Steel, gunpowder, and spellcasters

Chapter 417 Confrontation
Portal breathed a sigh of relief when the spire of the Shovel Harbor Church came into view.

The journey from the manor to Shovel Harbor is only seven kilometers, and it only takes a quarter of an hour to get there by horse.

However, it was this short seven-kilometer stretch that made Potal, a fearless Dussac veteran, experience unprecedented anxiety and walking on thin ice.

Potal dispatched almost every reliable rider under his command as a scout, using an outer defensive line of cavalry sentries to protect his troops, because he knew that the rebels had a cavalry force that should not be underestimated.

Therefore, Portal's biggest fear was that the rebel cavalry would seize the opportunity before his troops could even engage in battle and crush the rapidly advancing Shovel Harbor militia in one fell swoop.

Fortunately, the rebel cavalry that was expected to come and go like the wind never appeared, and Potal's troops completed the seven kilometers from the manor to the port without any major incident.

When Potal saw the spire of the town's central church emerge from the treetops, he was greatly excited, but also felt a little contemptuous, thinking that "the rebel leader is nothing special."

At first glance, the makeshift wooden wall brutally bisects the edge of the town. The red swallowtail flag that was originally planted on the wall has been pulled down and replaced with the rebels' light blue square flag.

Outside the walls, on the north side of the main road, on a flat open space that was originally a livestock auction ground, the rebels who had launched the attack on Shovel Harbor had already set up their formation and had been waiting for a long time.

Gazing at the forest of spears in the distance, Potal muttered to himself, "They actually left the city."

From the scouts, Potal learned in advance that the rebels had marched out of the city and formed ranks. But it wasn't until he saw the gleam of the sunlight reflecting off the enemy's spearheads that he believed the scouts were not lying.

Dusak Potal didn't quite understand why the rebels chose to fight in the open, but he wasn't a rookie new to the battlefield. In his long service, he had seen far too many incomprehensible actions and unbelievably foolish choices—whether by the enemy or his own side.

"It seems fate is on my side today," Potal thought to himself—since the rebels have willingly given up their terrain advantage, he certainly won't let this opportunity slip away.

The brass trombones blared, and shouts and footsteps mingled together as Potal's troops, in a chaotic yet orderly fashion, transformed from a marching column into a square formation.

According to the regulations of the Allied Army, when infantry are deployed in a square formation, each square should be assigned a senior officer as the "square commander" to be responsible for arranging the formation and deploying soldiers.

In Potal's troops, the most qualified person to serve as the phalanx commander was undoubtedly "Mr. Alpha," who had personally trained this unit.

However, the young man using the alias "Alpha" was not present at the moment, so the sergeant and centurion he had promoted had to do it on his behalf.

Fortunately, the rigorous training that the Shovel Harbor militia underwent proved invaluable at this critical moment.

Even without Alpha's command, Potal's troops still deployed and reorganized smoothly, forming three battalion-level square formations in an orderly manner.

……

“That guy named… Potal, he seems to have a knack for training troops, he does it like a pro.” Bart Sharing came to Tamas’s side, his right arm crossed over his elbow, his left hand stroking the stubble on his cheek, and he chuckled, “I doubt even our own men could do what they do—change formations like they’ve been smeared with oil.”

Tamas stared intently at the enemy in the distance, nodding solemnly: "It is quite good, we might as well."

Bart Sharing sighed, having been rebuffed.

He turned his horse around, faced his men behind him, and laughed and scolded, "Look at them! And look at you! The battalion commander said—you bunch of guys can't even catch up to those greenhorns over there! Alright! Stop standing there like idiots! Squeeze out some tears and get ready to surrender!"

A low murmur of laughter immediately broke out among the soldiers who were on high alert.

"They're not as good as them—that's a battalion!" someone shouted indignantly.

Someone immediately retorted, "Bullshit!"

With just a simple sentence, the soldiers, who were originally on edge, unconsciously relaxed a lot.

Because many veterans were killed or wounded in the Battle of Blood and Mud, the Iron Peak Infantry Regiment had to replenish its ranks with a large number of new recruits after the war. Even among the soldiers standing before Bart Sharing at this moment, quite a few had never been on the battlefield.

However, after being scolded by the second battalion commander, surrounded by the unrestrained laughter of veteran soldiers, even the new recruits who had never seen blood felt less afraid.

Tamas glanced at the Second Battalion Commander with shame—he knew he could never inspire the soldiers' courage as easily as the other man; he also didn't understand why the centurion had appointed him as the commander of the First Battalion instead of the more capable Bart Sharing.

But since the centurion had chosen to entrust his army to him, Tamas could only do his utmost to live up to that trust.

"Sound the horn, light the fuse," Tamas ordered. "Prepare to engage the enemy."

……

Watching the Shovel Harbor militia move in an orderly fashion, Portal couldn't help but think, "Even if the Duke were alive today, he probably couldn't have trained a group of farmers and bandits into what they are now in such a short time—Mr. Alpha should be proud of this."

