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Chapter 64

Chapter 64: War Game Drills
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Third POV

Fifteen miles north of Nemosport, a war game was about to commence—the third of its kind, orchestrated by Richard to sharpen his men's skills in the art of war.

The afternoon sun hung high in a pale blue sky, a pleasant breeze rolling over the grassy hills and scattered copses of trees.

The weather was perfect for a bloodless battle.

The scenario was simple: a capture-the-flag mission. Victory for the attackers lay in seizing the flag; the defenders, in holding their ground till calvarymen from the north arrived.

All weapons had been carefully blunted to avoid serious injury or death—but pain, bruising, and battered pride were unavoidable consequences of failure.

The offensive forces were on the move.

About fifteen kilometers from the shores of Neméos territory, seven great carracks sailed northward, their black-and-gold sails billowing in the wind.

On the quarterdeck of the lead ship stood a man with brown hair tied into a braided ponytail, the sides of his head shaved clean.

A well-trimmed brown beard framed his hard jawline as he peered through a Westerman fareye.

Ragnar, thirty years of age, wore long-sleeved tunics beneath chainmail, over which he donned a shirt of scale armor.

Padded trousers and leather boots completed his ensemble.

He looked every inch the seasoned warrior, an Ironborn and Riverlander by blood, tempered by years of hardship and salt.

Two years ago, Ragnar had crossed paths with Richard in an axe competition at the Lannisport tourney of 273 AC.

He had been bested and humiliated—but now stood as the commander of the Nemean Navy Men, a hundred and fifty-six elite sailors.

Richard had granted him a second chance at life and glory, and Ragnar had vowed to repay that debt in full.

Through the fareye, Ragnar spotted the flag—a fluttering strip of crimson and gold—and the defenders entrenched on a distant hill. Seventeen kilometers away, or two kilometers inland.

A grim smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Signal the fleet," Ragnar ordered.

A long, low blast of a horn carried across the water. The other ships responded in kind, adjusting their course to follow Ragnar's lead. With steady hands, Ragnar maneuvered his ship toward the beach.

At four hundred meters from shore, he called for the anchor to drop. Men scrambled to prepare the longboats, lowering them into the water with practiced efficiency.

Twenty-eight longboats were deployed, each carrying sixteen men. A total of four hundred and forty-eight soldiers. Among them were a hundred and twenty-eight seasoned Nemean Navy Men under Ragnar's direct command.

The remaining three hundred twenty were hardened Nemean infantrymen under Dalton, a chief centurion and proven battlefield commander.

Once ashore, the infantrymen formed into four tight columns, their discipline evident even in practice. They had adapted since the Stilwood conflict.

Their armor has been improved, there has also been added plating to the arms to protect the sword arm.

The spear had been abandoned in favor of the Nemean short sword—broad-bladed, double-edged, and perfectly balanced for close-quarters combat.

Their shields were rectangular, now referred to as Nemean shields, and built for both defense and battering.

Slung across their backs were strange new weapons—pilums, a type of throwing spear introduced by Richard himself.