Chapter 283: Army at the Gates

Over a hundred kilometers from the border, barbarians from various tribes began to gather. Such a massive military assembly naturally could not be hidden from the magical reconnaissance of the border garrison's Mages.

The densely packed tents and the barbarians arriving from all directions terrified the scouting Mages. Viscount Namisha received the news immediately.

Upon hearing the sheer number of tents, even this weathered veteran was shocked. This was merely the initial stage of the barbarian assembly. In a day's time, when the warriors from all the tribes finished gathering, their numbers would be even more terrifying.

Viscount Namisha hurriedly sent an urgent request for reinforcements to His Majesty the King in the Rowe Royal Capital.

After receiving the plea for help, the king merely smiled. He replied with instructions for Viscount Namisha to hold the line for two days—White Castle's reinforcements would arrive soon.

According to the agreement between Baines XXIII and the White Dragon Lord, the White Castle Army would officially enter the battlefield on the dawn of the third day after the war began.

During these three days, the barbarians would inflict some losses on the Kingdom of Rowe, but the situation would remain within a controllable range. In this period, the comprehensive abilities of the four princes would be severely tested; this was also the trial Baines XXIII had set to select the next king.

Meanwhile, the soon-to-depart army of the Overseas Archipelago had already finished assembling. To overwhelm the barbarians with sheer military might, the White Dragon Lord dispatched ten thousand Ogres, one hundred thousand gnolls, and one thousand Fishman Nightstalkers. Combined with the auxiliary troops handling logistics, the total force reached over a hundred thousand.

In terms of numbers, the White Castle Army was far smaller than the barbarian horde. In terms of combat power, however, the difference between the two was like heaven and earth.

The minimum threshold to join White Castle's gnoll troops was to be a professional. Coupled with their innate racial talents, any random gnoll in the army could go one-on-one with a human Intermediate Tier professional. Moreover, in large-scale group warfare, a well-equipped, strictly disciplined army held absolute superiority.

The ten thousand Ogres were entirely clad in heavy armor, making them veritable humanoid tanks. In melee combat, their standard four-meter Spiked Clubs would sweep the battlefield; at range, the javelins hurled by these four-meter-tall, monstrously strong brutes possessed the power of a ballista.

As for the horseback combat the barbarians excelled at, the gnoll cavalry riding hyenas had no fear of them whatsoever. The hyenas themselves served as combat units, and the barbarians' horses were naturally at a disadvantage against fierce carnivores.

By now, these hundred thousand troops had fully assembled in an isolated military zone. Large military transport ships lined the docks, ready to rush to the battlefield the moment the last batch of supplies was loaded.

Once the final batch of supplies was ready, the horn for departure sounded.

Bwooo!

Amid the desolate blasts of the horn, squads of gnolls and Ogres fell into formation. Marching in orderly lines, they left the barracks and headed toward the massive military transports at the docks.

At twenty side-by-side military piers, the large three-masted transport ships waited in line, swallowing squad after squad of soldiers. Once full, they set sail, and the next ships in line immediately moved up to fill the empty berths. Everything proceeded in perfect order, like an assembly line in a factory.

Around the large, wave-cleaving transport ships, squads of Murlocs patrolled back and forth to protect the vessels from attack.

The supreme commander of this military operation, the gnoll Hogg Riverclaw, rested a hand on his blade as he stood at the bow of the flagship. Looking up at the Four-Dragon Ring Banner snapping loudly in the sea breeze, pride swelled in his heart. This was the Yafiavi he fought for.

...

Upon receiving the king's reply, Viscount Namisha let out a sigh of relief. He finally understood why His Majesty had actively provoked the barbarians. With the aid of the Afiaiv Kingdom's overwhelmingly powerful army, the outcome of this battle was already decided.

The Kingdom of Rowe would win!

Viscount Namisha solidified this conviction in his heart and immediately began analyzing the current situation.

Combining sailing and overland marching times, it would take three days for the White Castle Army to reach the battlefield. For those three days, the Kingdom of Rowe would face the furious barbarian horde alone.

Distant water could not quench an immediate thirst. Over the next few days, the Kingdom of Rowe could rely only on itself. How to best preserve their strength and minimize the kingdom's losses was the pressing question this excellent commander needed to solve.

After turning it over in his mind, he concluded that while the barbarians held an absolute advantage in numbers, they lacked siege engines. Defending from within the City Walls was the safest approach.