Unfortunately, the young man in charge of training the militia was not present at the moment and could not witness his achievements.

Taking advantage of the moment when the troops were adjusting their formation, Potal sped toward Shovel Harbor, intending to get a closer look at the strength of the rebels.

He didn't bring any guards; that would be too conspicuous. Just to be cautious, he didn't dare get too close either.

Portal, knowing the distance, rode his horse past the edge of the effective range of the muskets. Seeing that the enemy did not fire, he turned his horse around and did it again—just like when he served as a scout under the old duke.

During the third close-range reconnaissance, two rebel light cavalrymen surrounded them from the left and right.

The experienced Potal, of course, wouldn't be entangled. He pulled on the reins and retreated to his own lines without hesitation. The two rebel light cavalrymen gave chase for a short distance before giving up and retreating as well.

The contest between light cavalry is the prelude to a major battle. When the two armies have already set up their formations but have not yet actually engaged in battle, the light cavalry on both sides will do their best to scout the enemy's situation at close range, while also doing their best to drive away enemy light cavalry with the same objective.

The long-awaited real combat made Potal's blood boil—he had almost forgotten what it felt like to chase and fight on horseback with enemy light cavalry.

However, even the hottest blood cannot melt cold steel.

“About seven or eight hundred men, no more than nine hundred at most. And at least half of them are musketeers, the rest should be spearmen. But…” Potal exclaimed inwardly as he rushed towards his main camp, “When did they get such good equipment?!”

Potal couldn't see the rebel soldiers in the back ranks, but he was certain that all the rebel spearmen in the first rank were wearing half-body plate armor with iron skirts, and even the style was uniform.

The rebels were equipped with an alarming number of muskets, and these weren't the old-fashioned matchlock guns, but rather a uniform array of heavy matchlock muskets.

The enemy's superior equipment terrified Potal. He racked his brains trying to figure out where the rebels had gotten so much plate armor and muskets.

Potal's troops were not as wealthy as the rebels—most of them carried only spears and swords and shields; they had only a small number of muskets, with varying calibers and ages; and armor was scarce.

Potal's mouth went dry as he finally realized that he had taken it for granted that the rebels' equipment was on par with his own militia, thus severely underestimating the rebels' fighting strength.

However, the two armies had already arrayed themselves and were ready to fight; it was too late for regrets. Where the rebels got their equipment was no longer important; the only thing that mattered now was how to defeat them.

Potal suppressed his wildly beating heart, nervously weighing the pros and cons of both sides:
Our greatest advantage is our troop strength, without a doubt—the rebels number around 800, while Potal, who has made a desperate gamble, has brought more than 1,300 soldiers.
Although the rebels were well-equipped, their weakness lay in the fact that their commanders brought too many musketeers.

“Once the fighting starts, we must close in immediately.” Potal gritted his teeth, thinking firmly, “We can’t give the rebels’ muskets a chance to be effective. Close in! Surround them! Engage them in hand-to-hand combat!”

The rebels' formation was also a bit strange, but Potal couldn't understand it.

For an old Dussac who had been retired for many years, he had already thought of the limits of what he could imagine. But thinking like a conductor was not something Potal was good at.

"If only Mr. Alpha were here," Potal thought with a headache. "If only he were here!"

Although their own troops had the advantage in hand-to-hand combat, the rebels had their backs against the wall, and even Potal could guess that the rebel commanders would definitely deploy a large number of musketeers on the wall.

A hasty attack would surely result in heavy losses, so Potal decided to continue the standoff and wait for an opportunity to strike.

Then he heard a clap of thunder.

……

On the wall, a group of gunners stared intently at the trajectories of the shells as they flew through the air. When they saw the black iron balls whizzing over the enemy's heads, they all let out a sigh of regret.

Only Captain Morrow remained unmoved. After seeing the impact point of the shell, he wrote down a line of numbers on a piece of paper and then calmly ordered: "Second gun crew, lower the altitude by three quarters of an hour."

"Lower altitude by three marks!" the gunner almost shouted, repeating the order—though it wasn't necessary at the moment, once all the guns were firing at full speed, a loud voice was needed to relay the message. The wedge-shaped wooden block beneath the gun barrel moved three marks. Then the gunner roared again, "Lower by two marks! Over!"

Morrow nodded almost imperceptibly—Richard Mason had trained his artillery very well, heaven knows how he had turned a bunch of farmers and accounting apprentices into competent gunners—but the cold mask concealed Morrow's expression, and only the cold command came from beneath it: "Fire."

This was the first round of firing. As usual, the other gunners retreated to a safe distance. A man with a large red birthmark on his face stepped forward and personally lit the propellant: "Fire!"

With a flash of light, the cannon recoiled violently, and the shell flew toward the enemy with a roar from the cannon.

This time, Captain Mason's daughters did not disappoint the gunners—the shells flew right into the center of the enemy formation, instantly taking down several men.

Enemy soldiers around the impact point scattered like startled fish, and for a moment no one dared to lend a helping hand to the wounded.

The scene was like a giant swinging a heavy hammer and smashing it down on a group of motionless flesh and blood puppets.

