The rainy season had passed, and April brought the busy harvest of winter wheat. The entire Northland buzzed with activity.
Just as
With the mountain barbarian army's invasion imminent, Lorist had issued specific orders: while harvesting winter wheat, they must not neglect military preparedness. Sword in one hand, sickle in the other—they were to remain ready at all times to repel the barbarian tribes' incursion into their territories.
However, it was not until the winter wheat harvest was complete and spring plowing was halfway done that news finally arrived from Twin Mountain Town—the mountain barbarian army had finished assembling and was about to descend. Following the prearranged plan, the residents of Twin Mountain Town began evacuating rearward, deliberately leaving behind signs of a hasty, panicked retreat to deceive the descending barbarian host.
On April 21st, the barbarian vanguard occupied Twin Mountain Town. The large quantities of fine wine and abundant daily necessities that had been deliberately left behind filled the vanguard troops with delight. Every barbarian believed their overwhelming force could sweep through the entire Northland, and they scrambled to serve as the vanguard, terrified of falling behind and missing their chance at plunder.
Lorist arrived at Crouching Bull Fortress on April 23rd. The defensive wall stretching from here straight to Turtle Mountain Fortress was about to face the barbarian army's assault, and Lorist had to be present to command. That afternoon, however, he received an urgent message carried by a messenger dispatched by Sir Vasinma, acting regiment commander of the Hunter Cavalry Corps in the eastern Northland—the Fisablen family had sent Princess Sylvia as envoy to the Northland, prepared to discuss prisoner ransoms and trade matters with the four-family alliance.
Lorist was both pleased and troubled upon receiving the news. He was pleased because the old fox of a Grand Duke of Fisablen had finally acknowledged that the tide had turned and defeat was inevitable—sending an envoy to the Northland meant admitting defeat. He was troubled because the envoy was Princess Sylvia, and he was far too busy to go greet her personally. After much deliberation, he could only send a guard to notify
Truth be told, what weighed most on Lorist's conscience was not knowing how to face Princess Sylvia. He was well aware that by falling out with the Grand Duke of Fisablen, leading his family's forces to destroy the Iblia Duchy, annihilating several of the Fisablen family's legions, inflicting enormous losses upon them, and suppressing their rise to power, he had long since become the Fisablen family's mortal enemy and thorn in their side.
Precisely because of this, Princess Sylvia—who had been deeply devoted to him and had sworn to marry no one else—must have suffered grievance and censure within her own family. As that unreliable Duke Kenaist had joked, the campaign against the Iblia Kingdom was really just the four-family Northland alliance venting Lorist's anger—who told the old Grand Duke of Fisablen to refuse Lorist's proposal to Princess Sylvia? The common rumor now held that the Norton Family had destroyed the Iblia Kingdom in a rage because the Grand Duke had rejected the marriage between the Norton Family head, Grand Duke Norton, and Princess Sylvia. Poor Sylvia was practically synonymous with "femme fatale" now.
Lorist let out a soft sigh. He could only wait until the war with the mountain barbarian tribes was over before properly making it up to Sylvia, that innocent girl. She had suffered on his behalf and earned the undeserved reputation of being a femme fatale. In truth, both the Grand Duke of Fisablen and he himself knew perfectly well that even if the marriage proposal had been accepted, the war could not have been avoided. This was a struggle between the Fisablen and Norton families for dominance over the entire northeastern region of the former empire—one of them would inevitably have to fall.
"Your Highness, the mountain barbarians are here."
Lorist looked up to see dark specks appearing among the dense mountain forests in the distance. Those specks quickly merged into a vast, dark mass, surging toward the defensive wall like a rising tide. He raised his monocular telescope and saw barbarian warriors clad in assorted beast-hide armor—some even bare-chested—with fierce, dark-green patterns painted on their bodies and faces. They wielded bronze axes and other crude yet distinctive weapons, their unkempt hair and beards flowing as they charged forward.
