Chapter 51: Warhorns

Chapter 51: Warhorns

Warhorns

Korelians Side

The castle’s curtain wall wasn’t thick, and the overall construction was outdated. Against three fixed counterweight mangonels or early trebuchet, even the main keep was unlikely to survive more than a week of bombardment.

If the walls were targeted and breached, an uneven battle would ensue. Against six-thousand invaders, there was zero chance to win. If the castle fell, the town of Korelia would inevitably surrender, despite its trenches.

Understanding this, Lansius played the only hand available to him: initiative.

Eight-hundred men, consisting of three-hundred men-at-arms and five-hundred militia, had been readied since the previous night. They ate an early breakfast and marched out at first light.

Strategic positioning ensured the castle’s garrison of crossbowmen protected their right flank while the town’s nearby trenches covered the left. Sir Justin valiantly led the right wing, personally guarded by his band of hardened ex-mercenaries.

The center was under Hugo’s command, bolstered by Roger and a group of arbalester.

Lieutenant Sigmund, the skald, led the third company on the left wing. Despite their confident march, the troop strength wasn’t full, as Lansius had assigned a hundred of them to a separate mission.

However, these troops, originally no more than troublemakers from Midlandia, had matured. They had developed discipline and loyalty, driven by Lansius’ generous wages and fair treatment.

Lansius’ decision to employ them year-round had transformed them mentally and physically. The previous year, the majority of Midlandian troops were distrustful, malnourished, and scrawny. They would only fight for their own lives.

Now, the same troops were well disciplined, followed orders, and were physically tough, a result of their work in the trenches, which provided even more income and physical training.

In addition, the Lord provided meals and shelter, even in winter. With their basic needs covered, they could save money. Last year, thick ragged clothes as the poor man’s gambesons were their standard attire. Now, they wore proper gambesons, helmets, and even ringmails or brigandine.

Moreover, the vanguard as the crème de la crème had armor rivaling a knight. These small number of top performers, instead of gambling and drinking during winter, dedicated their time to training.

The billets, the training halls, and the training scheme provided sufficient motivation for them to hone their skills and physique.

To say that this year’s Korelian troops were an improvement would be a serious understatement. They had become a fit, fully functional military unit, no longer a motley crew of poor peasants and vagabonds.

The price of their improvement was their quantity. Lansius recruited sparingly. He stood firm on his decision not to engage in large-scale or seasonal recruitment. His approach was unconventional, but it seemed he was onto something innovative.

Well-fed and well-paid, the men of House Lansius were formidable, with high morale. The same happened with the militia. The Korelians were driven by gratitude and hope for a better life under their Lord.

The summer sun didn’t bother them; they were accustomed to laboring under it. They found standing in formation less taxing compared to digging the trenches.

Determinedly, the troops stood their ground while the vast Coalition army took to the field.

As the Coalition approached, Sir Justin, fully encased in plate armor, finalized his preparations. “Men,” he called for their attention as he read from a piece of paper on his gauntlet while his adjutant carried his halberd.

“Lord Lansius wishes to share a few words with you. Firstly, he wants you to know that he wished to stand with you, whom he regards as blood brothers.”

He then commented off-script, “Can you imagine that a Lord thinks of you, the scum of Midlandia, as his blood brothers?”

His off-the-cuff remark prompted chuckles from the men, easing their tension.

The Marshal returned to his script. “The Lord feels disgraced that he cannot fight alongside you, but he is needed elsewhere to ensure victory. In this matter, the Lord has assured me that today’s victory is as certain as death by old age.”

As expected, the mention of death sparked strong emotions in the men. The Marshal continued, "Men, do not fear death... Embrace it. Let it strengthen your resolve and drive you to fight your hardest," he said with compassion. "Blood and guts will be shed, but ultimately, victory will be ours. The sacrifices made will not be in vain. They will bring glory and riches to you, your family, and your descendants."

These words pumped up the men, steeling their resolve. The promise of wealth was always a good cause to die for.

Afterward, the knight solemnly asked, “Remember your upbringing and your life before today; it was a wretched life, wasn’t it?”