The gunners felt a chill run down their spines; they felt both exhilarated and cruel. But there was no time for reflection. The gunners of the second gun group immediately returned to the cannon, reset it, and reloaded it.

The walls of Shovel Harbor were hastily constructed; the inner side originally had only a half-meter-wide wooden scaffold, barely enough to accommodate one person standing behind the breastwork to fire.

But none of this was a problem for Captain Morrow. The engineers Morrow brought with him transformed the original half-meter-wide support frame into a temporary artillery fortification.

They widened the scaffolding with planks, then added stakes and piled soil under the planks to make it able to bear weight.

The three six-pound cannons captured from Teldun were now deployed on these makeshift fortifications, awaiting the harvest of blood and lives.

Moro confirmed the shell's impact point and noted down a line of numbers: "Third artillery group, reduce altitude by one quarter."

……

Potal then saw a flash of red light on the distant wall.

A terrifying shriek filled the air. Then, as if struck by something soft, the shriek vanished. Immediately followed by a series of short, sharp hissing sounds: "Sss—Sss—Sss—Bang!"

Beside Potal, a soldier's lower leg and knee were severed.

The shell's residual force continued, shattering the shinbone of the soldier behind him. Fragments of bone pierced through flesh, revealing the stark white stump.

The solid iron ball, which had injured two men, then broke another soldier's ankle before finally sinking into the ground.

This time, Potal saw it clearly. He saw the shell hit the ground, bounce up, hit again, bounce up again, and then bounce into the human wall, flattening flesh and blood.

The whole process took only a breath, yet it felt as long as an eternity.

Then, another red light flashed on the distant wall.

Another bloody chasm.

The piercing cries for help and screams echoed through the formation, piercing the eardrums of everyone present.

The wounded man lay on the ground, rolling and struggling, while the surrounding soldiers stared blankly—they had never seen such horrific injuries, never witnessed limbs flying everywhere. Even if they wanted to help, they didn't know how.

"Take him away!" Potal ordered.

Only then did the others belatedly begin to act, hurriedly carrying the wounded soldier to the rear of the formation.

But what good would it do to take them away? They would still just have to wait to die.

After a round of shelling, although the militia squares in Shovel Harbor maintained their discipline, their morale had inevitably been shaken.

The wounded soldiers were in agony, while the uninjured soldiers were terrified.

The cries of the wounded also disturbed Potal. He wanted to kill the wounded, but he was worried about affecting morale.

After four thunderous booms, the cannons ceased their roar.

But Potal knew—it was only temporary. The rebel gunners were reloading and would soon begin a new round of shelling.

"Where did this cannon come from again!" Potal gritted his teeth.

This battle involving a thousand people was originally supposed to be conducted in the manner of "choosing a location, setting up formations, one side advancing, and the other side meeting the attack"—a method that Potal was also familiar with.

As the attacker, Potal holds the initiative. He can choose to attack or remain in a standoff, waiting for the rebels to lose their patience and launch an offensive.

But once the rebels unleashed their cannons, the rules of the game changed.

When the rebels used their superior range to take up defensive positions and bombard Potal's troops, Potal was left with only two choices:

Retreat to outside the artillery range;

Or attack.

Potal's troops could not withstand the sustained bombardment, and he dared not gamble his army's morale on the enemy's gunpowder reserves.

"Retreat? Or attack?" Cold sweat began to bead on Potal's forehead as he frantically asked himself, "Retreat? Or attack?"

If we retreat, will the morale of the troops collapse instantly? Even if morale doesn't collapse, what if the enemy catches up? There are also the cavalry, and the rebel cavalry that haven't appeared yet...

If we attack...

Just as Potal was caught in a dilemma, the cannons in the distance roared once again.

"Beat the drums!" Overwhelmed by the pressure, Potal gritted his teeth, drew his saber, and roared, "Advance!"

After a brief hesitation, the drummer hurriedly struck the war drum. Accompanied by the rapid drumbeats, the three battalions under Potal's command began to move.

Potal prayed that Mr. Alpha also heard the roar of the cannons.

……

Behind the Iron Peak County army's formation, Bart Sharling squinted, observing the rhythm of the enemy's spears swaying, and whispered, "It's starting."

After a moment of silence, Bart repeated himself firmly: "It has begun!"

"Musketeers, advance!" Tamas shouted the order. "Fire in rotation, prepare!"

……

At the same time, Andrei, who had been fast asleep with his head covered, jumped up: "Did you hear that?"

"What did you hear?" Tulin asked, puzzled.

"Cannons!" Andrei didn't bother to explain. He strode towards his mount and shouted, "Everyone—mount!"

Deep in the woods, the riders who were resting rushed to their mounts and returned to their horses as quickly as possible.

"But!" Tulin didn't know whether he should move or not, and he cried out with a mournful face, "Sir! It's not time yet!"

Andrei didn't care about any of that and waved his hand: "Let's go!"

Having said that, he took the lead and rode out of the hiding place.

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(End of this chapter)