Chapter 113
Chapter 113
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 113
Chapter Title: Wishful Thinking
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Rumble rumble...
It felt like the ground itself was shaking—a massive army. Roughly between 1,300 and 1,600 troops, by the look of it. I couldn't tell the exact number, but it was at least double the soldiers I'd brought with me.
Still, the good news was that more than half of them were conscripts. While they took up positions opposite us, I sent a light cavalryman to deliver Harding's head—the one we'd severed yesterday—to Viscount Wayne. The cavalryman returned grinning from ear to ear.
"Viscount Wayne opened that box and threw an absolute fit, my lord."
They were mercenaries he'd hired expecting to land a solid blow on us, but instead of inflicting any damage, all they got back was their captain's head. Of course he'd be furious. And inside that box was a letter I'd penned myself.
[Thanks for the 100 pounds.]
It wasn't a huge sum, but getting fleeced by someone you despise and then mocked on top of it? He might just drop dead from rage.
"And an hour later, he requested a meeting in the center. Said he wanted to talk..."
"Demanding our surrender, maybe?"
"My lord, do you really need to meet him? He's just going to spout nonsense anyway."
The knights said as much, but I decided to go anyway. I'd already rattled him by sending the head; now I could toy with him a bit more. If he took the bait and botched his troop deployment, all the better for me.
Thum! Thum!
Right on time, an hour later, drumbeats echoed from Viscount Wayne's side, accompanied by a white flag. He rode slowly toward the center on horseback.
Seeing him, I mounted Merlin. Me and three knights. He'd brought three knights too, so we'd unintentionally evened the numbers.
"It's been a while."
"Not exactly thrilled to see you."
At my curt reply, Wayne shot me a sour glare. If he got this bent out of shape over a little jab, what was the point? Without pausing, I pressed on.
"And... you pulled off some truly un-noble dirty tricks. Hope you liked the gift I sent."
His face, already twisted in discomfort at the mention of the "gift," contorted even further. But he had nothing to say about it, so he clamped his mouth shut.
It wasn't until a little more time had passed that Wayne finally spoke. Managing to compose himself, he spat out a threat.
"You plan to oppose me with that pitiful handful of troops?"
A handful? How big was a handful to him, exactly? Even being generous, we were outnumbered by just over double, and he called that a handful? You'd need at least five or six times the numbers for that term to fit.
But he seemed dead serious. And even with double our numbers, the quality gap was night and day—where did that confidence come from? Honestly, credit where it's due: the man's self-assurance was impressive.
As I mulled that over, I caught him staring at me. Clicking my tongue in mockery, I sneered.
"Just don't regret losing to that 'handful.' Not like last time in the duel, when you pissed yourself and ran away."
"My lord, forgive me, but Lucas's forces are stronger than we anticipated."
One of Wayne's knights, Dior—a proper knight from a respected lineage, trained rigorously—said with a grave expression. He could spot the enemy's strength at a glance.
It didn't take tactical genius to see it: Wayne's ragtag army, haphazardly arrayed with no cohesion in weapons or armor, versus Kyle's precisely aligned troops radiating a blade-sharp aura. Anyone could tell which was superior.
But Wayne refused to acknowledge the obvious.
"What nonsense is this? We outnumber them vastly. And you, a knight, cowering before even crossing blades?"
Dior felt a pang of frustration at his lord's failure to assess the enemy properly, but Wayne was his sky-like superior. Composing himself, Dior laid out his thoughts calmly.
"On the march here, a tenth of our conscripts already deserted, didn't they? They're just cannon fodder to pad the numbers."
"Even so, they're a mere handful! And we hold the advantage in knights and cavalry—do you deny that? Why speak of defeat before the fight even begins?"
To Wayne, knights and cavalry were terror incarnate for infantry. An unchanging truth on this world's battlefields. No soldier could face those crushing masses and terrifying charges without fear.
So in his eyes, with superior knights and cavalry—and nearly double the troops—there was no way his army could lose.
"Then have our cavalry swing around to harass their rear while we charge their flank."
