Steel, gunpowder, and spellcasters

Chapter 309 Narrow Road
Rewind to two days ago—the most intense phase of the siege of Thevordan and the dam siege.

The Teldun cavalry, patrolling the wilderness, were both surprised and delighted to discover that the enemy's main force, which had been advancing slowly by relying on strong fortifications, had finally chosen to take the initiative and had come out in full force.

Armed personnel and supply wagons continuously left the various camps, eventually converging into three columns on the plain.

The three columns advanced side by side, like three mighty torrents, rushing towards Zhevodan with unstoppable momentum.

"It's...too..." Among the crowd overlooking the military situation from the hilltop, one was so excited he was almost incoherent: "Indescribable..."

The gentleman who was racking his brains but couldn't think of an adjective was none other than Jacob Green, the tall and thin representative of Cowhoof Valley.

As the only intellectual in the army who had attended grammar school and university, Jacob Green had become Winters' temporary private clerk, responsible for drafting announcements and communications on Winters' behalf.

Previously, Jacob Green had experienced more of the cruel and bloody side of war.

At this very moment, as thousands of troops slowly unfolded before his eyes, Jacob Green was deeply moved by the magnificent and awe-inspiring side of war.

The short, stout man next to the tall, thin Mr. Jacob commented like a general, "To be able to march out in such a column, they truly deserve the title of a large army."

Needless to say, the short, stout gentleman was none other than [Nandol Krylov], another representative of the people in Cowshoe Valley.

Nandor was also transferred to the command post for protection because he was wounded in the previous battle and refused to go home to recuperate.

According to the short and stout Mr. Nandor himself, he had already missed one battle due to injury and did not want to miss another.

As is customary, Mr. Thin would definitely exchange a few words with Mr. Fat.

But Jacob Green was completely absorbed in his fervent emotions and ignored his old rival's words. Suddenly, he grasped a few sparks: "War... humanity's ultimate violence... a magnificent manifestation of power..."

Mr. Nandor, the fat man, was confused by what he heard. Then, a thought struck him, and he urged his old rival, "Then you should write it down, write an epic! An epic of a drunken harpist playing and singing in a tavern."

Mr. Thin was taken aback, a sudden surge of strong urge to write welled up within him, only to be quickly replaced by a nameless fear: "I...I'm afraid I won't be able to write..."

“What’s there to be afraid of? Something is better than nothing.” Nandor revealed a hint of regret and sorrow: “How many wars have been fought in the world? I’m afraid it’s countless. But how many of them are remembered? They’re all just glossed over. The thought that I myself will be completely forgotten makes me feel empty.”

The hesitant Jacob Green gradually became determined: "I will do my best, Mr. Krylov, to ensure that our children and grandchildren remember that someone shed blood on this land."

"Remember to add three inches to my height," the fat man said leisurely.

……

The fire-gatherer was overjoyed to learn that the two-legged people of Saint K Town had finally been lured out.

"[Herd] The two-legged men have fallen into the trap; they are now like foxes caught in a snare." Looking around the tent, the man tending the fire laughed loudly: "[Herd] Slaughter them, and this place is yours to take! Slaves, women, and wealth—all will be yours!"

The two Kotas cheered together, but the old translator remained silent.

……

Three columns advanced rapidly toward Ghevodan, while the light cavalry of the Teldun roamed the vicinity of the army like ghosts, trying to scout out their strength.

Anglu led his cavalry in attacks from all sides, striving to drive the enemy scouts away from their marching route.

When the Iron Peak cavalry returned to their column, they resembled headhunters from mythology:

Flags, weapons, and the unseeing heads of the dead hung from the front of their saddles, and some returned with gold and silver ornaments cut from the corpses.

Seeing their kin separated from their bodies, the Teldun people became even more ruthless.

They cut off the heads of the dead men of Tiefeng County, held them high with spears, and displayed them to the marching Tiefeng County militia, even rushing close to the column to show off their power.