Around four o'clock on the afternoon of April 23rd, the barbarian army's advance force launched its first assault on the defensive wall stretching sixty to seventy li between Crouching Bull Fortress and Turtle Mountain Fortress. These barbarian warriors had never seen a defensive wall so tall and long. They often had to halt at the moat before the wall, stunned as they stared into the three-to-four-meter-deep ditch bristling with sharpened wooden stakes at the bottom, only to have their lives easily claimed by the war chariots' steel crossbows from atop the wall.
In the first attack, the barbarian vanguard abandoned four or five hundred corpses before turning tail and fleeing. It was not until near dusk, around five or six in the evening, that they launched another probing assault. This time, the barbarian warriors advanced carrying crude wooden shields bound together with vines, moving to the edge of the moat hoping to fill it and create a path to the wall. But under the steel crossbow fire from the ramparts, they were quickly annihilated—nearly a thousand brave, death-defying barbarians fell, and their crude shields were shattered by the crossbow bolts. Stripped of cover, the surviving warriors had no choice but to retreat once more.
The steel crossbowmen racing back and forth along the broad wall-top were all exhilarated. The barbarian warriors standing below the wall at the edge of the moat were practically living target dummies—stubbornly refusing to withdraw, their bravery earning them nothing more than being skewered into neat rows by the crossbow bolts…
The defensive wall between Crouching Bull Fortress and Turtle Mountain Fortress stretched seventy-two li long, stood eight meters high, and was five to six meters wide. Rather than a single unbroken straight wall, it featured watchtowers and turrets protruding at intervals of every five or six li, serving as rest and duty stations for the patrolling guard soldiers. When battle broke out, these towers could divide the wall into segments for individual guard companies to defend. Furthermore, ten meters before the wall lay a moat five meters wide and three to four meters deep, turning flat ground into an impassable chasm.
"This is rather boring…" Lorist yawned. These mountain barbarians posed no pressure whatsoever to the Norton Family's forces. Compared to the threats from the allied armies of the four central duchies and the Fisablen family's forces in the second half of the previous year, this was the difference between heaven and earth. Only these green guard battalion soldiers who had never seen real battle could be so excited.
Still, it was rare to let these guard battalion soldiers—who trained year-round—get a taste of real combat and bloodshed. Lorist decided to offer no guidance whatsoever for this defensive battle, observing whether the two guard battalion commanders could competently lead the fight. His presence at Crouching Bull Fortress served two purposes: first, to reassure the guard soldiers defending the wall; and second, to guard against a surprise assault by barbarian shamans of Great Swordmaster caliber. An army of one hundred thousand mountain barbarians surely included several shamans at the Great Swordmaster level. Dealing with them was Lorist's primary objective.
Having been rebuffed twice, the barbarian vanguard finally learned its lesson. Realizing they could not breach this defensive wall on their own, they wisely encamped in the distant forests for the next two days, awaiting the arrival of the main force.
Two days later, the main barbarian army arrived. Lorist found the reports had been accurate—the army numbered well over a hundred thousand, more rather than fewer. Though the barbarians lacked supplies and had no tents, the night was ablaze with countless bonfires stretching as far as the eye could see, like a sky full of stars. The entire mountain forest to the horizon was dotted with piles of burning crimson fires, stretching to infinity…
Many of the guard soldiers had never witnessed such a staggering spectacle. The elation from their initial victory two days prior had been thoroughly swept away. They involuntarily lowered their voices, and their words betrayed their doubts: Could we really hold? How could we possibly kill so many barbarians? We can't possibly win…
The tension and self-doubt before the great battle were thrown to the wind the next day when the barbarian army launched a full-scale assault on the defensive wall. Facing an endless tide of attackers, the defenders simply operated on autopilot—cock, fire, cock, fire. They had forgotten everything, relying only on long-habituated training to respond like wooden automatons, numbly launching counterattacks at their officers' commands.
