Bandit Knights' Fortress (3)
The next day, just as Luke had boasted, the heavy cannon arrived.
Fifteen horses dragged the massive piece of artillery.
Their legs were caked in mud, suggesting the road had been a quagmire.
"Oh! Finally!"
Count Drun lit up with delight and praised Luke.
"Thank you. I wanted to bring my own heavy cannon, but it's too far from my county—I was stomping my feet in frustration. To think you'd provide one like this! You have no idea how much I regretted only having light cannons."
It would take at least a fortnight to fetch a heavy cannon from Count Drun's territory, even at top speed.
So, the fact that Magnus's barony nearby had one was a stroke of luck.
Luke puffed up inwardly, feeling he'd boosted his own standing.
"Magnus the Baron will be thrilled to hear it helped."
"Well said."
With the pleasantries done, Count Drun hurriedly ordered the heavy cannon installed.
It was a beacon of hope to break the deadlock, so impatience was inevitable.
He couldn't hide his excited tone as he asked,
"How many shots per hour, Sir Luke?"
"It's hard to exceed eight at most. Figure on about six normally."
"That's plenty! That rickety old fortress will crumble after a few hits anyway!"
Their forces outnumbered the enemy ten to one.
Once they breached the walls, victory was assured.
Count Drun rubbed his hands eagerly, nodding vigorously in his haste.
"Hahaha. Can't wait to hear that beast roar. What a long, satisfying boom it'll make."
The heavy cannon, with its long barrel, cut an imposing figure.
But Owen, watching it all, just clicked his tongue.
"Tch tch. Things won't go as planned."
After much grunting effort from the crew, preparations were finally complete.
"Ready!"
At the artillery squad leader's call, Count Drun hurled his beer mug aside and bellowed,
"Fire away!"
"Yes, sir!"
Soon, a massive iron shot rocketed from the cannon.
BOOOOM!
The blast shook heaven and earth.
Flames and thick black smoke belched from the muzzle.
Whiiiiiist!
The direct-fire shot slammed into the fortress wall.
Ammunition of this era didn't explode.
It relied purely on kinetic impact.
KRA-BOOM!
With a deafening crash, the stone wall cratered deeply.
"Wooooah!"
The troops, morale surging, erupted in cheers.
But the command staff looked baffled.
They'd been certain one shot would punch through the dilapidated wall.
"Hm? It's holding up better than expected…."
"Urgh… Maybe the first shot was a bit weak?"
"As if."
Everyone voiced doubts, but none questioned that a few more would surely breach it.
BOOOOM!
The second shot fired.
It struck the wall viciously again.
But it only gouged a bit deeper.
"Huh?"
"……."
That's when people sensed something was off.
The third and fourth shots flew, but the wall stood firm.
Before the fifth, the barrel glowed cherry-red, as if ready to burst.
"Milord! We need to let the cannon cool!"
Count Drun stamped about in fury at the squad leader's words.
Unable to contain himself, he flailed his arms like a child.
"Damn it! What the hell! Why won't it break?!"
About two hours later, his question found its answer.
The tenth shot finally tore a hole in one section of the wall.
But their jaws dropped.
Sandbags poured out from the breach in an avalanche.
"What?! That!"
"They prepared for cannon fire from the start?!"
"I thought it was an outdated fortress?"
Traditional vertical walls, hallmarks of old-style forts, were vulnerable to cannon fire.
Modern designs sloped the faces forward to glance shots away.
Though sloped walls were easier to scale, cannon barrages posed a greater threat.
It was a design shift prioritizing that risk.
But Bandit Knight Maltan couldn't abandon faith in vertical walls entirely.
Instead, he reinforced the inner side with massive sandbags.
So many that the already cramped fortress interior became unlivable.
"Uahaha! Spent your ammo yet, you fools?!"
"You boar-brained Drun! That's the best your pig head could come up with?!"
Taunts rained from the ramparts, and Count Drun boiled over.
"Those thieving scum dare—!"
In rage, he kicked a nearby iron shot and immediately clutched his foot, groaning.
"What are you staring at?!"
His roar sent everyone bowing their heads hastily.
Firing halted while the barrel cooled, and a council convened.
Owen, favored by Count Drun despite being an outsider, joined naturally.
"What a mess! Speak if you have something to say! Sir Luke!"
The meeting opened with Count Drun's tirade.
"My apologies. Who'd have thought they'd fortify against cannons like this."
"You talked like you could smash it anytime!"
No one could rein in the bear-like fury now.
Luke stayed silent, knowing excuses would backfire.
Then Owen interjected smoothly.
"Milord, no one foresaw this. Calm yourself. Sir Luke truly wants to aid this fight. Infighting among us only helps the enemy."
At Owen's words, the vassals—who'd been too terrified to speak—nodded.
Their faces said, Well said.
Luke narrowed his eyes.
He couldn't fathom why Owen defended him.
"Hmph… You're right."
Count Drun's temper flared hot but cooled fast.