Wayne scoffed at Dior's suggestion. It was a basic tactic anyone could think of.
"Hmph! That was my plan anyway. Thought you had something clever..."
But Dior wasn't done.
"However, we must handle the infantry carefully. Put the elites and mercenaries up front, with conscripts supporting from behind."
With cavalry superiority, rear and flanks were secure. Dior's idea sounded solid enough. But Wayne, already soured on him, dismissed it outright.
"Enough! Conscripts in the rear would just run. Put them in the center, elites and mercenaries on the wings. Execute it."
Wayne's arbitrary decision. The other knights, sensing his displeasure with Dior, chimed in with flattery. To them, it was a sure win either way—best to suck up for extra credit.
"They'll try to make aggressive use of their cavalry."
The knights and cavalrymen nodded at my words. It was obvious without testing. Why ignore a massive superiority?
That's why we prepared countermeasures beforehand. They were probably gleefully plotting how to exploit our soft spots with their cavalry... but we wouldn't let that happen.
"What about forming a defensive phalanx with small-unit tactics and holding firm? They outnumber us, and with Wayne's impatience, he'll want a quick end."
George cited Wayne's lack of patience as reason to dig in with a phalanx. Solid idea, but wouldn't it force a test of raw power where we might falter? As I pondered, their formation came into view.
Conscripts herded into the center. Eerily similar to the formation Duke Northmond had used against the elves last time.
It screamed encirclement via numerical superiority, not a head-on slugfest. Hence elites and mercenaries on the wings—versatile enough to adapt, and handy for keeping conscripts from bolting, just like Northmond's plan.
"Perfect."
This played right into my hands. If even Northmond botched that setup and got crushed by elves, what chance did they have? If I were stuck with that army, I'd put elites and mercenaries front and center, conscripts in support.
That might actually work. All talk until tested, of course. Anyway, seeing their setup, I issued swift orders.
"Form a phalanx. Position the swordsmen to meet their center."
"Then...?"
"We'll smash their center in one go, before they can react. Their mercenaries will crumble naturally, and we finish it there."
Mercenaries' chronic issue: morale. Crush the conscripts before they even sense something's wrong, and the mercenaries' spirits would plummet.
As we arrayed the troops, a soldier's shout rang out.
"They're advancing!"
Toot tooo!
Trumpets blared across the field, signal flags waving overhead. Thousands moved as one, their footsteps sending chills through the flesh.
It barely fazed me after fighting elves, but green troops naturally wavered. I spurred Merlin to the front, riding past our forming ranks.
"Fear not! I'm with you! Remember—if we don't win here, those boots will trample me and your families!"
"Huzzah! Long live Lucas Territory!"
"Let's show those Viscount Wayne bastards what for!"
The soldiers raised weapons, roaring cheers at my voice. The armies closed in. As we neared range, archers at the fore nocked arrows.
"Don't loose before orders, you lot!"
"Save your strength, damn it!"
No need to yell—the well-drilled archers knew better—but officers bellowed to boost morale anyway. Any shout from allies bolsters spirits here. A bit later, orders came for the archers aiming steadily.
"Ready! Nock!"
Veteran archers called it without my input as the enemy entered range. Their morale was sky-high.
Creaaak!
Crossbows aside, most wielded yew longbows, the wood groaning under tension. Fifty archers readying a volley. Wayne's troops hastily raised shields, ducking—the threat was clear.
"Loose!"
Twaang! Hiss!
Strings snapped like serpents' tongues. Death rained on the advancing ranks.
Whiiish! Clang!
"Argh!"
"My arm! Gaaah!"
Lucky ones deflected with helms or spears, but that was rare. Those longbow shafts punched through chainmail, sometimes plate, ignoring gambesons like paper.
Their disorganized advance shattered under the volley. Conscripts in the center, brains screaming to flee, had nowhere to go—elites and mercenaries boxed them in.
Forward meant us; backward, comrades shoving from behind. Their desperate hopes drowned in the army's momentum.