poised to pounce and take Breton's life at any moment.
Breton, in contrast, looked like a battle-hardened wolf, his eyes filled with cunning and ferocity.
"Die!" Conchobar did not hesitate, charging directly at Breton.
His longsword aimed straight at Breton's chest, but Breton reacted instantly, blocking the powerful thrust with his shield and then swinging his mace upwards from the lower right.
Unlike the longsword, the mace was a formidable armor-piercing weapon of this era.
Conchobar's shield splintered into pieces under the impact.
At this moment, Conchobar panicked.
Using all his strength, he shoved Breton backward. Breton fell to the ground, his mace slipping from his grasp.
"You're dead!"
Conchobar roared, trying to pull his longsword out from Breton's shield.
Breton quickly reacted, his right hand fumbling for the dagger at his waist. But retrieving a dagger while pinned down was no easy task. His frantic attempts to draw the dagger proved futile.
As Conchobar managed to pull out his longsword, Breton realized that his hope of counter-killing with the dagger was gone.
With his shield still pinned beneath him, the only thing that could help him now was his own arm.
"Crack!"
The sound of bone breaking echoed, and blood splattered onto Breton's face. Gritting his teeth, he used his right arm to block Conchobar's strike.
In the battlefield, life and death were often decided in an instant.
Breton's guards quickly intervened, stabbing Conchobar's shoulder with short spears and throwing him to the ground. They surged forward, once again surrounding Breton.
"Cut off his head! Cut off his head and hang it up!"
Breton shouted from the ground, trying to get up, but his weakened right arm wouldn't allow it.
Following the command, the guards swiftly decapitated Conchobar and placed his head on a spear.
"Your lord is dead!"
The shout came from somewhere, and as it faded, everyone noticed that the scene was gradually quieting down. The Irish stood stunned, staring at Conchobar's head.
Once a valiant and admired figure throughout Connaught, now his head hung on a spear.
"Our king..."
The loyal attendants knelt down, tears streaming from their eyes. This dramatic scene gradually led to a massive rout of the Irish. They all abandoned the fight and fled the battlefield. Meanwhile, Breton's army pursued them only briefly before halting.
For reinforcements had finally arrived behind them.
"All troops, turn!"
With the help of his guards, Breton stood up again, his right arm hanging limp at his side, still bleeding.
The reorganized army, looking at the enemy in the distance, felt a bit uneasy.
All the officers knew that the soldiers' stamina and morale had reached their limits. If the fighting continued, no one could say for sure whether the soldiers would hold up.
But Shannon's reinforcements were clearly intimidated.
Their army remained motionless, and instead, a few envoys approached.
Breton, unwilling to continue fighting, endured the pain and went to meet the envoys. The envoys, seeing the horrific scene on the battlefield and Conchobar's head, were visibly shaken.
"Greetings," Breton said, limping towards the envoys, "I am the supreme lord of Ireland, Duke of Leinster, Earl of Lancaster, Prince of England, and General appointed by His Highness Prince John, Breton."
The envoys knelt on one knee and said, "We have long known your name, General. We come under our master's orders to request peace."
Enduring the pain, Breton sat on a chair brought by an attendant.
The envoys looked at his bleeding arm, concern evident in their eyes.
"A minor issue, I'll deal with it later," Breton waved his hand. "First, tell me about the peace you seek."
The envoys cautiously said, "Lord Muirchertach hopes to continue ruling this land. He will provide compensation to your army and will personally go to Dublin to swear allegiance to Prince John."
Upon hearing the envoys' proposal, Breton let out a cold laugh.
He said, "Count of Thomond is not even dead, and Muirchertach is already dreaming of being the new earl, how amusing. Besides, you all know the reason Prince John is waging war against you."
Everyone was aware of the assassination, but it was a taboo topic.
"Prince John needs an explanation, not your terms..." Breton said, suddenly wincing in pain.
A wave of dizziness hit him, blurring his vision.
As the intense pain subsided, he refocused and saw the person in front of him more clearly. One of the envoys who had been in the group took off his hood, revealing his face.
In a low voice, he said, "General, I think you should get treated first."
"Rubbish, they'll probably have to amputate," Breton said through gritted teeth. "And who are you?"
The mysterious man smiled, "Me? I am the lord of Bunratty Castle, Little Domhnall. You're right, Muirchertach's terms can't satisfy you."
There was a hint of mockery in his voice, though it was unclear who it was aimed at. But one couldn't deny he was spot-on.
"I have my own conditions." Little Domhnall crouched down.
Breton looked at him levelly, trying to keep his focus on the negotiations despite the severe pain in his right arm.
Little Domhnall said, "I need your help to deal with my brothers. I will provide you with assistance."
This guy hadn't shown any willingness to cooperate until he saw Breton's strength. Clearly, he was a fence-sitter.
But Breton needed such fence-sitters to lead the way.
"Of course..."
Before Breton could finish his sentence, his arm started to hurt again. This time, he decided to let his attendants take him to a doctor.
Little Domhnall, satisfied with the answer, left the negotiation scene.
— 次の章はもうすぐ掲載する — レビューを書く
章 96: Chapter 95: The Battle of Shannon
At dawn, Breton's army began to move slowly. The soldiers, having packed their bags, left the camp. Most of the garrison in Shannon Castle were still asleep.
