Chapter 103
Chapter 103
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 103
Chapter Title: Maxburg Reeducation (6)
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After wrapping up the final negotiations with the Duke of Maxburg, we marched out to clash with him in a decisive battle on the Lothringen Plains.
Though it was only about two kilometers from our camp—what you'd call a march—it felt as grueling as trudging dozens of miles, all because we were slogging along in full plate armor.
Along the way, the veterans tossed jokes at the rookies about heading off to war again, and the newbies forced out laughs at punchlines that wouldn't have cracked a smile on a normal day.
To stand against the terror of death.
To cling to the reassurance that they, at least, wouldn't die.
And with that, we took up our positions.
Under my direct command, I had 100 knights, 1,000 men-at-arms, and 7,000 infantry. Baron Frost, who was handling the central army, had 100 knights, 800 men-at-arms, and 4,000 infantry. I assigned the right wing under Baldt with the same numbers as Frost.
The enemy appeared set on smashing our lines with their vanguard's momentum. They'd placed their best-equipped troops up front, and the further back you looked, the shabbier their armor and training seemed.
With elites like that leading the charge, their vanguard was in for heavy losses.
But a commander was the sort who anticipated soldiers dying—and ordered them into the meat grinder to achieve tactical goals anyway.
No time for sappy feelings right now.
A short while later, a soldier dashed up beside me and reported.
"Your Excellency the Count, it's time. Give the order!"
"The whole army—advance slowly."
At my command, Major Frost behind me repeated it loud and clear.
Trumpets blared in response, and the flags signaling advance rose high.
My soldiers moved like cogs in a vast machine—every man synchronized in step and pace, as if they were mere parts of the greater war engine.
We trudged on in silence for ten minutes—no, closer to twenty—until the enemy's vanguard banners came into view.
A golden-fleeced sheep... and a black rabbit.
The Golden Fleece Mercenaries up front. As for that black rabbit crest—whoever they were—their soldiers' discipline looked ironclad. This wasn't going to be an easy fight.
Moments later, I heard squad leaders bellowing amid the ranks.
"Crossbowmen, forward! Pikemen, angle those pikes and shield your faces with your arms! An arrow to the face means you're dead!"
"Trust the armor you're wearing—the armor bestowed upon you by His Excellency Count Kroitel! It won't pierce even if an arrow hits right in front of your eyes! So you won't die!"
"Anyone who flees before the enemy dies here—and I'll sell your families into slavery! Especially your daughters or wives—they'll go straight to the brothels!"
The pikemen angled their spears to cover their faces. The crossbowmen slammed their pavises into the ground and took aim toward the foe.
Then Frost glanced at me, his voice tense.
"Your Excellency."
"Whole army—volley fire! Then continue shooting on your company commanders' orders!"
"Volley fire, then shoot on company commanders' orders!"
A minute after the order, our arrows arced toward the enemy.
Thousands of shafts darkened the sky, but we didn't watch them fly—we hunkered down to survive the counterbarrage.
Pikemen bent their right arms slightly to shield their faces. Knights and men-at-arms used their shields. Crossbowmen crouched behind pavises.
"Gah!"
"Urk..."
"M-Mommy!!"
Screams pierced the din now and then, but there was no spare attention for them.
My job was simple: plug gaps in the line with reserves where needed, and hold the front alongside my men.
Once the first arrow storm ended, our crossbowmen loosed at the enemy.
We traded tens of thousands of arrows relentlessly until, before long, both sides ran dry—no more barrages fell.
Then the enemy's vanguard, led by the Golden Fleece Mercenaries, began creeping toward us.
At the same time, as I'd instructed, the foul-mouthed soldiers among us started taunting them.
"Aren't you coming to save your parents back in Lothringen?"
"We under His Excellency Kroitel aren't looting, murdering, or raping out of honor—but those serfs and rabble inside? Different story. You know hundreds got hanged a few days back, right? Didn't know? No worries, now you do. But hurry, or they'll all be gone for real!"
"Your duke's noble folk are trembling behind those walls, watching the serfs right now, they say?"
The taunts hit home. Suddenly, the army with the black rabbit crest surged past the Golden Fleece Mercenaries in a charge.