The army of tens of thousands rolled forward along the foot of the Iron Peak County mountain. The further they went, the more brutal the cavalry battles became between the scouts.

The cavalry of both armies pursued and fought fiercely on plains, hills, and broken terrain, until they were dead.

Winters placed the command post on a saddle, and the clerks, scribes, and messengers were all equipped with multiple warhorses, so that the command post would go wherever he went.

When the vanguard was less than 20 kilometers from Ghevodan, Winters finally received news of the enemy:
"The vanguard of the left flank column encountered the barbarian vanguard!"

Winters was not nervous at all; on the contrary, he felt as if the shoe had finally dropped: "Halt! Have the left and right columns converge on me."

He pointed to the flat, open fields on both sides of the road: "There's no need to go any further. We'll fight the Teldens right here."

……

The preliminary battle began in the morning—a hundred-cavalry unit of Teldun's forces was repelled by the vanguard of the left flank column.

Upon receiving the news, Winters immediately halted his troops, and in accordance with his orders, the left and right columns began to retreat toward the center.

In Tiefeng County, each battalion consisted of 500 men and was commanded by a commissioned officer.

After surveying the battlefield, Winters sent messengers to guide the battalions to their designated positions.

The third battalion, composed of people from Niuti Valley, belonged to the left flank column. As soon as they entered their designated position, they saw logistics soldiers with red armbands driving horse-drawn carts over.

The skinny farmer, nicknamed Monkey, nudged his companion and winked, saying, "Look, the food's here."

“Okay,” replied the sturdy farmer named Doug listlessly. “I’m so hungry.”

"I don't see anything special about fighting," the monkey couldn't help but complain. "Isn't it just walking around all the time?"

Doug didn't say anything; all he wanted to do now was fill his stomach.

The tarpaulin covering the wagon was torn off, and the militiamen were greatly disappointed. Instead of bread and beer, the wagon carried bundles of tools: pickaxes, shovels, chisels…

"Stop resting!" The appointed battalion commander walked over and ordered the militiamen, "Stand up!"

Once the tools were in their hands, the militiamen didn't even have time to catch their breath before being ordered to dig trenches in front of the lines.

"Leave two meters of space between every twenty meters of trench!" The appointed battalion commander marked the location of the trenches for the militia at the front line: "They should be wide enough for two horses and three people to walk side by side!"

The militiamen carried their tools somewhat reluctantly.

"Sir, could you please give us some food first?" one of the militiamen complained. "We've been walking all day and we're starving."

"The bread's coming right up!" the appointed battalion commander snapped fiercely. "Stop slacking off! Let me tell you, every bit of dirt you skip now will cost you an extra pound of weight later!"

The Third Battalion consisted of "youth soldiers," which were poorly equipped and trained militiamen who were mostly used as laborers, so they were used to tasks like digging trenches.

But the monkey had sharp eyes. He noticed that the "adult soldiers" in the second row of the battle line were not only not digging trenches, but were also distributing food.

The monkey immediately questioned, jumping up and down and pointing at the strong young soldiers behind him: "Why don't they have to work? They even get to eat!"

The militiamen turned around at the sound and found that the able-bodied soldiers were resting and eating and drinking, which caused an uproar.

"Shut up, you bastards!" The appointed battalion commander jumped onto the carriage and drew his saber. "Shut up, all of you! If you keep yelling, you'll be court-martialed!"

The Third Battalion quickly quieted down under the threat of military law.

Seeing that his subordinates had all shut up, the appointed battalion commander coldly said, "They don't have to work because they have to fight on the battlefield! If any of you disagree, I'll send you to join the adult army."

The militiamen remained silent, but the monkey, still resentful, couldn't contain himself and stood up defiantly: "Please take me there!"

"Sure." The acting battalion commander didn't bother with any more pleasantries with the new recruits. "Anyone else want to go?"

