Chapter 5
Chapter 5
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 2
Chapter Title: You Came In at Will, But... (1)
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"From here on, it's enemy territory!"
Not that Jamal needed to report it—everyone already knew.
Veterans of the battlefield pick up on certain things instinctively. The restless air, the acrid stench, the prickling on your skin. These were the sensations of standing right in the heart of enemy lines.
"Squad, trot!"
"Squad, trot!"
I called it out, and Jamal echoed the order. Our charging allies eased off the pace.
"Front rotation."
The riders at the lead, drained from facing the headwind, fell back, replaced by fresh ones from the rear. We had to manage our horses' stamina before the fighting even started.
"Rotated personnel, rest freely in the saddle."
As if they'd been waiting for it, the men pulled out jerky and gnawed away or gulped down water to recover.
"Won't be long before they spot us."
Jamal muttered it casually while chewing his own strip of jerky. He was right. Thracia's borderlands were mostly flat plains—not exactly ideal for stealthy movement.
"I know."
It was something we'd accounted for when planning the op.
"...But is it really okay to move this leisurely? Wouldn't it be better to go full gallop, hit 'em hard, and pull out...?"
Jamal's face was stiff as he asked again. He was clearly uneasy. The others wore similar expressions. Whatever happened to the Thracia troops who'd charge into hellfire at the blast of a horn? Watching these Bluecoats, stripped of their pride by back-to-back defeats, I sighed inwardly.
"If they spot us, they spot us. What're they gonna do about it?"
It might sound reckless, but it was the truth. Even if they found us, their options were limited. Astoria's infantry? Forget it—they couldn't even catch our shadows. The mage corps that crushed us before? Not even worth considering. They'd much rather pound fixed targets like our fortresses and camps than chase mobile ones. Cavalry to counter us? No dice. Sure, we looked like stragglers now, but Thracia's heavy cavalry were continent-renowned elites. Send a similar force, and we'd eat them alive—they knew that. Beef up the numbers, and we'd spot them coming and bolt. A company-sized cavalry charge at full tilt makes a racket that carries for miles in terrain like this.
"At best, they'll hide their vaunted crossbowmen along our path for an ambush or send a decent-sized cavalry unit to harass us out of their territory."
But the inability to hide worked both ways. On open plains with no cover, crossbowmen with their short range were barely better than regular infantry. Botched pressure tactics? We'd punch right through. Elite heavy cavalry were a royal pain like that. Especially in wide-open terrain where you could gallop anywhere your feet could reach. This was why Thracia's brass poured gold into cavalry—not because they were idiots.
"Snap out of it, Bluecoats. If you're gonna keep tucking tail like whipped dogs after a few losses, hand over those coats right now."
I wasn't thrilled that our vaunted Bluecoats were drowning in defeatism, looking every bit the routed rabble. A few victories would restore their true spirit, though—no big deal. Still, watching them mope was torture for me, so I decided to speed things up.
"Rest over! Squad, canter!"
I ramped up the pace. The two-beat hoof rhythm shifted to a steady three-beat clop.
The plains were wide open, but unlike cavalry, wagons and carts were limited to certain paths. And even if it had fallen into enemy hands, this was Thracia soil. Astoria could find supply routes blindfolded. Finding enemy logistics lines was never the hard part.
"Everyone, battle ready!"
Mopping up a hundred-odd demoralized supply troops? Piece of cake for us.
"Speed to gallop! Hit 'em before they form up!"
The three-beat rhythm returned, but now with thunderous power echoing across the land.
"......!"
"....!"
Through narrow visor slits, I saw the enemy scrambling. Crossbowmen fumbled bolts onto strings; spearmen clumsily raised their poles.
Hooook, hooook.
My helmet interior burned hot.
"Trample 'em flat!"
I spat out the breath I'd held.
Kraaaang.
A cheap spearhead scraped across the mirror-polished surface of my plate armor.
"Ha!"
I crushed the Astorian underfoot.
-Gaaah!
-Agh!
Muffled screams pierced my sealed helm as I plunged into their ranks.
Thud.
I thrust my lance home.
Spurt.
Blood sprayed. The world through my visor turned red. In that crimson haze, a hunched crossbowman straightened—and leveled his freshly loaded weapon at me. I angled my shield.
Ping! Kraaang.
The bolt, packing more punch than any longbow, grazed the shield and flew past. Aiming at the pale-faced bastard, I didn't even need to draw back my shoulder. Just a slight push on the lance was enough. The full momentum of my charging mount drove it straight into his chest. He toppled backward without a scream.
"Keep advancing!"
I drew my saddle-mounted one-handed saber. Galloping along, I slashed down every Astorian in reach. Soon, enemies vanished from view. The red-tinted world faded back to blue.
"Squad, wheel!"
We swung in a wide arc. Green fields vanished; red haze returned, revealing the foe ahead.
