Long Live Her Majesty the Queen (5)
The Surpuk Duke had planned to play his Dragon Knight card at the perfect moment.
But first, we have to hold the line.
If they collapsed before unleashing their trump card, it would all be over.
"Show them the pride of the East! Don't fall back!"
Everyone was fighting desperately, but already several palisades showed signs of crumbling.
And sure enough, the orcs targeted the weakened spots relentlessly.
They hurled grapnel ropes and finally tore down a section of the barricade.
"Push them back! If they break through, we're dead!"
The knight in charge of that palisade bellowed in fury.
Soldiers wielding halberds swung wildly at the orcs pouring through the breach, smashing down on their heads.
Thwack! Thud! Splurt!
With four or five axe blades crashing down at once, even orcs couldn't withstand it.
The lead orc's skull split open, blood gushing from his eyes and nose as he toppled forward.
"Kroooaaargh!"
The veterans holding the front line were undeniably skilled.
Several more orcs followed, unable to endure the relentless halberd barrage and collapsing one after another.
Yet one orc seized an incredible opening and charged through.
A veteran reacted almost on instinct.
"Where do you think you're going!"
The spear tip on his halberd pierced the orc's nape in a single thrust.
"Gack!"
No matter how tenacious orcs were, a stab to the throat made them falter.
But this one possessed astonishing willpower.
He dropped his weapon, seized the halberd's shaft with both hands, and yanked it free with all his might.
Spiiiish!
His severed aorta sprayed blood like a fountain.
His vision swam, and he felt on the verge of collapse.
In his fading consciousness, he realized only moments remained.
Squeezing out his last reserves of strength, he lunged forward.
His disarmed foe panicked.
The orc spread his arms wide, tackling the humans in front like a bear hug as he fell.
"Aaaagh!"
Screams erupted as four soldiers toppled at once.
An orc's weight was one-and-a-half to twice that of a human.
With their superhuman strength, it was like an adult bowling over four children.
"Over there!"
"Don't let our brother's death be in vain!"
Such a valiant warrior was a misfortune for the humans.
The orcs surged toward the tangled pile.
"Hold the line!"
"Push them out!"
The humans fought back desperately, soon grappling so closely they couldn't even swing short swords, hurling insults instead.
"You orc bastard! Did a hammer smash that fucking snout of yours flat!"
"I'll rip out your tongue, human!"
"Cutting won't be enough—it'd keep flapping even on the ground!"
"Then we'll sear it shut with fire!"
In this chaos, the Surpuk Duke realized one thing acutely.
How vicious these orcs truly were.
We'd grown complacent during the long peace. Foolish!
The last great war had ended with Duke Glendower's death.
Only skirmishes in the eastern fortress zone since—inevitable complacency.
At least turning to the Dragon Knights before it reached this point was some consolation.
The Surpuk Duke gauged when to deploy his main force's First Dragon Stable knights.
Then, one orc caught his eye.
For an instant, the duke felt his heart stop.
"Th-that... that one!"
This orc was twice the size of the others.
Three horizontal scars crossed his right cheek; a helmet with ibex horns crowned his head.
His eyes were deeply sunken, his body festooned with bones from foes he'd slain personally.
Undoubtedly the enemy commander.
But that wasn't why the duke recoiled.
This orc lingered in his long-buried memories as a source of terror.
"...Bargulgu! The Human Reaper!"
Memories from thirty years ago resurfaced, dragging the duke into a pit of dread.
"Urgh... ugh...."
He groaned through bloodshot eyes.
Back then, defeated by Bargulgu, he'd lost his entire guard and fled.
He remembered his gut split open, entrails dragging on the ground as he ran.
The crude orc arm that slashed him bore a skull tattoo—still vivid in his mind.
A noble priest of light had sacrificed himself to save the duke, but the mental scar remained unhealed.
Then, their eyes met amid Bargulgu swinging massive blades and axes.
Bargulgu's widened in surprise for that moment.
But he soon grinned wickedly.
Blood-smeared face leering like a demon, mouth torn long and laughing, his voice thundering across the battlefield.
"Thirty years later, and that terrified look hasn't changed! Greenhorn! KraHAHAHA!"
The Surpuk Duke raged.
"What did you say!"
His beard quivered; he burned to tear the orc apart.
Who was he? The conqueror of the East.
Victor over countless orcs.
He'd slain orc heroes greater than this one.
Yet mocked from above?
"You dare call me a coward! I'll kill you!"
The duke lost reason.
As he charged sword in hand, Count Bobert lunged and grabbed his waist.
"My lord! Pull yourself together! Someone stop him!"
"Let go! Release me!"
Knight piled on knight to restrain him—five in all—for he truly meant to duel the enemy chieftain.
The duke's veteran strength required it even in old age.
Watching from afar, Bargulgu burst into merry laughter.
"KuHAHAHA! Same as ever—your blade can't reach me here."
Grinning mockingly, he thumbed his own heart.
"A worm like you can't touch a warrior's heart!"
Bobert, struggling to hold the duke, gnashed his teeth.
The battle teetered.
They weren't losing ground, but this fight had started with a clear advantage.
Now orc savagery had evened the odds.
We need something.
Bobert wasn't alone in that thought.
The dark elf queen also realized this stalemate wouldn't do.
She issued orders to her grandmother.
"Hand cannon unit, advance."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Grand Matron Garuana bowed and relayed the command. The waiting hand cannon unit advanced in perfect order.
A hand cannon was essentially a portable mini-cannon.
A 30-centimeter barrel affixed to a long wooden stock, thrust forward to fire.