The monkey looked at his friend with pleading eyes. Doug, worried about his friend, raised his hand: "I'll go with him."

The two young soldiers were immediately placed in the ranks of the able-bodied men, and the Third Battalion's position returned to calm. Everyone worked diligently, and bread was soon brought up.

The army of Tiefeng County was busy setting up formations and digging trenches in the open fields.

As the sun gradually passed its highest point and began to slant westward, the faint sound of booming war drums could be heard in the wind.

First to leap above the horizon were the horse tail banners fluttering in the wind, followed by the blurry silhouettes of cavalry.

Only then did people realize that what was carried by the wind was not the sound of drums, but the vibration of horses' hooves trampling the earth.

The hoofbeats grew louder and louder, and the militiamen stopped what they were doing and craned their necks to look.

"What are you looking at?" the battalion commander of the third battalion snapped at his men. "Get back to work!"

The militiamen dug the trenches even more diligently, while the commander of the 3rd Battalion gazed at the enemy's silhouette, remaining silent for a long time. The Teldens had arrived.

……

Teldun's vanguard occupied the hill on the north side and did not launch an attack rashly.

The two sides were about four or five kilometers apart, separated by a hill, and were facing each other faintly outside their field of vision.

As time went on, Winters' defensive forces arrived one after another, and Teltown's troops also arrived on the battlefield in droves.

As darkness fell, Winters heard a tsunami-like cheer coming from the Teldun's position.

Winters, who was strolling along the front line, casually remarked to Charles, "It's probably monkey butt face that's here."

"Let them come," Charles muttered under his breath. "What the hell are those barbarians yelling about?"

Winters had made it a habit to take a walk in the barracks during dinner time. Usually, he didn't bring anyone with him, but today Charles and Heinrich insisted on coming along.

After wandering aimlessly for a while, Winters felt a little tired, so he found a campfire nearby to rest.

The militiamen gathered around the campfire didn't recognize the young man in the old overcoat. They assumed he was also a militiaman and moved aside to make room for Winters and his group.

The cold wind howled, and the militiamen wrapped themselves tightly in their clothes, trying to get as close to the campfire as possible to keep warm.

"We've been brought to the middle of nowhere, and we don't even have tents!" one militiaman complained, poking at the fire. "It's freezing to death!"

"Alright, you're lucky to have a fire to roast yourself, what are you complaining about?" another older militiaman grumbled.

Tiefeng County couldn't gather enough tents for tens of thousands of people in a short time, so the troops could only keep warm by campfires.

The grumbling militiaman glanced at Winters wearing a coat, and enviously reached out to touch it: "Brother, that's a really nice coat! It must be warm, right?"

“It’s quite warm.” Winters smiled. “I bought it in Shuangqiao City last year; it’s a cashmere wool coat.”

"That must be quite expensive."

"It is a bit expensive."

"That's good." The grumbling militiaman sighed and pulled the mattress he was sleeping on the floor even tighter around himself. "That's good."

Upon hearing the name "Shuangqiao City," an older militia member tentatively asked, "Judging from your tone, are you a veteran?"

Winters nodded: "I guess so."

"You don't look very old."

"Enlisted early."

"So, what do you think about this battle?" the elderly militiaman asked anxiously. "Can we win?"

Winters poked at the campfire and sighed, "It's hard to say. Anything can happen on the battlefield, but I think we still have a good chance of winning."

“Tell us about… that decapitation order,” the grumbling young militiaman asked in a low voice. “Is it true? Can you really give a hundred acres for every head you cut off?”

"To the best of my knowledge, there have been no instances of non-payment."

The grumbling young militiaman suddenly became interested and asked excitedly, "If I cut off ten heads, wouldn't I become rich? I'd become a landlord too?!"

Winters thought for a moment and then told everyone the joke that "the old marshal's 100,000 soldiers each fired two shots."

He had the air of a deadpan comedian, and the militiamen by the campfire burst into laughter upon hearing this.