Owen made sense, and he couldn't rage at the son of his benefactor anyway.
Seizing the mood, Owen continued.
"No need for worry. Even with sandbags, an outdated fortress has limits. Keep pounding, and it'll fall eventually."
"But when?"
"That is…."
As Luke moved to reply, Owen cut in.
"Probably over twenty days, at least?"
Luke shut his mouth.
Owen was spot on.
Count Drun predictably bristled.
"No! Can't wait that long! Backlog's piling up. The Duke of Surpuk calls a grand muster in a month—I need this wrapped up quick!"
Eying the impatient count, Owen probed subtly.
"Then why not entrust it to me, milord? I guarantee success."
Luke realized with a start.
This couldn't stand.
If Owen succeeded brilliantly, it'd highlight his own incompetence.
The troops and cannon had all cost money.
Wasting gold only to glorify Owen would be utter failure.
Luke jumped in desperately.
"It's only been a day. Who knows if the wall falls tomorrow?"
Owen countered.
"Relying on luck? I respect the zeal, but it's unrealistic."
"Hey, you—!"
Now the vassals, save Count Drun, sensed the subtle rivalry brewing.
No one perceptive could miss the thorns in their exchange.
Count Drun alone remained oblivious.
"Owen's right. This won't work."
"Milord, reconsider!"
Luke seemed cornered. Then Owen stepped in again—to "help," of course, with a vicious twist.
"Milord, on second thought, Sir Luke isn't without options."
"What?"
Count Drun looked intrigued; Luke bit his lip.
What was Owen playing at? Anxiety gnawed.
"I asked the artillerymen while touring camp. Baron Magnus has another heavy cannon."
"Oh!"
"If he means to honor his word, shouldn't he fetch that one too?"
Luke's face twisted.
That little shit!
Magnus did have a precious spare.
But his barony, like all eastern lands, wasn't safe from orc raids.
One cannon had to stay for defense.
"Milord, that's for the barony's guard…."
Owen sliced through Luke's hasty excuse.
"Sir Luke, what could happen in the meantime? Unless you're lacking confidence?"
"What? That's too far!"
"If it's a problem, I'll sortie on dragonback. Better for everyone, no? Your thoughts, Sir Luke?"
Luke saw Owen's faint smile as demonic.
How had it come to this?
He stood at a fork he hated both prongs of.
Fetching another cannon was risky adventure.
The cost, and Magnus's wrath—dizzying to contemplate.
But letting Owen rack up glory was worse.
He'd surely rampage with dragon power.
What use his efforts then?
Damn it….
Cold sweat beaded on Luke.
But decide he must.
Count Drun awaited his word.
Fold and die, or raise the stakes?
Gritting his teeth, Luke yielded.
"……Bringing another heavy cannon seems unfeasible."
His heart twisted in agony.
But he was cautious.
He hated retreating, but no choice.
Time to admit defeat.
Grind!
His teeth ground unconsciously.
Because of that punk kid, everything's tangled.
Owen's lips quirked at Luke's stiff face.
Magnus's side wasted effort, and things bent his way.
"Milord. Sir Luke raises no further objection—permit my sortie."
"Hmmm…."
As Count Drun pondered, vassals eager for a quick end chimed in.
"Give the young man's courage a chance."
"Indeed. And he's Sir Leire's son. Half his father's skill would suffice."
With Luke conceding and vassals urging, Count Drun relented.
"Fine, Owen. I hate risking you, but I entrust it to you."
"Thank you, milord!"
"When do we launch?"
"No need to delay. Now's fine. Fire the cannon and draw their eyes with troops. I'll circle back, scale the wall."
"But the rear is sheer cliff. That's why the fortress sits there."
The site's position was masterful.
A jagged rocky crag blocked the rear—no way to climb.
"No worries. My dragon's a Tokay—wall-crawling's its specialty. Just distract them. I'll scale the cliff and crest the wall."
"Oho! Perfect beast for it! That settles it."
Count Drun clapped joyfully.
The barrel should've cooled by now.
They launched the op immediately.
"Move out!"
Count Drun's roar stirred bustle.
Only Luke stood frozen, face like he'd eaten shit.
Passing him, Owen dropped a line.
"Sir Luke. What do you seek inside this fortress?"
It stung deep.
"…What?"
"I seek something specific. Catch even a tail of it, and I'll show them hell."
Chilling killing intent bloomed.
Luke's breath caught.
He ducked his gaze instinctively.
Odd for a grizzled mercenary.
He barely rasped,
"…W-what are you talking about?"
Luke bit his lip hard.
His heart pounded at a mere kid's threat—the one he deemed green.
Shame burned his face crimson.
Pathetic, cowering before a boy—speechless.
Yet the aura defied explanation.
Inexplicable, but the youth exuded a veteran warlord's presence.
"Oh, is that so?"
Owen smiled faintly and walked on.
Luke couldn't muster a retort, just stared at his back.
Unnoticed by him, his hands trembled.