Chapter 65
Chapter 65
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 65
Chapter Title: Pig Hunt (5)
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The protagonist had formed up in this kind of formation.
(The protagonist's formation is on a larger scale than this)
In truth, the crossbow is a ranged weapon, but since it's a direct-fire weapon, it's one that can actually be aimed.
That's why in novels set in 'medieval Europe,' you often see scenes where knights are sniped with crossbows that pierce their armor...
But to cut to the chase, killing a knight in full plate armor with a crossbow is incredibly difficult.
Because plate mail made of iron plates hardly gets pierced by something like a crossbow bolt.
The cases where armor gets penetrated are when it's stabbed at point-blank range in a weak spot, or right into the gaps.
However, a knight charging from 'long range' has to cover the crossbow's effective range of 300 meters at a mere 8 kilometers per hour head-on, meaning they'll take dozens of shots.
That can pierce through one or even two ranks, and most importantly, it kills the 'cavalry charge momentum.'
And the more their mobility drops, the more a knight becomes just a damn tough metal drum.
Therefore, the best way to deal with knights isn't to precisely target the knights themselves—it's to rain arrows down like crazy.
That's why I picked up a crossbow along with the soldiers to boost their morale in this battle.
After loading the crossbow, I fitted the goat's foot lever onto the crossbow's stock, hooked its claw onto the string,
cranked the lever to draw the string back hard, then pulled a crossbow bolt from the quiver at my belt and slotted it in.
This whole process took me about 15 seconds. Glancing sideways, the other soldiers—thanks to their training—had finished loading in just 10.
Once loaded, the enemy knights approaching amid clouds of dust looked even bigger.
Silver-glinting knight armor, lances as long as tree trunks, colorful crests emblazoned on shields covering their upper bodies, and monstrous horses the size of oversized motorcycles clad in dull-shining barding.
These terrifying existences were gazing down at us from below, packed so tight that the knights' knees seemed fused together.
The scariest part was the thunderous 'thud-thud-thud' of the horses' hooves shaking the ground like a massive earthquake, and the way they advanced slowly, as if out for a leisurely stroll.
The slow-marching horses felt like the 'grim reaper harvesting souls,' stepping in eerie unison.
But firing arrows before they accelerate would just waste them.
So to keep the soldiers from loosing arrows needlessly, I drew my sword and bellowed,
"No one fires until they pick up speed! That first shot has to count—make it deliberate! Anyone who disobeys will face military justice later!"
Those words had an effect. Aside from a few who succumbed to the 'terror of approaching death,' no idiots reflexively shot early.
This must be the fruit of training.
If they were untrained militia, they'd have already unleashed a volley, and the enemy would've laughed at arrows that didn't even reach them from the start.
Of course, the morons who did something that stupid... their squad leaders will handle the punishment later, but I pray no idiot squad leader drags it to a court-martial.
I was scared enough myself that I nearly fired too.
And soon enough, the enemy began to accelerate.
Shifting from a slow walk to a slightly faster trot meant the enemy knights had entered 'arrow-effective range.'
So, faster than my brain could command, to squeeze off one more shot, I fired while shouting,
"Everyone, keep firing until you see the whites of their eyes! One more shot—push it forward!!!"
With that, a hail of arrows flew out, sentencing the enemy to death.
So many launched at once that for a moment, they looked like a solid straight line.
Then I swiftly reloaded and fired again at the foe.
I was too rushed to even aim properly, but the sheer volume of arrows slowed the enemy considerably.
At this speed, they're barely faster than a slow human walk.
And already, a few knights had been hit by arrows and killed or unhorsed, cracking the enemy line that was tougher than iron.
Even as they pressed on toward us at this reduced pace, the fact they weren't maintaining formation to patch those 'shallow cracks'...
Those fools must've lost their reason to fear before we infantry did.
So I kept reloading and laughed loudly before shouting,
"Haha, those idiots! The noble 'honor over death' aristocrats, ditching honor to survive, charging with their formation in ruins! Those morons are our prey!! Keep firing!!!!"
By the time I'd loosed my third—or was it fourth?—bolt, the knights had closed enough that I could see their eyes peeking through their helmet slits.
