Chapter 11
Chapter 11
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 11
Chapter Title: Sounds of the Battlefield
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“Tighten up the formation! Don’t break ranks!”
The screams of a few soldiers rang out, and the lines quickly reformed. Even just standing in a straight line with this kind of speed showed how well-trained these troops were.
In modern battlefields, fights often happened without even seeing the enemy’s face, but in medieval warfare like this—where armies faced off eye-to-eye—a solid formation that advanced steadily could shatter the morale of most opponents.
“Hold the line! Just like we trained!”
Morale and formation. Those two were the most critical elements in medieval battles. The side that stuck together and didn’t retreat first was the winner.
That said, while the count’s direct standing army maintained a proper formation and high spirits, the conscripts dragged in from the vassal nobles’ territories had low morale and couldn’t hold a line to save their lives.
Officers rushed around yelling in frustration, but these were farmers who’d barely seen any training before being hauled off the fields. There was no way they could form up properly on a battlefield or keep their spirits up. Sure enough, the lines began to shift bit by bit.
The conscripts fell back, and the standing troops stepped forward. Clad in proper gear, with high morale and solid training, they looked far more reliable than the levies. And naturally, the mercenaries were placed in the center...
“The mercenaries will handle the left flank! Commander...”
What? The left wing? What were they thinking trusting the mercenaries with that? Mercenaries fought for pay, so they had high combat power but low morale. They’d run at the first sign of trouble. Putting those guys on one flank was just asking for disaster.
“Shouldn’t the mercenaries be in the center?”
This was practically a gamble. The left flank was traditionally the weak point, and sticking high-combat but low-morale mercenaries there? Keep them in the center and they couldn’t bolt easily, but on the left, if things went south, that side would collapse entirely.
Prrrff!
Kyle spotted knights on horseback passing behind them. Unlike yesterday, they were fully armored, mounted on barded warhorses—massive, heavy behemoths comparable to modern tanks.
They could smash straight through a spear wall without breaking stride. As allies, they were the most reassuring presence on any battlefield.
“Most of the troops are concentrated on the right...”
“What’s the plan there?”
They couldn’t see the opposite side, but Kyle knew, being in the same formation. And he could read the intent of the commander, that count’s lady.
“She’s trying to make maximum use of the mercenaries... They’re not easy to break, and they get swept up in the heat of battle easily enough. She’s weighting the right to smash through in one push...”
Cutter’s eyes went wide at Kyle’s words.
“How do you know that?”
“You can tell from the deployment.”
The real issue was elsewhere, though. How would the elves react, and how to counter them? And how many were there? That would decide the battle.
In the commander’s tent, armored knights and Lenia were holding a strategy meeting. War plans were intricate weaves of every scrap of intel, so they were racking their brains over all the scouts’ reports so far.
“Intel says the count’s knights have increased. Keep the knights in reserve at the rear for now.”
“I remember Sarisa Count only having about ten knights under him. When did he recruit more?”
“Probably picked up a few wandering knights. Give them warhorses, and they’ll swear loyalty to anyone.”
“We’ve weighted the right flank as you ordered. But can we really trust the mercenaries to hold the left...?”
The knights questioned her bold decision to entrust the left flank entirely to the mercenaries. In their eyes, mercenaries were money-grubbers who bolted at the slightest disadvantage—devoid of honor or credit.
Countless wars had proven the best spot for them was sandwiched in the center among elite troops, yet Lenia refused to back down from placing them on the left.
“No one’s as sensitive to the flow of battle as they are. And she’s not expecting much from them anyway. Just buy time until the concentrated right-wing forces break through the enemy—that’s all.”
“As you command... And the elves?”
“We don’t know their numbers, but they can’t be too many... Have the light cavalry harass them. Make sure they don’t charge in.”
As the strategy wrapped up, a light cavalryman burst into the tent.
“Commander! The count requests a meeting!”
In the midst of thousands of staring troops, they met on the open field. Lenia and Sarisa Count showed empty right hands to prove they carried no weapons.
“...Sarisa Count.”
“Not the count—just the adopted brat.”
“Worse than that adopted brat, whose seed sired your whelp?”
Lenia’s reputation was well-known, so the count clicked his tongue after picking a fight he couldn’t win.
“Tch... Never yields an inch. Lowly blood, that’s why... But I didn’t call you here for this. To business.”
But Lenia raised a hand, cutting him off. She knew exactly what he’d say anyway.
The war’s root cause was an iron mine found on the border between Sarisa Count’s territory and Cligrove County. Though clearly inside Cligrove land, it was just a few kilometers from the border—so Sarisa had coveted it.
Compared to urban Cligrove, his economy was weaker, making it all the more desperate for him.
The ownership dispute had escalated, until Cligrove called him a begging pup whining for others’ scraps. And now it had come to outright war.
But at this point, backing down first meant becoming prey. She knew that well.
“I already know what you’ll say. But I won’t accept it. The war has begun, and it won’t stop until you pay reparations. You started this—prepare yourself.”
With that, Lenia turned away, ignoring whatever he said next. And just a few hours later.
Bwoooong—
A massive horn blast echoed across the field, and the war finally began. The troops had only gotten a few hours’ rest.
Yet the sight of over six thousand men from both sides surging forward at once was a visceral shock—even the elite frontline troops licked dry lips and stepped heavily forward.
Like schools of small fish clustering together, the armies advanced until helmets hid no more, and eyes locked across the narrowing gap.
“Archers! Ready!”
“Ready!”
Kaduduk!
A strange twang rose from one corner of the field as bowstrings strained against staves, arrows quivering on the verge of release.
“Loose!”
With a sinister hiss like serpents, hundreds of arrows blotted the sky. They arced high over allied heads, raining down on the enemy.
Both sides loosed almost simultaneously, so officers bellowed for shields as the volleys descended.
Pheet—thunk! Thud!
“Argh!”
“Gaaah!”
Rain-like patters turned to thuds on wooden boards, mingled with the screams of unlucky souls on both sides.
“Shields up, you bastards! Proper shields!”
Kyle had no shield, so he hunched small and trusted to luck—fortunately, the arrows concentrated on the center. After several volleys, the armies closed to where breaths were audible.
“Spears up!”
With officers’ shrill cries, spears rose as one. Shafts clacked against shafts, tips scraped shields, soldiers roared and bellowed. Voices hungry for death became the cacophony of the battlefield.