"Fire!" At the command, the longbow company once again loosed a volley of arrows in a high arc over the dense barbarian horde below. Arrows rained down like a torrential storm, clearing a small patch of ground. Countless struck barbarians clutched their wounds and screamed, but soon another wave surged forward to fill the gap. The lightly wounded were quickly carried away, while the gravely wounded were sent to the Mountain God's spirit kingdom amid war songs praising the Mountain God…
The moat had been filled in several sections by barbarian corpses, tree branches, dirt, stones, and all manner of debris. Countless barbarian warriors poured through these filled sections and pressed up to the base of the wall, only to face a frustrating and embarrassing problem—the long ladders they had brought simply could not reach the eight-meter-high ramparts. Some impatient, hot-tempered barbarians angrily hurled their weapons up at the walltop, managing to cause very minor casualties among the defending guard soldiers.
Some quick-thinking barbarians began shouting to connect two ladders together, but the worksite was immediately spotted by the steel crossbowmen on the wall. The barbarians attempting to join the ladders were promptly cut down by crossbow bolts from above. Despite wave after wave of barbarians pressing forward, not a single ladder that drew the crossbowmen's attention could be successfully connected.
However, several ladders further away, beyond the crossbows' reach, were joined together and propped against the ramparts. But the barbarians brandishing their weapons had not climbed halfway up before large stones hurled from the wall sent them tumbling back down. The sword-and-shield company soldiers, who had been chafing at idleness, finally found their moment—hurling stones downward, tossing fire-oil jars and torches. Not only did those ladders burst into roaring flames, but the ground below the wall caught fire as well. Soon the wind carried the stench of burning flesh, and many guard soldiers retched in disgust.
The barbarian army's grand assault lasted from morning to afternoon. The sole moment of danger came near the end, when a group of elite barbarian warriors managed to storm onto the defensive wall. Before Lorist could act, these few dozen barbarian champions were surrounded and cut down by the Wrathful Bear Knights who had been observing the battle from the ramparts. As these wall-top barbarians were chopped apart like melons by the Wrathful Bear Knights, every remaining barbarian still pressing the attack reeled as if punched in the face. They let out waves of anguished wails, and their movements grew hesitant.
The corpses piled below the wall numbered at least ten to twenty thousand. Today's battle had delivered a harsh lesson—of the fifty thousand who attacked, nearly half had fallen. The barbarians would surely never again think to assault this defensive wall.
At Lorist's command, the wall fell silent. Then it erupted with wave after wave of cheers: "We won! We did it! We held the wall!"
Many utterly exhausted crossbowmen collapsed to the ground on the spot. During the battle, they had been numb, firing on pure mechanical instinct. Only now, receiving the order to stand down, did they realize they were dead tired—too drained to move, their voices hoarse, tears of joy streaming down their faces as they watched their comrades cheering and celebrating…
In stark contrast to the jubilation on the wall, anguished wailing rose from the distant mountain forests, growing louder and merging into a single mournful chorus that seemed even more sorrowful and grieving in the darkening twilight…
Lorist gazed at the distant forests, surveyed the battlefield strewn with corpses, and shook his head as he turned to
After this failed assault, the barbarian army made no further attempts to breach the defensive wall. Over the next three to four days, they only sent parties to collect the bodies of their fallen warriors, and they gathered up all the crossbow bolts that had been fired. However, the barbarians collecting the bodies dared not approach the moat or the wall. In the end, Lorist ordered the spear companies and sword-and-shield companies of both guard battalions to exit the wall under the cover of war chariots, steel crossbows, and longbowmen, carrying the barbarian corpses from below the wall and from the moat to the center of the battlefield to be turned over to the recovery parties.
Another six days of standoff followed. One morning, Lorist was woken early by the booming voice of Terman, who had rushed excitedly to his bedroom door: "Your Highness! Your Highness! The barbarian army has moved—they've split their forces!"
…(To be continued.)