Vol 7, Chapter 20

Soot flaked off the large cast-iron cauldron, scattering across the ground.

In a second, the blackened pot, used to cook for a hundred men at once, regained its original dull gray.

I kneaded the metal in my hands, merging it with the rest. Iron ladles, officers' bowls, the rare metal spoon, all blended together into a single mass. Unfortunately, the pile was neither very large nor very high-quality. To my surprise, most of the levy had been supplied only with gruel and hardtack; only a few cooked something for themselves in tiny kettles.

Inefficient.

The retinue's stockpile, however, had been worth plundering; that's where my soldiers had stolen this cauldron. I had no intention of looting our own field kitchens… at least, not while I still hoped to manage without it.

"This is all?" I asked Til, who had just kicked a dented iron bucket off the wagon.

"No, there's more worth taking, but the Baroness's people started a fuss. Nearly came to blows."

"Which Baroness? There are dozens here!"

"Hell if I know. Blonde."

"They're all blonde here!"

"A fat one." He spread his hands wide, showing her fatness. To be fair, he overstated it; Baroness Syrel was plump, but not that much.

"I see. Just as I thought…" I muttered, roughly splitting the mass of metal into two chunks: carriage and barrel.

Alright. Even factoring in that the barrel would need to be much thicker than usual, it should be enough. And the cannonballs… for those, I was supposed to get help.

"Grapeshot, powder?"

"Four sacks of bullets, five barrels of powder," he said, pointing to the next cart. "Hmph. That would've been enough bullets for the whole battle, and now they'll be gone in a couple of volleys…"

I shrugged and checked the barrel's wall thickness. Sturdy enough? Better safe than sorry. The metal rolled smoothly under my hands.

"But the effect will be like a whole regiment's salvo. This is all the powder we have?"

"No, the Marquise's engineers have four more barrels. They won't finish their catapults, so I sent a cart to fetch them."

"Send more men for the mage; he's late."

Til nodded and whistled, summoning a driver. The cart creaked away toward the nearly deserted camp.

Most of the soldiers should already be near the front. With only servants left here, we could've raided the kitchens again, but time was too short. We had to catch up.

Carriage, wheels, the simplest screw mechanism to adjust elevation… And how accurate could it be, firing a stone shot?

"Smart in artillery, handsome in cavalry, a drunk at sea, and a fool in~… Hm. Where the hell is that mage?" I asked the driver, nearly finished with the cannon carriage.

The returning cart rolled in, its pale driver alone. No passengers. Worse, it held only three barrels of gunpowder, not four.

"Where's the fourth?" Til demanded, noticing too.

"Sir, they… can't find it."

"What do you mean, can't find it?"

"The guards swear they never left it unattended, not for a moment. They were shocked themselves when they found it gone. Right now, they're searching the camp and—"

"And not one of them had the sense to ride with you and explain?" I cut in.

The driver shrugged helplessly.

"Til, detain them all before they scatter."

"Right now?" He arched a skeptical brow.

I irritably sent a pulse into the cannon, making it jump in place and roll back. The wheels bent, sinking into the dirt, and the carriage cracked. Looked like I'd have to shorten the barrel again and reinforce the frame.

"Fine. We'll deal with them, but not now. Damn it, a whole barrel stolen right under their noses. No way they weren't bribed!"

"They truly seemed shocked, Your Excellency," the driver defended his comrades.

I brushed the metallic dust from my hands. Well… if I thought about it, they had no reason to expose themselves so blatantly. And of course, suspicion would fall on the guards first.

If any of them tried to run, that would mark the thief. Inconvenient timing, but survivable. And the culprit, we'd catch him. We certainly would.

The faint chime of armor made me turn.

Erin.

I almost didn't recognize her; her long hair was gone, replaced by a short cut.

"And here comes the cavalry… or rather… cat-alry?" I corrected myself, eyeing the tiger-like chimera that crept up on soft paws.

The furry beast wasn't too large, only a little taller than a horse.

