Barnett did not witness the scene of universal veneration he had imagined—on the march toward Bergen, the villagers they encountered scattered at the first sight of his forces, fleeing as far as they could, terrified by his prior actions. In earlier campaigns, his army had swept through every disobedient little clan in northern Norway like vampires draining blood; humanity's memory was not so short.
A few local nobles who had barred the road did not, as Barnett had pictured, throw open their gates in surrender once his host arrived. They seemed to believe their earthen-and-timber piles—these wretches actually called their mud-and-boards stacks "castles"—were impregnable.
Barnett found it almost inconceivable: just heap up earth, surround it with wooden planks, erect a few watchtowers, and somehow call it a castle?! It was an absolute joke!
Yet even such crude defenses posed a challenge to assault. Barnett decisively ordered his engineers to unload two bolt throwers from the transport wagons. It took nearly an hour to assemble them, calibrate their shots, load the bolts—bolts more like harpoons, barbed at the tip, wrapped in cord at the tail—and crank the winch. Drawn—ready—fire!
The first bolt launched with stunning force, piercing the thin wooden plank barrier—and driving straight through an unfortunate fellow hiding behind it. The bolt's immense inertia hurled him several meters backward; he collapsed, the bolt pinning him to the ground. Though his lungs were perforated, by some mixture of fortune and misfortune he did not die, but writhed in agonized moans. Air hissed through the wound, his cries hoarse as the shrieks of a demon from the underworld.
His companions' faces turned ashen.
This "castle," if it could be called that, belonged to a viscount. The viscount commanded five knights, nearly fifty mercenaries, and almost two hundred levied peasant soldiers—nearly three hundred defenders in all. Confident he could hold out three or five days until the enemy withdrew, he thought there was no great cause for mortal combat: a parley, a bit of face‑saving tribute, and all would be forgotten.
Such notions, of course, were worthless rubbish.
A second massive bolt tore through the palisade. This time no one was killed, but the bolt buried itself deeply in the soil, its corded tail quivering. The defenders' expressions grew even grimmer. In the ensuing silence, someone, annoyed by the first victim's wretched screams, strode forward and ended his suffering with a single sword stroke—a mercy, perhaps.
"Viscount… I—I think we should surrender…" stammered the viscount's fat steward, trembling all over.
"No, milord! A knight's spirit is to press on regardless of setbacks!" snarled one of the knights, glaring viciously at the steward.
Of course, Barnett could not hear these words from outside. Pleased to see his bolt throwers perform as expected, he grinned.
"Penetration is sufficient. Now for destructive power… Send a few men to pull the cords," he ordered. Several curious Viking warriors rushed over to help the engineers haul on the ropes. Inside the "castle," the defenders saw the bolt suddenly shift. A dozen men's combined strength yanked it free—along with chunks of earth, pooled blood, and a piece of lung—then, with two gritty clicks, its barbs latched onto the wooden wall. A final tug and the wall panel collapsed.
"Quite an ingenious design," Barnett chuckled. Around him, the Vikings cheered. After a couple of volleys, the defenders learned to swiftly dash forward and cut the cords once the bolt lodged in the ground—or in a man. Still, the front wall lay in ruins. Through his spyglass, Barnett could plainly see the attackers' faces turning green.
Barnett waved his hand, as though remarking, "Hmm, what a feast we'll have for lunch today," and commanded, "Charge! Leave none alive!"
His guard knights, having artistically rephrased their count's order, bellowed, "Full assault—no survivors!"
The mounted patrol and axe‑wielding cavalry streamed out on either flank like scattered seeds, encircling the "castle" to cut off any escape. Bowmen and crossbowmen, lightly armored militia and northern archers, surged forward at breakneck pace. Within minutes they were within range; two volleys set several wooden ramparts alight, the choking smoke and scorching flames sapping the defenders' morale.
Then thousands of Viking warriors, howling "For Odin!"—or perhaps "Jehovah!"—lunged toward the battered fortifications like a frenzied tide.
Inside, conscripted peasants, servants, and serfs ran helter-skelter like headless chickens, their ears ringing with the futile shouts of knights and the cries of their wives and daughters. Centuries of family legacy crumbled before their eyes. The viscount felt his heart lacerated—then a surge of hot blood rekindled his youthful valor.
"Charge!" he roared in his final moments, drawing his sword and rushing madly into the vastly superior enemy ranks—only to be engulfed by the Viking horde like a man drowning in a torrent.
Of course, no one would remember these events—a minor rural nobleman's last cry as his lands and kin perished. Romantic, perhaps—but utterly foolish. Yes, exceedingly foolish: like a mantis confronting a warhorse.
I will sweep through everything in my path!
That night, in his tent at the encampment, Barnett replayed the day's events and muttered to himself—though only the System Sprite heard him.
"So, what will you do? Slaughter every nobleman who resists you?" the Sprite asked.
"Are they related to you?" Barnett quipped, resting his head on his arm, utterly nonchalant.
"Do you know how many nobles there were, besides the king, in a typical medieval realm?" the Sprite replied.
"About as many as the fleas on their backs, I suppose," Barnett shot back.
"…Do you know the power those nobles could wield if united? They could overthrow the King of France in an instant."
"But England had already completed centralization by Edward III. He claimed all castles in England for himself… which is why England so often triumphed over France in their wars. Without Joan of Arc, France would have been doomed," Barnett countered.
"Edward III's claim was just a preemptive measure against rebellious barons—he still had to spend vast sums to buy them off," the Sprite noted.
"So what of it?"
"If you become the public enemy of the Norwegian nobility, they will band together to destroy you—unless you pay for decades' worth of troops, draining your lifespan in gold to raise armies and conquer the world."
"And the knightly class?"
"They are nobles too, you idiot!"
"No, in my view, knights are closer to yeomen—landholders summoned to military service, responsible for their own arms, horses, and provisions. Such systems existed everywhere: the Western knight, the Eastern jianhu system, the Ottoman sipahi, the Mughal zamindar, the Japanese samurai… Nearly every land adopted this model. You think it's coincidence?"
"What point are you making?" the Sprite asked.
"That a nobility with excessive power is unreliable. Self-sufficient landholders with a stake in society—those are dependable armed forces. They possess land, wealth, and status—enough to fight tooth and nail to defend their homes. They may not understand 'defending the realm,' but they certainly know how to 'protect their families,'" Barnett explained.
"…Sounds plausible. Yet, other systems—like the Eastern military–farming households—ultimately collapsed."
"Ha! Those Eastern classes were enslaved peasants, stripped of land and status. They couldn't protect their own holdings—no wonder the system failed."
"So, what is your plan?"
"In time, I will found a nation."
"Of course—if you keep winning wars, you'll end up a ruler," the Sprite said.
"I intend it to be a state without a privileged nobility. Or rather, the only privileged class will be the yeoman‑soldiers—those knights of the soil…"
"No, no—your real motive is that you want absolute power for yourself. Pure dictatorship, sharing no authority… Isn't that it?"
"Ah, so you've seen through me, then," Barnett chuckled, offering no denial.