Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters-Chapter 846 - 89 Sunny Day_2

Chapter 846: Chapter 89 Sunny Day_2 Chapter 846: Chapter 89 Sunny Day_2 Mason made it clear to everyone, “I need volunteers.”

As Mason’s gaze swept over them, the Revodan militia lowered their heads. Having barely escaped with their lives, none were willing to risk themselves again.

“Your Excellency, I can no longer ride a horse or wield a sword,” Old Priskin, dragging his grandson forward, approached Mason, “Let him go with you.”

“Count him in.”

After a fierce internal struggle, Ivan also raised his hand.

…

The sound of horns filled the sky, and the silhouettes of the cavalry leapt at the edge of vision—the people of Terdun began their march.

...

Like a shepherd separating a mixed flock of sheep, the nobles of Terdun each led their followers down the hillside, slowly closing in on the people of Iron Peak County.

Gazing at the barbarians scattered across the hillside, [Monkey] and Doug, stationed on the left flank of the line, had dry mouths and icy hands and feet, their temples throbbing.

The greed for the bounty for beheading the enemy leaders was quenched by a bucket of ice water poured over their heads.

Monkey and Doug looked at each other, both seeing death in each other’s eyes.

The people of Terdun stopped outside the range of the cannons, forming a wide horizontal line.

A light Terdun cavalryman, holding a lance, rode up to the front line with a helmet, signaling for negotiations.

…

In the center of the battlefield.

“Pay tribute,” the old Translator repeated the condition that would obviously not be accepted, “Emperor Paul lives, and the war stops here.”

The firekeeper was not present, and a Green Plumed Feather took his place.

Of course, the real purpose of the negotiations was to probe the reality of the opposition. It was the inconspicuous old Translator who was the actual director.

The firekeeper didn’t expect the opponent to surrender. But, should the opponent genuinely agree to pay tribute, even better.

Plunder was a bounty collected from bottom to top, tribute was a bounty distributed from top to bottom. If possible, the tribal leaders all preferred to receive tribute.

The old Translator sized up the odd combination before him: a tall, thin, refined middle-aged man, and his two fully armed guards.

The former was tense, his left hand clutching the reins until his knuckles turned white, and his right hand uncertain where to rest.

In contrast, the two guards appeared much more relaxed and comfortable.

The old Translator noticed: the tall, thin man occasionally sneaked glances at the guard on his left, restraining himself from any bold movements.

He exchanged a few words with the Green Plumed Feather, who then immediately began to loudly and demonstratively scold.

“Lord Tuman asks you,” the old Translator observed carefully, “if we are negotiating, why don’t you show your true faces? Why use the underhanded trick of a stand-in?”

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Jacob Green, the tall and thin middle-aged man, was shocked at the words.

“We hide our faces to avoid frightening you,” Winters removed his helmet at a leisurely pace, “Aren’t you playing the same game, Mister Translator?”

Just hearing the opponent’s voice made a chill run up the old Translator’s back, his expression rigid as he watched the face beneath the helmet gradually reveal itself.

By the time he fully confirmed the other’s identity, he was numb to it.

The Green Plumed Feather, clueless, asked, “[Herde Language] Who is this person?”

“[Herde Language] That’s the Paratu Champion,” the old Translator replied simply.

No further explanation was needed—for the people of Terdun, there was only one Paratu Champion.

The Green Plumed Feather inhaled sharply, as his Warhorse, sensing its rider’s panic, reared and whinnied incessantly.

“So that’s it, so that’s it!” In a flash, the old Translator connected all the dots and burst into uncontrollable laughter, “You think you can win?”

“Whoever wins,” Winters replied, unmoved, “you’ll die first.”

No need for many words between enemies.

Winters tugged the reins and rode away.

Another guard, mounted on a black Warhorse, pulled a ghastly head with only one ear from the saddlebag and threw it in front of the old Translator’s horse, then promptly followed Winters.

The old Translator didn’t need to count the ears—he didn’t even need to look—to know to whom the severed head on the ground belonged.

The Red Dog was dead, and the opponent didn’t come here for Revodan, nor for a counter-intelligence plot.

They came here to end everything.

…

On the way back to the central army, another armored rider on a black Warhorse, who had participated in the negotiations, asked Winters, “Did you get a clear look at how many swords the barbarians have?”

“There could be around four thousand in view,” Winters mused, “More troops could be hiding on the reverse slope.”

“I think so too,” said the black Warhorse rider, helmet on, his voice muffled, “Fifteen thousand infantry—half of them are peasants who just took up arms, and the other half have only been in one battle with you—against at least four thousand Herd Barbarians in a field battle. Are you really confident of winning?”

“Don’t I also have you?” Winters countered.

The black Warhorse rider snorted coldly.

…

The great battle did not immediately erupt.

The Terdun people stopped outside of cannon range, not advancing a step further—in fact, they overthought, for Winters had not a single cannon.

Most of the Terdun people were resting off their horses, many even unsaddled, and so they remained in a standoff with the Iron Peak County Military at a neither close nor distant range.

If the firekeeper, in a fit of anger, decided to press his entire army forward, this confrontation might have been quickly resolved.

Nevertheless, the firekeeper’s patience had evidently grown, yet Winters was no longer that rash Centurion he once was.

“Pass the order down,” Winters was in no rush, “Each camp is to rotate its companies to continue digging trenches.”

Monkey and Doug, who had been sitting idly, received their tools and, somewhat bemused, followed their company commander into the trench to resume the laborious task of digging.

“This is no damn battle!” Monkey’s nervous tension had long vanished as he cursed and swung his pickaxe: “Damn barbarians, neither attacking nor retreating. And our lords are the same! If the barbarians won’t attack us, then we should attack the barbarians! Digging trenches! Always digging and digging trenches, with no end in sight!”