As their lances neared about 30 meters away, the squad leaders' roars echoed.
"If you want to live, raise shields!"
"Pikemen, halberdiers—shields up!!"
"Crossbowmen, reload for after the lance charge when they lower shields!!!"
"His Excellency shares life and death with you in this very cart! If you break, your families back home get looted too!!"
At those words, the spearmen quickly hung their spears on the wagon-side racks, grabbed the thick wooden planks hanging nearby, and held them like shields.
It took about 10 seconds for the maneuver. In the remaining 3, the pikemen and halberdiers braced the planks as one.
Once the planks were up, none of us—including me—could see where the knights were.
We could only pray their lances wouldn't pierce our wagons.
Thus, in what felt like an eternity's 2 seconds, we all prayed as one...
The enemy knights, trying to overcome their 'terror of charging thick wooden planks too tough for lances,' started shouting too.
"Long live Count Schwein!"
"Great Deus, protect us!!"
"Marie!!!!"
Then came the crash—the enemy lances and horses slamming into the wagons with a splintering thud.
I was gripping my crossbow, so I didn't take the direct impact like those holding the planks, but...
Still, the wagons lurched back hard, and I nearly toppled.
Falling from one means near-certain death, so I gritted my teeth and held on.
For a split second, I worried about the other soldiers, but this wasn't the time.
About 10 seconds after the knights' full-force impact, the spearmen shoved the planks aside.
Some knights had been thrown, and the unluckier ones had broken arms, legs, even necks—instantly dead.
The rest were so battered they were barely crawling on foot, reforming ranks.
Proof we'd perfectly halted the charge—but at no small cost.
Just looking at Frost Squad's wagon, several pikemen and halberdiers had dislocated shoulders or broken arms, unable to grip spears properly.
Some of the wounded won't stand on battlefields or live normally again...
But no time to mope—we coldly slaughter the enemy as much as possible.
To that end, I issued the most efficient, ruthless order for the situation.
"Sergeant Randel! Raise the banner!! Crossbowmen, keep firing at the knights on horseback until they're out of range! First shots—aim for armor gaps or horses! All units, volley fire!!"
At my command, the soldiers facing the enemy from the wagons unleashed a storm of arrows.
The result? Even if 9 out of 10 visibly missed or bounced off armor...
That one hit inflicted fatal or severe wounds.
Hundreds firing volleys to slay dozens of knights...
Irreparable loss for the enemy—enough to instill the terror that 'knights can die on the battlefield, even without freak bad luck.'
Sounds odd, but knights survive hundreds of battles thanks to tough armor and noble pacts, enabling mad charges like this.
Sure enough, some cowardly ones among them, driven by survival instinct, discarded honor and started dropping weapons.
But knights are professionals trained to overcome 'charge terror' despite knowing death looms.
Thus, the vanguard—resolved to die—dismounted and charged us.
True knights, dying to uphold honor and protect their count...
"Sergeant Randel, wave my banner to signal all non-crossbowmen to charge! Frost Squad charges with me! Ready to charge for Schwein's head?!"
Lieutenant Frost and every soldier roared back as one.
"Long live Baron Kroitel! We follow Your Excellency!"
Charging plate-mailed knights on foot is insane, yet not one hesitated to follow—truly... moving.
I've never seen this in war movies.
So I wiped a tear with one hand, opened the wagon's left wall, and advanced with Frost Squad into the enemy ranks.
"Charge! Plenty of foes await! Fear not! We're at least five times their number! Surround in fives, beat them down—capture or kill! Rack up merits, shed your lowly status!"
With that, I and Frost Squad led; soldiers within 200 meters charged the knights.
"Charge" meant pike-square phalanxes advancing slowly...
About 30 seconds in, pike tips finally touched knight armor.
This is the battle's highlight.
For the half-encirclement to work, we form the wall—the anvil.
Only then can 200 knights be stabbed apart by their exhausted 2,000.
Then our infantry slips through the gaps to annihilate them.
I once told my history prof I'd trade anything to fight such brutal melee...
But faced with it...
"This sucks! Damn Count of Nant!! I'll personally dive in with our soldiers to fuck you over for Your Excellency!!!"