Chapter 437: Who Teaches the King?
Thus, the fifteen blocks of the Iron Kingdom’s army marched forward.
The earth itself seemed to tremble under the combined weight of fifteen thousand armored men and the six chugging Steam Chariots.
Richard walked alongside the lead chariot. "King Ragnar..." Richard gasped. "How the did you come up with this?"
Ragnar sat relaxed on the edge of the platform, his long legs dangling off the side.
He rested his repeating rifle across his knees.
"I didn’t come up with it, Richard." Ragnar chuckled. "I stole it from a very stubborn, very short artillery officer named Napoleon Bonaparte."
After hearing such words, Richard frowned, searching his vast, memory for the name.
"Bonaparte? Is he a Frankish lord? Or perhaps a mercenary from the southern deserts?"
"Hmm," Ragnar murmured softly. "A general who conquered an entire continent using legionary systems just like this."
However, Richard had stopped freezing up every time Ragnar said something impossible.
He had accepted the madness of the Iron King’s knowledge. Instead of panicking, he pulled out his piece of parchment and a piece of charcoal, eager to learn.
"Who else, my King?" Richard asked, his eyes shining. "...who else did you study?"
Ragnar leaned back against the boiler of the steam engine, his eyes looking up at the winter sky.
Trying to remember things from them was actually a comforting exercise.
It reminded him of his past life, of the warm libraries and the endless history books he used to devour before he woke up in this mud.
"I took a little bit from everyone," Ragnar explained. "I studied Alexander the Great for his hammer and anvil strikes. I read about Julius Caesar to learn how to build perfect siege camps and starve an enemy out."
"Caesar!" Richard smiled, finally recognizing a name. "The great Roman conqueror! Yes, his texts on the Gallic Wars are brilliant."
"They are," Ragnar nodded. "But Caesar didn’t have heavy repeating rifles. So I also borrowed from Genghis Khan."
"Genghis... Khan?" Richard struggled to pronounce the strange, harsh-sounding name.
"A warlord from the far east," Ragnar said, his voice dropping into a tone of respect. "He used extreme mobility, feigned retreats, and psychological terror. He would pretend his army was broken, lure the arrogant knights out of their castles, and then turn around and slaughter them all in an open field. I actually used his exact tricks in my first battles when I was making this empire."
Though the loud chugging of the steam engine was deafening, Richard hung onto every single word.
"And Khalid ibn al-Walid," Ragnar continued, a fierce fire burning in his eyes. "An undefeated general from the desert sands. He taught me how to envelop a larger force with a smaller one. And Saladin... he taught me resource denial. How to burn the fields and poison the wells so the enemy dies of thirst before they even draw their swords."
Thus, the profound depth of Ragnar’s military genius was finally laid bare.
It wasn’t just the guns... It was the fact that Ragnar had the greatest military minds of human history living inside his head.
"When I first started fighting the English kings..." Ragnar murmured. "And when we were surrounded and defending Wessex from the hordes... I won because I used Alexander’s formations."
"That is why you hired Domnall and the marshals from York," Richard realized, his eyes widening. "They execute those specific historical tactics perfectly."
"Exactly, Richard." Ragnar grinned. "You can hand a stupid man a repeating rifle, and he will just shoot it blindly into the trees."
As the army continued its march toward the southern beach, the dense pine forest began to slowly thin out ahead of them.
Ragnar stood up on the back of the Steam Chariot, narrowing his eyes.
He could finally see the distant tree line breaking, revealing the muddy expanse of the beach.
Lord Lothair’s vanguard was there...
They had dug in.
Massive dirt trenches zig-zagged across the shoreline, hiding the surviving Frankish infantry.
And positioned behind wooden barricades were the bronze cannons Lothair had dragged out of the marsh.
"They look comfortable, don’t they?" King Erik grunted, riding his horse up alongside the chariot.
"They won’t be for long." Ragnar stated.
"Hmm?"
The trenches were strong, and a direct frontal assault, even with the Steam Chariots, would cost him a few hundred men.
Napoleon would blast the center, but Hannibal would squeeze the flanks.
"Erik!" Ragnar shouted over the noise of the steam engine. "I want to hit him where he lacks defense."
"Where is that?" Erik asked, gripping his battleaxe.
"The water," Ragnar answered plainly. "I want you to send riders back to the port. Tell the reserve captains to detach twenty of our standard longships and deep-hulled cogs."
Erik frowned slightly. "You want to send the ironclads?"
"No ironclads," Ragnar shook his head. "They are too loud, and the black smoke will give away their position from miles away. I want traditional sail and oar ships. Fast with the wind."
"What do we do with them?" Richard asked, scribbling the orders down.
"Take twenty of our light steel push-cannons and strap them to the bows of those wooden ships," Ragnar ordered. "Send ten ships out to the open sea to hit their beach camp from the deep water. Send the other ten ships sneaking down the eastern river to hit their right flank."
"A naval bombardment from three sides..." Domnall the Scot laughed loudly, riding up to hear the orders. "Lothair’s bronze pigs are pointed at the forest. By the time they try to turn them around to fire at the river, our ships will blow their trenches to ash!"
"..." Ragnar smirked, pointing his finger at the marshals. "Send the riders now! The second those ships open fire from the water, we push the blocks forward and crush the center."
"It will be done, King Ragnar!" Wulfhere shouted, spurring his horse back toward the rear of the marching army to dispatch the messengers.
The fifteen thousand men slowly ground to a synchronized halt just inside the edge of the tree line.
They were hidden by the dense pines, waiting patiently for the naval trap to close around the Frankish vanguard.
Ragnar stepped off the Steam Chariot, walking to the edge of the brush to get a better look at Lothair’s defenses through his spyglass.
Richard followed closely behind him, his heart pounding.
For the very first time in his life, the tactician didn’t feel afraid of the southern empire.
Standing next to a man who possessed the combined knowledge of history’s greatest conquerors made the Frankish army look like a bunch of confused children playing in the mud.
"Look at them..." Ragnar muttered softly, adjusting the focus ring on the spyglass. "Lothair has positioned his best knights in the center trench. He is hoping we get bogged down in the mud so his bronze cannons can slowly pick us apart."
"He is a fool, my King," Richard said confidently. "Once the river ships arrive, his right flank will collapse."
However, as Ragnar continued to scan the fortified Frankish camp, a sudden frown creased his forehead.
"King Ragnar?" Richard asked, entirely noticing the sudden shift in the Iron King’s demeanor. "Is something wrong? Did they spot us?"
Ragnar slowly lowered the brass tube. "It seems we’re dealing with a general who has a mind of his own."