"A riding cat," clarified its rider, holding a helmet polished so bright one could use it as a mirror.

Indeed, a cat. Despite the half-helmet, half-mask covering the chimera's head, it was clear its face was feline—not as broad or massive as a tiger's. Just an oversized house cat. How many generations, and with what, had they stuffed the poor mouser to make it grow horse-sized? What kind of mice had it been fed?

Likely ones the size of pigs.

"You're late, Randal. The troops are already deploying out of their marching columns," Erin grumbled, drumming her fingers nervously against the polished helmet. Her armor was no less impressive. Smooth, even, the joints flowing seamlessly into one another. It looked as if a blade would have nothing to catch on… except for the holster strapped across her chest.

"I'm almost done," I answered, shaping the last of the iron into a chain and fusing it firmly to the carriage. "There. Now we just need to haul it into position."

"It would've been easier if you'd assembled the weapon right there."

"In front of everyone?"

"So… you're not ready for that?" she asked with a veiled hint.

"Not ready for what? To build a cannon under the Second Duke's spies' noses?"

"Fine, forget it." She waved it off, donned her helmet, and adjusted her holster.

"Don't rely too much on the revolver. Better stick to the plan, use the gas, and keep your distance. Don't engage directly," I advised, as Til brought up a horse.

"I have no intention of fighting where there's no chance of success."

The driver urged the horses on, and the fresh cannon rolled forward, leaving ruts behind. Til mounted his horse, and it was time for me as well.

"Want a ride? We'll get there in no time. My panther isn't as enduring as a horse, but he's far faster," the girl offered.

"No, I'll stick to a horse. By the way, if you love speed so much, why not a griffon? That would be faster still."

"I prefer to keep my feet on the ground."

"And you're afraid of heights, huh…" I muttered under my breath and spurred my horse.

The puma (or cat, more like)—kept up easily, padding almost lazily. Compared to the thunder of hooves, his steps were nearly silent.

In the distance, banners were already visible, growing larger by the minute. To my irritation, I noted that while the army was still forming up, tents for the nobility were already being erected in the rear. Resting on the bare ground while the troops slowly arranged themselves—that was not their way.

On the horizon, the Second Duke's forces were visible as well… For the most part, only the siege chimera could be clearly seen, rising like a hill over the ranks of armored pikemen. At least, those dark smudges with tiny matchsticks sticking up seemed to be pikemen.

I halted my horse and drew out a spyglass. Yes, of course, they were. My gaze swept the ranks, measuring their strength and positions.

"Not riding, Count? If you linger, I'll have to leave you. My knights are already waiting."

Because of the nearness of allied troops, she had shifted to a more formal tone.

I folded the spyglass and looked over our own formation once more… It wasn't fully complete, but enough to compare dispositions.

"The levy in the center? I expected them on the left flank."

"That was the Marquise's decision. Do you want to change it?"

"No, it's fine, better even… Tell me, when did the Duke shift part of his forces to the right bank? Looks like no less than a regiment covering his barges, as if… he knows we could quickly ferry a squadron across."

"You're implying a spy?"

"Consider it a direct statement."

"It could be coincidence…" she said uncertainly.

"Really? Much like the fact that the pikemen's depth on the right flank is sorely lacking… yet only three hundred meters away, reserves are covering the barges on the left bank. Strange to weaken the line so much when you've got hundreds of extra men in the rear, don't you think?"

"You can't see it from here, but scouts from above reported that the mage circle is right behind them. A trap?"

"A trap," I confirmed, tucking away the glass. "I wouldn't charge in there. I'm sure they'll flee at first sight… only to lure you deeper into formation, then strike from the flank and drive you into the river."

"You didn't have to explain," she snorted, displeased.

"Then I'll just wish you luck. Oh, and if you meet that damned mage—send him to me."

Her polished helmet dipped slightly in a nod. Tail sweeping the ground, cat padded away toward the knights already forming a wedge.