Abysmal accuracy and brutal recoil, but devastating power.
Originally developed by dark elves as an anti-dragon weapon.
Step. Step. Step. Step.
The unit formed ranks precisely and took position.
They wedged the wooden stocks under their armpits, resting the barrels on the palisade.
"Ignite!"
At the command, fuses sparked to life.
The battling orcs gaped at the sight.
"Damn it all!"
A hand cannon round at close range pierced even orc plate armor.
No orc could stay calm.
Too close to charge, too far to flee effectively.
"Shields!"
One orc's shout prompted instinctive shield raises—but futile.
Bratatat! Clang!
The volley erupted, shredding wooden shields effortlessly.
Splinters flew everywhere.
Impacts on orc armor sounded like hailstones.
"Kraaaagh!"
"Groooargh!"
Dozens collapsed screaming.
But it didn't end there.
Second and third ranks fired in sequence.
Bratat! Tat!
No matter the inaccuracy, massed fire at this range was unavoidable.
Exposed orc warriors fell in droves; even frontline commander Bargulgu took hits.
He staggered under five rounds alone.
"Grraaah!"
"Chieftain! We must withdraw!"
"Shut it! Troll blood runs in me—this is nothing. It'll heal in battle!"
"We know, but reform the lines first, then hit them with a second wave. Those fire-spitting sticks have us shaken!"
The orcs hesitated.
Hand cannons were rare in the East, amplifying the psychological blow.
"Fine! Reform ranks!"
As orcs hastily retrieved wounded and retreated, humans and dark elves erupted in cheers.
The Surpuk Duke couldn't hold back.
"Send out the Dragon Knights—now!"
Rage clouding his mind, he craved orc annihilation.
Owen watched the battle anxiously.
It was a brutal slugfest.
Both sides clashed ferociously; even as spectators, their throats ran dry.
"I'd rather be down there. Burning to fight, but stuck doing nothing."
Owen nodded at Third Dragon Stable manager Finn's words.
"Agreed."
Watching the carnage stirred his blood—he itched for action.
Then, new arrivals appeared from the orc rear.
"Wagons?"
Crude, massive carts spiked with orcish barbs everywhere.
Owen always marveled they rolled at all.
"Slow—must've just arrived. What's inside?"
Owen tilted his head at Finn's question.
From past experience, orcs rarely used wagons beyond basic supplies.
Why drag them to the frontlines?
"Ammo resupply? They still have plenty."
As Owen puzzled, the wagons halted, disgorging bizarre figures.
"What the...?"
Brawny orcs, each with a wooden barrel strapped to their backs.
Contents unknown.
Their armor minimal, covering only vitals.
A unit Owen had never seen.
But no time for speculation.
Hand cannons fired in unison.
Bratatat!
Orcs toppled amid the din.
Follow-up volleys drove them back fully.
"Waaaaah!"
Defenders roared in triumph.
Owen, Finn, and the handlers clenched fists.
"Yes!"
"Momentum's shifting back."
The Surpuk Duke called for Dragon Knights to seal it.
The ranks parted; four small dragons bore riders forward.
Sizes from pony-like to ten meters. Then, from empty ground, a giant dragon materialized.
Forty meters long.
A medium dragon from a Dragon Scroll.
"Uwaaaaaah!"
Humans and dark elves went wild.
The duke had no intention of letting them regroup.
Counterattack and sweep them away.
Owen nodded watching.
"His Grace will summon us soon. Prepare."
"Understood."
The massive medium dragon charged.
A goatee dragon, same breed as the dimwit back at Owen's farm.
But younger, far larger.
It smashed the orc rearguard instantly.
BOOM!
Its huge head collision launched six or seven orcs skyward.
Innumerable crushed beneath.
"Rooooaaar!"
Thrilled with its power, the goatee dragon bellowed, then lolled its tongue to chomp a nearby orc.
Chomp! Chomp! Chomp!
Chewing obnoxiously despite its size—pure terror for victims.
Triangular molars shredded flesh to chunks.
Its maw vast and gluttonous, it crunched three orcs at once.
No armor withstood before those jaws.
"Uwaaaah! Damn dragon!"
Desperate stabs bounced off tough goatee hide.
Irritated, it stomped the ground with forepaws.
Thud! Thud! Thud-thud!
Each impact pulped orcs into bloody messes.
The fearsome orcs routed by one medium dragon.
"That's it!"
Owen's chest swelled seeing dragons shine on the battlefield after twenty years.
Only dragons could grind orcs.
Raw power against power.
That was the answer.
Mid-exultation, something odd caught Owen's eye.
"What?"
A group of orcs suddenly charged forward.
Opposite the fleeing dragon-dodgers—straight at the dragon.
As if begging to be eaten.
The barrel-backed ones from the wagons.
Owen spotted fuses trailing from the barrels.
Fuses burning with sparks.
"Fuses?"
Horror widened his eyes.
He realized what those barrels held.
Definitely powder kegs.
These charging orcs meant to suicide-bomb the dragon.
Impossible!
Such suicide tactics were unprecedented.
Not from orc lack of creativity, but honor.
Orcs revered close axe combat, delegating ranged to goblins.
But bombers?
No orc warrior craved such a death.
Yet Owen realized his naivety.
Damn! People reincarnate after death, and orcs change minds in twenty years? Not surprising!
One blast could stagger even a medium dragon.
Trouble!
Owen shot to his feet, shouting rearward.
"Archers!"
Stealth no longer mattered.
Stop those powder keg orcs.
If they hit the dragon, the fallout was unthinkable.