The wounded were left behind in the camp, their lives seemingly a sacrifice for this high-stakes gamble.
The soldiers had no complaints, or perhaps they were simply silent. They felt no attachment to their injured comrades, leaving them behind in the camp.
Many lightly wounded soldiers realized the harshness of this battle; even with their injuries, they struggled to keep up with the troops. At least, the chances of surviving were higher with the group.
"The garrison at Shannon Castle hasn't noticed anything," a scout reported to Breton.
Breton nodded in satisfaction. "Order the company commanders to count their men as they march and report to me. Any delays will be punished."
The scout lowered his head, not daring to show any defiance to Breton's strictness.
From a bird's-eye view, Breton's army could be seen as a thin, long line moving along the forest path outside Shannon Castle.
The choice of this path was for concealment.
The order to maintain silence was given to every soldier. The horses had wooden bits in their mouths to prevent them from making noise if startled.
This silent army was about to participate in the most brutal and bloody gamble in all of Ireland.
Unaware of this, Conchobar and his supporting nobles had not even woken from their drunken stupor.
This alone showed the disparity between the two sides.
It wasn't until the morning mist cleared that the Irish saw the enemy.
Breton's army appeared like a divine force in front of their camp. A few sentries sounded the alarm, waking the still-sleeping Irish with its piercing sound.
"What's going on?" Conchobar just woke up, "Why is it so noisy outside?"
His attendant, frightened, said, "My lord, there are enemies outside!"
Enemies? Conchobar rubbed his head, thinking he had misheard.
But the horns outside the tent didn't lie. The deep, long sound of English horns reached Conchobar's ears, confirming the reality.
"Quick, have the soldiers form ranks!" Conchobar made his first decision.
Their camp was quite rudimentary, incomparable to the well-fortified camp of Breton's soldiers. Fighting from within the camp would only hinder their formation.
However, it took quite some time for his orders to be executed.
The still groggy nobles sluggishly got out of bed and began to command their troops to form ranks.
Conchobar didn't idle. He found his most trusted messenger and said, "Go to Shannon Castle and seek Muirchertach's support. We need reinforcements!"
The messenger nodded and quickly left the camp. Another messenger was sent to Ballaty Castle.
All of this was within Breton's expectations.
"Increase speed, have the archers advance and attack the enemy," Breton ordered through his messengers.
The archers, initially hidden behind the infantry formations, emerged through the gaps and pulled out five arrows each, sticking them into the ground in front of them.
They had practiced this countless times; it was their most familiar maneuver.
The finely crafted arrows were set on English longbows, and the taut bowstrings creaked like the footsteps of death approaching.
"Loose!"
At the command of their officers, the arrows swiftly flew. The Irish looked up to see a rain of arrows darkening the sky. Many soldiers without armor could only raise their round shields to protect themselves as best they could.
The small round shields were far less effective against long-range attacks compared to the English kite shields. Many Irish soldiers, struck by arrows, screamed in pain, clutching their wounds as they fell.
After the archers had loosed five volleys, the phalanx troops arrived behind them.
The archers moved back behind the infantry again, switching to suppress the few Irish archers with free shooting.
"Level pikes! Level pikes!"
The officers' commands echoed among the soldiers, instructing them to lower their pikes.
As the pikes were leveled, the phalanx transformed into a massive hedgehog. The trumpeters' sharp, forceful calls unified the soldiers' steps.
Nearly all the soldiers marched in unison, sounding like rolling thunder. This methodically wore down the enemy's morale, inch by inch.
The Irish lacked the courage to face such a formidable pike formation and began to retreat, much to Conchobar's frustration.
On the flanks, his cavalry attempted an assault but were intercepted by Breton's mounted troops.
From the start, the battle seemed to be going against them.
"This isn't working, we can't go on like this," Conchobar said, his voice filled with anxiety. "Follow me, we need to lead a charge ourselves!"
Though Conchobar was often seen as crude and ignorant, his intuition was spot on.
The courage of the Irish was at its peak during the initial charge. In a prolonged battle, they stood no chance against their current foes.
"This is too dangerous, Your Majesty!" his aide protested.
Conchobar gritted his teeth. "If we don't charge now, we'll be doomed regardless!"
With that, he advanced alone. His aides, seeing they couldn't hold him back, had no choice but to follow.
When the banner of the High King appeared at the front lines, it invigorated the Irish soldiers. This was a centuries-old tradition and the heart of their beliefs.
"Forward with me!" Conchobar shouted as he emerged from the crowd.
His large, imposing figure was already highly visible. Coupled with the decorations on his helmet and his shining armor, he became the focal point of the battlefield.
The Irish rallied behind him, launching themselves at Breton's formations.
The pike wall stood firm like a rocky cliff against the crashing waves of Irish soldiers, who repeatedly charged only to be repelled.
"Have they gone mad?" Breton's eyes revealed a hint of worry.
His officers remained silent, offering no response.
Breton's soldiers fought methodically, but many veterans sensed something was amiss. The relentless Irish, sacrificing themselves, were steadily pushing against their lines.
As pikes broke and the enemy drew closer, the infantry faced an unprecedented threat.
This time, there were no knights to bail them out.