“Killing an enemy is actually quite difficult,” Winters said honestly. “Otherwise, it wouldn’t be possible to give them an entire acre. If they could get an acre of land so easily, wouldn’t the new government be losing out big time?”

“That makes sense.” The young militiaman’s ambitions vanished. After sitting there for a moment, he murmured wistfully, “Even one acre would be good, not ten.”

Winters looked at the two militiamen, one old and one young, and kindly asked the old man, "Sir, are you two relatives?"

“He’s my grandfather,” the young militiaman replied casually.

The old man glared at his grandson, then said to Winters with a hint of ingratiation, "You're clearly a learned man."

Charles couldn't help but chuckle, and Winters didn't know how to respond.

"Can you write documents?" the old man asked tentatively.

What type of document?

The old man swallowed hard: "His will."

The lively atmosphere around the campfire suddenly turned cold, and everyone fell silent, with only the crackling sound of burning firewood audible.

The old militiaman hurriedly explained, "Perhaps I, an old man, will receive divine favor. I plan to leave the land in my house to this young man, and a little to my youngest daughter. I'm afraid things might get complicated in the future, so I want to make a will."

"Hey, what nonsense are you talking about!" The young militiaman impatiently stopped his grandfather from saying anything more.

Winters took out a notebook and graphite sticks from his pocket and looked at the old man: "Will you dictate, or shall I draft it?"

The old man inadvertently noticed the tassels and ribbons on the clothes the young man was wearing underneath as he opened his coat.

The old man was stunned, so Winters asked again.

"Please...please draft it," the old man said respectfully.

By the dim light of the campfire, Winters read aloud and wrote with great speed.

The illiterate militiamen looked on with admiration; people naturally have a sense of respect for educated people.

Before they knew it, more and more militiamen gathered around the campfire, almost forming a human wall.

After Winters finished writing, he signed his full name after "Witness" and handed it to the old man.

The old militiaman made a salute, expressed his gratitude, and accepted the will with both hands.

The militiamen looked at the old man with envy, and then at the learned young man with longing.

Winters was unaware that the inheritance laws in the newly established lands were a complete mess: customary law and table law were mixed together, old laws and new regulations contradicted each other, and if the deceased was a believer, the church would interfere as well.

Although the group wasn't sure if a will was actually valid, seeing the old man carefully tucking the small piece of paper into his pocket, they wanted one too—at least for peace of mind!

Winters looked up and immediately met the expectant gazes of the crowd.

He sighed helplessly, "Who else wants to write? Let's take them one by one..."

The people of Tiefeng County owned so little: a plot of land, a house, a few clothes... and those who could even own these were considered relatively wealthy hermit farmers.

Winters sat by the fire until late, even helping to write several letters home, until the last militiaman left satisfied, until alarm bells rang at the edge of the battlefield.

Gunshots and shouts of killing followed immediately from the east and west.

The militiamen by the campfire were startled and looked around in a panic.

“It’s nothing serious.” Winters slowly moved his aching joints. “The Teltowns don’t want us to rest properly, the same old tricks. I’ll go take a look.”

After saying that, he got up and left, with Charles and Heinrich quickly following behind.

Everyone watched as the young veteran, who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, disappeared into the darkness.

A short while later, hurried footsteps sounded again.

Charles ran back to the campfire and tossed an old overcoat to the grumbling young militiaman.

"I'll lend it to you. Return it after the war." With that, Charles left.

The young militiaman looked at the newcomer, then at the overcoat in his hand, puzzled: "Who is that person?"

"I don't know." The old militiaman paused for a moment, then said, "And you don't need to know."

[Phew, no more debts, feel so relieved]
[Redefining Redefining - A Forbidden Double Redefinition]
[Thank you to all the readers for your collections, reading, subscriptions, recommendations, monthly tickets, donations, and comments. Thank you everyone!]
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(End of this chapter)