"You bastards! My mother's in Lothringen!!"
"My first love Emma lives in Lothringen! And we're set to marry the day after tomorrow—I bolted out here!!"
"Don't you have parents?!"
The black rabbit noble's troops barreled toward us in a frenzy.
But habit dies hard—they charged with eyes wild, yet kept perfect formation in their steps.
Soon enough, our vanguard clashed with theirs.
The enemy came on fearless of pikes, batting them aside with iron gauntlets or hurling themselves forward vowing to take at least one of us down, even if it killed them.
Even from afar, it looked terrifying. God help the men facing that head-on...
Yet our soldiers responded with eerie calm.
Trained that breaking formation against fearless elites only raised your odds of death, they retreated without shattering the phalanx.
If one fell, the man behind slotted right in, sealing the gap.
Still, with the enemy charging in desperate fury—and per my orders to lure them deep—our wing started showing the first signs of a minor defeat.
To draw them in as far as possible, I issued orders to prolong the feigned retreat.
"Send one reserve platoon to Weiss Battalion! Two to Helmut Battalion!"
"We're short on men! At this rate, we'll get wiped out!"
"That's the resolve you need to fake a rout! Any more objections will be treated as mutiny."
After that, I kept feeding in reserves sparingly amid the flood of pleas, prolonging the pullback.
Before long, the enemy reached the command post I'd set up temporarily. Their vanguard leered and jeered.
"Heard the Kroitel Count's army is walking gold mines! Equipping even lowly footsloggers with top-shelf plate and weapons... And they still lose to us? Buncha rich piggy soldiers, huh."
"Grab two suits of this armor, and I could buy a field! Not knight-grade, but squire quality, right?"
"Win this fight, and we'll rake in massive reparations. Could be a million gold coins total... At least ten'll trickle down to us each."
"Charge!!!"
Idiots. War's never gone the way anyone expects, not since ancient times...
They think it's going their way and celebrate—eyes blinded by loot, tsk tsk.
A veteran would've sniffed out the trap by now.
"Hold up—this reeks of a ploy!"
But seeing them dream of plunder even when they should be pulling back? We'll win this campaign handily.
Wonder if Baldt and Baron Frost are holding up okay?
I turned to Frost.
"Major Frost, how far to the target point? Seen any mounted knights?"
"Scouts report the knights are swinging wide to hit us from behind. Ten more minutes, and we'll hit the mark."
Ten minutes retreating in formation—less than one if we broke and bolted.
Then we'd better get there first and wait, giving the enemy knights a nice clear shot at our backs.
Show them the calculated opening, nice and quick.
"Order torches lit. Tell the men-at-arms and knights in the rear to brace for rear attack. All troops—double time to the target point! Everyone, run!"
Frost stared blankly for a beat, then asked,
"Breaking formation and running with the enemy at our backs will spike casualties! Why show them our backs?!"
"I've given Baldt and Baron Frost the same order! Get everyone ready to run! We move in three minutes—make it look like a rout. Ditch everything but weapons and armor!"
"What about the flags...?"
"Mission success is the highest honor—flags can be remade! Ditch 'em all and run!!"
Frost sighed, sensing no more arguing would work.
"Legion standard-bearers and trumpeters—sound the first retreat signal! All hands, drop non-essentials and fall back!"
At that, standard-bearers and trumpeters signaled retreat to the whole army. Moments later, soldiers ditched needless banners and the like, then bolted.
The enemy knew even soiled company, battalion, or regimental standards fetched huge rewards.
They scrambled to snatch them, disordering their lines. The serf troops lagging behind seemed convinced their vanguard had won the day.
They charged after us like madmen.
In turn, our soldiers grumbled but ran for their lives.
"Run! Run like hell—your feet are the only thing saving you!"
"Damn it!! Supposed to rack up merits, and here I am sprinting!! Just running!!"
"Why the hell are we doing armored sprints like in march drills—here?!"
"Don't care—just run!!! That's the order!!"
About two minutes in, I swung the spear bearing my personal Kroitel Count banner and shouted.
"All halt—about face!! Pikes up, form phalanx!!"
We reformed faster than they did. Their troops—serfs, mercenaries, elites all tangled in chaos on the brink of collapse—slammed into us.