Chapter 70
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 21
Chapter Title: Becoming the Wave of Iron Armor (3)
Through our scouts, we continuously monitored the movements of the Astoria army.
"The Astoria army's estimated movement distance today is about 13 kilometers. Similar pace to yesterday."
Even accounting for the size of their forces, it was an incredibly sluggish speed.
"Those bastards. Aren't they getting too cocky?"
I shook my head at Jamal's words.
"No. The opposite."
They weren't being complacent.
They were being cautious.
When facing cavalry, the most dangerous moment for infantry is during a march across open plains.
Coming face-to-face with cavalry while unprepared is the nightmare infantry dread most.
Even ten thousand pikemen are worthless without forming ranks.
To infantry, ranks aren't just the bare minimum for battle.
They're more than that.
If the ranks aren't thick enough in depth and width, infantry quickly feel uneasy.
Unease leads straight to plummeting morale, and demoralized infantry can't hold formation against cavalry.
Think about it.
Who could stay sane watching huge warhorses thunder toward you, shaking the earth?
Comrades provide reassurance through the warmth of shoulders touching, courage through the breath on your back.
Pikes, halberds, crossbows, bows.
No matter the weapon, it's all the same.
To infantry, ranks are life itself.
A marching column stretched thin is utterly vulnerable to a cavalry flank attack.
"After that chaos on the plains, word must've reached them. Better to prepare properly for attacks even if it means going slower than risk speeding up and getting hit on the side."
And we weren't just any cavalry—we were a regiment-sized force.
Show a gap, and it wouldn't just be broken ranks; they'd be trampled flat.
"Plus, push the pace more from here, and Astoria's precious mage corps will be wrecked before they can even fight."
The mages had racked up insane kills against Bluecoats in the last war, but they weren't Thor's hammer you could swing anytime.
They were finicky weapons, potent only under strict conditions.
First off, mages were pathetically frail. Speed up now, and they'd lack the stamina to cast when it mattered.
Judging by their pace, Astoria's mages were likely on wagons or carts—right around a supply train's daily distance.
Does that mean mages just spam spells if you baby their stamina?
No.
They need coordinates locked in or a visual on the enemy.
Near borders with constant fights, both sides had most battlefields mapped—no big issue.
But this area? No border, no hot zone.
So, just eyeball it and cast?
Possible, sure.
Problem: untrained eyes distort badly, and mages have crap vision anyway.
Some say mana intake dulls the senses; others blame endless reading.
Doesn't matter—their aim sucks.
Spotting targets visually exposes them to risk, too.
Mages' fragile nerves—scared kids lost in a market—crack under the slightest pressure.
No wonder Thracia skimps on mage training.
So, Astoria's army was maintaining formation for instant response to a regiment of cavalry while babysitting their mage headache.
We'd lured them into it.
...Not that I felt thrilled.
I'd planned this from the start.
I never hid our suicide squad from the cavalry muster.
We paraded openly, left tracks, even drilled maneuvers like we wanted them seen.
To make Astoria flinch.
To slow their march, fearing a gut punch.
Our army's priority wasn't annihilation—it was buying time. Plus, focus their eyes on us.
So far, smooth sailing.
Astoria's vanguard-to-main-body gap holding four days' march? Nightheart's call, probably.
Five days or ten to arrive—neither enough for our army to regroup fully.
But here's the thing.
I wasn't waiting for reinforcements.
"Pick up the pace. Katya. Numan. Don't lag."
One day's ride from Astoria's vanguard.
"Turn the unit. Heading south-southwest."
We wheeled our mounts.
Drove deep into Thracia lands, then...
"We're in Kazan territory now! Eyes sharp!"
Crossed back into Kazan border.
No surprise Kazan's border guards—already jumpy from their rout by Astoria—scrambled.
"Kazan scouts over there!"
Kazan cavalry watched from afar, unsure what to do.
"Slow to trot!"
I dropped speed to trot, then halted fully.
"Raise the flags!"
At my order, Jamal and the Bluecoats hoisted our prepped banners high.
Flutter.
A timely gust unfurled the pristine white flags.
One Kazan rider from the distant watchers approached slowly.
Spiked helmet like a church spire, bow over lance and sword—Akıncı, Kazan's raider skirmishers.
Red tassel on the helm: no grunt.
"Why has the blue wind halted on the land of God?"
Shockingly, he spoke Thracia.
"Oh. You speak our tongue. Perfect timing."
"The foremost blue wind has yet to answer my question."
Fear edged past wariness in the Akıncı's eyes.
Fair enough—our force crossing their border?
"Does the blue wind seek war?"
Steadfast despite it. Kazan grit.
"We seek no war with Kazan."
All the better.
"We've come to talk."
No cowards needed for what came next.
"If Kazan's retreated forces from Astoria are still at the border, fetch their commander."
The Akıncı scowled, then vanished without reply.
"Everyone, mount and hold."
"Hold here!"
"Eyes on all quarters!"
My orders echoed through the officers to the rear.
"...We really waiting here?"
"Waste time, and Akıncı swarms could get annoying."
"Arrows from flies like them? We tank it. But our light cavalry without barding?"
Jamal and the Bluecoats voiced concerns.
Fair—harassing arrows could irritate.
But only that.
"Then we crush 'em."
Nothing more, nothing less.
Horse archery looks flashy, but effective range with short bows? Thirty meters tops.
Three seconds for us.
To shoot, they enter our range.
In melee, heavy armor wins.
Swarm tactics? Old news.
Counter's simple—no Bluecoats needed. Polearms and bowmen suffice.
Cavalry bows barely dent heavy infantry plate; foot archers outnumber and outrange.
Sure, long-range horse archers exist, but they're mounted bowmen, not skirmishers.
Numbers could threaten, but Kazan couldn't muster more Akıncı than our 1,350 elites.
So.
"Rest in the saddle."
No sweat waiting.
A bit later, a cavalry group appeared in the distance.
Rough count: three hundred.
Mostly light Akıncı, but some heavily armed.
"Sipahi."
Kazan's knight equivalents, elite.
"Those pot lids never stop looking ridiculous."
Chainmail with a chest pot-lid plate—ugly enough to almost laugh.
But mocking guests' garb? Rude.
I clenched my smirk, removed my helm.
"If they try anything stupid, ignore me and charge."
"Got it—just stay safe, damn it."
Leaving grumbling Jamal, I advanced.
Halted at 100 meters from Kazan.
They sent three: old Sipahi with towering helm, young one, and my Akıncı translator.
They stopped twenty paces out, eyeing me up and down.
"The raging blue wind. Have words for God's warrior?"
The elder Sipahi spoke; Akıncı translated instantly.
"I'd like to talk as friends."
I replied through him.
"God's warrior has no friends like you."
"Just two foes of the same enemy."
No smile from my banter.
"God's warrior trusts no silver tongues."
Even a rebuke.
"Leave this land. The blue wind finds nothing here."
Door slammed in my face.
Some host.
"How about this, then."
Me, the polite guest.
"I'll grant God's warrior what he wants."
Bearing gifts, no less.
"That land Kazan sought but failed to take."
"......!"
Akıncı's eyes bulged.
What? Translate.
He finally did.
-...!
-.......!
Sipahi's shock matched.
I repeated.
"Astoria's west."
Innocent face.
Polite guest vibes.
"I'll give it to Kazan."