The infantry still looked like a disorderly rabble. Sergeants shouted themselves hoarse, trying to drag sword-wielding militiamen, who had somehow squeezed into the ranks, out of the pikemen's lines.

"…and a fool in the infantry~," I finished the saying, sending my few cavalrymen to straighten out the mess.

Ten minutes later, the army began to move.

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◆ Battlefield, General Til POV ◆
​
​"Left! Right! Left! Right!"

Cuirasses gleamed under the sunlight breaking through the gloomy clouds.

Three ranks of line infantry advanced almost in step, keeping formation. Right behind them trudged masses of militia pikemen, dressed in whatever they could scrounge: quilted jackets, rough leather coats, even plain peasant rags. Only one thing united them, the four-meter pikes with narrow, faceted tips.

The crowd was uneven: sometimes the pikemen pressed so close they jostled each other, other times gaps opened in the ranks.

Yet despite poor discipline, they had one overwhelming advantage.

They far outnumbered the enemy's shooters.

On the flanks, like a living fence, marched more musketeers. Their task was simple: keep the mass of pikemen from spreading too far.

The rear was covered as well.  Cavalrymen in black uniforms, unarmored, watched to ensure no one lagged behind. At first glance it looked as if the light cavalry had no intention of fighting. They seemed weaponless, but their role was one of the most important.

Simply put, the human mass had been boxed in neatly… though the "box" likely wouldn't hold if the mob truly tried to flee the battlefield.

In contrast, the enemy ranks were impeccably ordered and uniform. Their blackened armor, though far inferior to knightly plate, still offered protection against arrows and bolts.

Their pikes were tipped with obsidian. Far less practical and much more brittle than steel, yet immune to being swept aside by a metal adept's hand... and sharper than steel to boot!

A line of enemy skirmishers covering the rear remained idle for now. Their absurdly broad bolt-throwers were loaded not with ordinary bolts, but with wide-headed projectiles, making the magazines bulge as if overstuffed. Designed to target horses legs, they would cut through unarmored infantry just as easily as cabbage.

The Duke's soldiers watched the approaching infantry without emotion. The short spears carried by the first two ranks did not concern them… for the moment.

One hundred meters. Fifty. Thirty.

Sergeants barked orders. The first line knelt, bracing their pikes against the ground, while the second row rested theirs across the first. The formation thickened, bristling with obsidian points. Blackened armor merged into a steel wall, seemingly monolithic.

The militia's steps slowed of their own accord, feet tangling, and they began to lag behind the musketeers who kept marching.

Twenty meters. Fifteen. Only ten remained before the enemy pikes when the line finally halted.

The front rank stepped forward, slinging their muskets onto their backs. From their leather bags they drew maces, or rather, scepters. Heavy, cast-iron orbs crowned the thin wooden shafts. Almost in unison, hundreds of cords fell to the ground, and the scepters began to hiss and smoke. Soldiers gripped them with both hands.

A few steps forward. A swing!

Hundreds of grenades arced heavily through the air, sailed over the rows of pikes, and clattered against armor. Some winced from an iron weight striking their shoulder, others dropped their pikes entirely and collapsed, stunned by the impact against their helmets.

The crack of wood, the dull clang of steel.

One grenade, its handle broken off, spun like a top, hissing and spitting smoke until it stopped. A moment of silence.

A flash.

Shockwaves overlapped, flinging men and the wreckage of men aside. Shrapnel whistled through the air.

The front ranks toppled forward under the onslaught of explosions that gutted the center of the formation. Shards struggled to pierce the dense wall of armored bodies,  but the effect was devastating nonetheless.

Deafened and disoriented, the pikemen scrambled to restore order and reclaim their dropped weapons. Seizing on the pause, the enemy closed in. A few more steps and the Duke's infantry could try to jab with their pikes! Obsidian points might not have been able to pierce cuirasses, but aside from breastplates and helmets, their foes wore nothing. A jab to the neck or face would have been just as deadly as a strike to the heart.
...
What they didn't know was that the cuirasses weren't just for protection, but for attack. An unarmored body simply couldn't withstand the recoil from that much powder.

