Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters-Chapter 829 - 84 Beheading
Chapter 829: Chapter 84: Beheading Chapter 829: Chapter 84: Beheading Along the country dirt road, a small convoy struggled to make its way.
Inside the three large carts were grains and agricultural tools like pickaxes and iron shovels, pulled by a few mules conscripted for the task.
Apart from the leading cavalry who wore standard sabers and arm guards, the weapons carried by other members of the convoy varied wildly.
The wealthy wrapped in knitted wool capes carried fire guns, while the poor dressed in coarse hemp robes had only axes or even clubs.
Two days ago, they were ordinary civilians, but today they had become soldiers. Regardless of wealth or status, everyone moved their feet toward a direction both known and unknown.
Fear, desire, and confusion… a variety of emotions spread among the crowd.
Supplies, manpower, and carts continually converged from various parts of Iron Peak County toward Saint Town, this small convoy being one of the tributaries.
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“Don’t dawdle!” the cavalry leading the convoy, who appeared to be a Dusan with his left arm wrapped in thick white cloth, inspected front and back as he urged loudly, “The slower we go, the faster we die! Pick up the pace!”
His rebuke sounded like an invisible whip, seemingly quickening the pace of the temporarily conscripted militia.
Someone in the ranks muttered under their breath, “Easy for you to say, riding on a horse, while we walk…”
Another could not help but complain aloud, “Move, move, move! Just moving! Had I known it would be like this, I wouldn’t have followed!”
The pain in his left arm throbbed faintly as Tulin sighed internally, ignoring everyone’s grumbling.
No one knew better than Dusack—those on duty always grumble. Even the bravest warriors could not avoid it, let alone these hastily drafted civilians.
After being wounded in a fight with the Herd Barbarians, Tulin had been specifically ordered by Montaigne, the Civil Guard Officer, to leave the front line for safer tasks such as conscripting militia.
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Tulin straightened his back, looking around the horizon, an uneasy feeling lingering in his heart.
Iron Peak County had become a battlefield, and there was no safe place on a battlefield.
“How about a break, sir?” shouted a young farmer from the ranks toward Dusack, “We’ve been walking for most of the day and can’t go on.”
“Yes, yes,” others quickly echoed, “Just a short break.”
“Break my ass!” Tulin glared, drawing on the sternness of an old soldier, and sharply rebuked, “Stopping here means being slaughtered by barbarians if we encounter them! Whoever the hell wants to die, I’ll help him, and spare the rest of us!”
No one spoke then.
Seeing the group quiet down, Tulin calmed his tone to comfort them, “We’re near the military station ahead, just a little further. It’s not only safe there, but there will also be food and drink. Once we reach the station, I’ll let you rest enough…”
Just as Tulin racked his brain to motivate the convoy, a flock of birds suddenly startled from the hillside to the west, faintly accompanied by the sound of drums.
Tulin turned back in horror, his heart screaming, “Not good!”
He saw groups of cavalry burst out from the hillock, charging straight toward Tulin’s convoy.
The newly conscripted militia, oblivious, thought they were friendly cavalry and waved at them. Many others simply stood dumbfounded, not knowing what to do.
“Enemy attack!” Tulin bellowed, drawing his sword, “Everyone get over here to me!”
Only then did the militia realize they were being attacked by Herd Barbarians, setting off cries and curses.
People dashed toward ditches and forests beside the road, hardly any paying heed to Tulin’s command.
“Sergeant!” another cavalryman rode up to Tulin, “What do we do?”
Tulin, unable to contain his anger, cursed loudly and helplessly ordered, “Retreat!”
Misfortune seemed multiplied, as cavalry figures appeared on the road ahead. It looked like a pincer attack was set up, with the northern cavalry’s hoofbeats muffled by those from the west.
Tulin and his men leaped over the ditch, galloping into the forest.
The Herd cavalrymen who ambushed from the hillock quickly overwhelmed the convoy, brutally slaughtering any Paratu People who hadn’t managed to escape.
Tulin’s forehead veins bulged, his teeth grating harshly, but turning back to fight was merely an instant death.
Just then, a cavalryman behind Tulin suddenly shouted, “Wait! It seems to be our men!”
Tulin reined in his horse and looked back—the second troop of cavalry hadn’t dispersed to chase the militia; instead, they charged straight into the Herd cavalry. The gleaming sabers swung in arcs, targeting the heads and shoulders of the Herd Barbarians.
The Herd Barbarians screamed in a strange language, similar to the cries of the Iron Peak County militia moments earlier.
Tulin saw clearly, although his cavalry was far outnumbered by the Herd Barbarians, they only had the advantage of a surprise attack. Once the barbarians recovered, the outcome was uncertain.
“Stop running!” Tulin desperately tried to halt the fleeing militia, “Turn back and fight!”
Still, hardly anyone heeded him.
Tulin roared in fury, winding the reins around his injured left arm, fiercely spurring his warhorse, and charged at the nearest Herd Barbarian.
The cavalrymen accompanying Tulin on his mission did not hesitate either, each drawing swords and lances, ready to follow the sergeant and counter the enemy.
Among the militia, not everyone was solely concerned with escaping; some brave ones were also fighting desperately against the Herd Barbarians.
Tulin stood in his stirrups, slashing madly at the enemy, his sabers crossing paths with each swing. His dark blue black warhorse also furiously bit and kicked at the Herdmen’s smaller horses.
The two sides clashed beside the ditches, at the edges of the forests, and near the carts, with most of the dismounted Herdmen beaten to death by the militia, and gunfire occasionally ringing out.