The men collectively nodded in agreement.

Sir Justin chuckled, gazed at the end part of the letter and found it a bit weak so he improvised. "Men, now is the chance to change your fate. Take it from the nobles, take it from their knights, be the master of your own fate!"

Omin positioned his troops to guard against a potential surprise attack from the town’s direction or the south. This position also allowed him the opportunity to raid the town if the chance arose.

The Nicopolans under him were eager for action. The idea that the siege could be over before the end of the season was both thrilling and exciting to them.

However, Omin was cautious, not allowing himself to be swept up in the thought of an easy victory. He still couldn’t fathom what the enemy was thinking by offering a battle.

Lady Daniella shared his concern. Her experience in minor skirmishes as mercenaries informed her that something was amiss.

“The Korelians will try something. You’ll do well to keep an eye on Lord Jorge,” said Omin.

“Will do, My Lord.” Without a verbal command, Daniella led her Nicopolan cavalry to join Lord Jorge as a reserve.

Meanwhile, to the north, the last column, composed mostly of regiments from the South Hill, assumed formation. They positioned themselves against the hill and in the direction of the castle. They were there to counter any potential attack from the castle.

As planned, Lord Jorge and his knights remained with the cavalry, acting as a reserve and quick reaction force.

As the Coalition marched, the summer sun rose higher. Despite being far from midday, the heat was already unbearable. There were no tall trees for shelter, only plains of tall, yellowing grass.

***

In the vanguard, Sir Arius lined his fiercest warriors. His column formed into three-hundred men wide and a solid six deep. Its width was strategically narrowed to counter the crossbowmen that lurked within the shadows of the castle and the ditches.

On the opposing side, the Korelian mirrored their formation. Two-hundred men wide, four men deep, they stood ready for the onslaught.

Despite the looming shadow of Lansius’ notorious reputation, Sir Arius and his brethren brimmed with confidence. Their numbers more than doubled their opponents, and their seasoned scars bore the testament of numerous battles.

As expected, the trumpets cut through the anticipatory silence. Sir Arius nodded towards his Captain, who bellowed the next command, his voice echoing across the battlefield, “Proud warriors of Three Hills, advance!”

At his command, the column began their march eastward. “Shields at the ready!”

Heeding the command, soldiers hoisted shields of all sizes, their surfaces reflecting the bright sunlight.

“Steady! Steady,” the Captain barked as the two armies advanced, each side wary of an imminent volley of bolts from the castle and ditches.

As predicted, the Korelians began their rain of death. Bolts screeched through the air, embedding themselves into the Coalition’s formation. Despite being forewarned, panic flickered in the eyes of the less experienced.

Only the nobility, encased in their suits of armor, were fearless. A few hundred donned ringmails or brigandines, which offered some protection. However, the bulk of the men sported gambeson, which offered little protection against the lethal bolts. With every breath they drew, they clung to their wooden shields, praying for them to protect them from the barrage.

The sounds of deflected shots, near-misses, and shields punctured by crossbow bolts were a chilling symphony, disheartening even for the hardened veterans. The column stretched and contorted as the center was squeezed, taxing their strength and stamina as they advanced within the last hundred paces.

Fsszhhh! Clank!!

Shrieks of agony and desperation suddenly filled the air.

“F-Fuck!” A bolt had found its mark, striking Sir Arius’ neck gorget. The impact was cushioned by the hardened steel, but the force choked him.

All around him, men were struck, their bodies crumpling as they succumbed to their wounds, even though encased in full plate. The advance wavered.

Then, a movement caught their eye. The Korelian front line had knelt, unveiling a hidden group of arbalester. The morning sun, high in the east, had blinded Sir Arius’ men from the incoming rain of bolts.

“Charge! Give the order to charge,” Sir Arius wheezed, rallying his men through the slit of his visor. He knew the consequences of hesitation.

With the rain of crossbow bolts painting the air with a deadly dance, the Coalition charged headlong into the Korelian line, a tidal wave of steel and determination.

***