The rank raised their muskets. Faceted iron bayonets nearly touched the obsidian tips of the pikes.

"Front rank! Present! Fire!"

Streams of fire from the muskets licked along the pikes, sending their deadly cargo forward.

Iron-shod stocks smashed into armor as hard as maces, making the lines waver despite their stance... But those the volley was truly meant for—it simply swept them away.

No matter how good infantry armor might be, there is a limit beyond which an ordinary man cannot go. Even if that man was one of the finest heavy pikemen in the kingdom.

Two or three ranks of the enemy formation were obliterated in mere seconds.

The rear ranks, suddenly becoming the front, tried to form up, but they were hampered by the wounded, deafened, and blinded pikemen stumbling underfoot, retreating, or crawling without knowing where.

The bolt-throwermen scrambled to ready their weapons. Only a few heavy shearing bolts managed to fly toward the lines before a second volley thundered. Bullets slammed into their weapons, punched through their light armor, hurled their bodies onto their backs.

The few survivors fled.

A formation dozens of men deep… completely breached.

But the musketeers did not attempt to push into it. Too soon. The first two ranks calmly reloaded their weapons.

No hurry. Hurry brings mistakes.

Meanwhile the flank musketeers opened fire, hindering the neighboring battalions' attempts to spread and close the gap. Yet they could not stop the reserves, who rushed headlong to restore the front line. Shoving aside the fleeing, they filled the breach perfectly, like bricks laid neatly into a wall.

Muskets reloaded. A volley.

The first line toppled onto the second, and both collapsed. On the blackened armor of the third rank, only scratches from shattered fragments—but nothing more. Another volley took its toll, but the battalion, stepping over the dead, charged, sabatons trampling wounded and fallen alike. Only a fool would let the enemy reload again—only a direct assault and momentum could salvage the situation.

Losses or not, they were acceptable losses. Even another volley could not break them.

The first two ranks of musketeers dropped to their knees. It was time for the third rank, silent until now.

The next volley seemed no different from the others. If anything, it appeared weaker—the second line of pikemen only staggered, with survivors still standing.

The pikemen exhaled in relief. A single thought flashed in every mind: We're safe.

But another volley roared. And another. And another…

The third rank methodically emptied their cylinders. By the fifth shot the enemy ranks were in chaos, their spirit broken. No one believed anymore that the torrent of fire would ever cease. The sixth and final volley struck the backs of the fleeing.

Despite the smokeless powder, the air hung heavy with acrid stench.

The hot barrels lowered. Reloading would take time—but it had been worth it. In just minutes the front was completely broken, with no reserves left nearby to seal the breach.

Through the gap the cavalry thundered, led by the lord himself. Each held a revolver inlaid with isolite. The cavalry stripped down for maximum speed, ignored the fleeing and charged straight for the unfinished ritual circle.

Colored lights flared in the sky. Gryphons circling above signaled the situation to command. From the rear came the roar of the siege chimera, finally freed of its chains.

The militia, terrified of their allies no less than their enemies, advanced reluctantly to fill the gap. Only the officers' threats kept the half-trained men in line.

"Had it been our soldiers instead of militia, this might have threatened full encirclement of their left flank…" Til muttered, flipping open the cylinder of his revolver rifle... But the grumbling was for show. What he truly regretted was that all the flamethrowers had been handed to the knights.

With those, he might at least have tried to slow what they would soon be facing.

The thunder of the siege chimera's steps could be felt even here. And with each passing minute, it grew louder.

The Second Duke had not thrown his knights into sealing the breach. He had a far more fitting tool. A monster the height of a fortress wall. A monster plated head to toe in bone armor.

A mountain of flesh on the horizon, slowly lumbering toward the breach—it filled the general with sharp frustration.

And only a single cannon against such a monster…