"Charge!"
I dug heels into my horse's flanks. We'd lost some momentum turning, but it was plenty to shred their broken formation.
"Hiya!"
I swung the dangling saber upward.
Spurt!
Blood flew; screams rang out. I thundered between wagons and carts. The world turned blue again.
"Squad, wheel!"
This turn was sharper. Our mounts pivoted in tight circles, speed dropping toward canter. Didn't matter.
"On re-entry, finish them! No survivors!"
This wasn't a charge anymore—it was hunting stragglers.
We repeated the drill several times. Scouting wagon-friendly paths inevitably turned up enemy convoys. Charge, trample, kill. Abandoned wagons and carts went up in flames. Tempting as it was to salvage for our own supplies, we were deep in enemy turf. Greed could kill our mobility—and us.
"A few got away. They can't have gone far—pursue?"
Jamal's face was a far cry from when we'd left the fortress. Flushed with battle heat or drunk on victory, the despair of endless defeats was gone. The other Bluecoats finally looked halfway decent.
"Pointless. They've figured us out by now."
I shook my head at the waist-high grass by the road. Time for their counter.
"Torch the supplies and move out!"
We ditched the site fast.
"Whoa, whoa. Halt. Time for a break."
Night had fallen. A rare hill loomed close by.
"Dismount at will. But keep distance to mount up anytime. No fires."
The men tumbled off like they'd been shot.
"Ughhh."
"Gonna die."
Groans rose everywhere. No surprise. We'd marched and fought all day. Even a Bluecoat's grandpa couldn't stay tensed up in full plate that long. And yet, they'd performed admirably.
"Five convoys wiped today."
Pride shone on Jamal's face.
"We might've hit our targets already."
I draped my blue cloak like a blanket and leaned against the hillock, tallying the day's haul.
Five convoys, two hundred enemies killed, twenty-seven wagons burned. That was ten kills per man, a battalion's week of supplies denied. Zero losses on our side. Impressive.
"The mighty Bluecoats whining like infantry scrubs."
If they were average grunts, sure. But under ideal conditions, this was par for heavy cavalry. The brass weren't morons—they ranked a heavy cav platoon above infantry companies for a reason.
"...But we're heavy cavalry. Great for short scraps, but this hit-and-run isn't our forte."
True enough. Light cavalry suited wide-ranging disruption better.
"One more day like this, and the horses won't hold."
Spot on again.
"I get your concerns."
"...So we head back?"
"Nah. I just get 'em."
Couldn't indulge him, though.
"But...!"
"Don't worry."
I replied flatly to the anxious Bluecoat.
"Tomorrow'll be different."
We'd fight another way—one addressing Jamal's worries. The heavy cavalry way.
We moved out before dawn.
"Chickenheads there! More chickenheads!"
After losing men and materiel, the enemy was pissed—battalion-sized recon and pursuit units hounded us relentlessly.
"Company-sized!"
Among them, Astoria's so-called elites: the Winged Hussars, chickenheads with long feathers on their helms and freakishly long lances. They charged us on sight, hell-bent on finishing the job—not just herding us out.
"Breaking off the front now! Riders, south-southwest! Pace between gallop and trot!"
"That'll let them close the...!"
"Bluecoat! No objections!"
I snapped back and spurred hard.
"Rear's gonna get caught!"
"Pick it up!"
"Damn it all!"
Jamal's curse drowned in the earth-shaking hoofbeats.
Dudududududu.
Winged Hussars on our tail, we bolted for Schrelgrad. The gap shrank steadily. If they could shoot from horseback, it'd be dangerous. But they weren't horse archers—and they wouldn't waste a shot at proving themselves against us "superior" Bluecoats. Caught or not, we kept riding with them glued behind.
"They're catching us! Catching us! Actually catching us!"
"......!"
Feeling the thrill, I yelled back. Jamal shouted something, but the galloping drowned it out. Crazy bastard or whatever. Schrelgrad's fortress appeared in the distance.
"Lieutenant! Astorians ahead!"
Jamal's voice cut clear this time. Must've screamed his lungs out.
"We gotta go around! Sandwiched front and back!"
I bellowed back with gusto.
"Hold course!"
"But!"
"Jeez! Told you, no objections!"
Cheerfully overriding him, I eyed the nearing Astorian lines. And spotted my target.
"Squad! Battle prep!"
Fine-tuned our heading, slammed my visor down.
"Target: those bastards bombing our fortress nonstop!"
Dozens deployed away from the main force.
"Astoria's mage corps!"
The bastards behind our every-other-day barrages finally spotted us and turned. A massive surge built around them. But it fizzled fast. Spotting the Winged Hussars hot on our heels, the mages panicked. The aura scattered like smoke.
"Couched!"
Visor down, lance tucked under arm.
"Charge!"
Straight into their midst.
"For our boys' beauty sleep!"