However, if they merely holed up in the fortress, the barbarians would cross the border and wreak havoc on the interior. This was a situation Viscount Namisha did not want to see.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Just as Viscount Namisha was frowning, holding his pen over the map to formulate a plan, the urgent ringing of an alarm bell pierced the air.

This was a warning from the soldiers on duty at the gatehouse. Startled, Viscount Namisha dropped his pen, snatched his sword from the edge of the table, and strode swiftly toward the City Walls.

Pushing through panicked citizens fleeing for their homes, Viscount Namisha ascended the gatehouse. He immediately spotted plumes of dust rising in the distance—dust kicked up by a massive stampede of horses.

Based on the size of the dust clouds, the seasoned Viscount Namisha judged that the enemy forces numbered no fewer than thirty thousand. His expression grew grave.

"Pass down my orders!"

"Open the storehouses! Ready the arrows and distribute them to the Warriors!"

"Feed all the warhorses top-grade fodder!"

"Notify the First, Second, and Third Cavalry Regiments! Assemble and prepare to sortie for skirmishes outside the city!"

"..."

Behind the Viscount, messengers acknowledged the orders, sprinted down the city steps, and galloped off in all directions across the fortress.

As the commands were relayed, a fat quartermaster wielding a heavy ring of keys led a team of able-bodied men to unlock the storehouses one by one. The men hauled out military supplies and stacked them neatly onto wooden carts waiting outside.

The supplies piled higher and higher, bearing down until the iron-rimmed wheels groaned. Once a cart was fully loaded, a veteran driver cracked his leather whip against the rump of his draft horse.

Pulling the heavy loads, the horses trotted down the empty streets toward the City Walls, while the next carts moved up to fill the vacant spots.

The veterans perched on the edges of the carts, cracking their whips whenever the pace slowed. The alarm bells had sent the city's residents scurrying indoors, locking their doors and windows tight, leaving the streets completely deserted. The wagons were free to run without fear of trampling anyone.

Weighed down by their cargo, the draft horses moved slowly, and cavalrymen atop fine steeds frequently overtook them.

Though no match for the cavalry, the draft horses were still a hair faster than the infantry on foot. Passing squads of soldiers jogging along the street edges, the arrow-transport carts arrived at the nearby City Walls.

The logistics soldiers immediately split off a squad to unload the carts, carrying bundles of arrows in their arms up onto the ramparts.

On the stairs leading up to the walls, soldiers hauling supplies kept to the inside lane on their way up, while empty-handed soldiers rushed down the outside edge. They brushed past one another without hindering the flow in the slightest.

The moment a cart was emptied, the veteran driver cracked his whip, and the draft horse pulled it back toward the storehouses.

Beneath the towering City Walls, stablehands fed the cavalry's warhorses a mixture of bean bran. To prepare for the potential cavalry clashes ahead, these steeds needed massive amounts of energy, feasting on rich fodder rarely seen in normal times.

The riders of these horses, having finished assembling, sat in rows at the base of the wall. They gnawed on freshly distributed dried meat, washing it down with hard liquor or water.

Just like their mounts, the cavalrymen needed meat to replenish their stamina. They viciously tore into their jerky as if ripping into the flesh of their enemies, taking gulps of water or alcohol whenever they grew thirsty.

As the fiery liquid burned down his throat and into his stomach, one soldier threw his head back, exhaling a plume of white breath with a satisfied sigh.

With a slightly flushed face, he shook his military canteen. Hearing the slosh of the small amount of fine wine left inside, he smacked his lips, reluctantly hooking the canteen back onto his belt.

In ordinary times, he would absolutely drink until he was dead drunk, but with a massive battle looming, he could not afford to indulge.

Located in The North, the weather was freezing. Northerners all possessed the tradition of drinking to fend off the cold, and alcohol was not banned in the border garrison. However, if a man got too drunk to take the field, his commanding officer would not even wait for the enemy to arrive—he would chop off the drunkard's head as a warning to the rest.

Their bellies full of food and drink, the soldiers drew their longswords. They used the hems of their tunics to polish their blades, their touches as gentle as caressing a lover's face.

A weapon was a Warrior's second life. Polishing their arms before battle and offering a prayer to their chosen deities was a long-standing tradition.

Some prayed for victory and the chance to earn titles of nobility. Others merely prayed for survival. Failing that, they prayed that after they died, the gods would swiftly send an envoy to escort their souls to the eternal kingdom.

Above the praying soldiers, the men stationed up on the City Walls had no time for prayer. They kept their eyes fixed on the approaching dust clouds, their hearts hammering in their chests. Even veterans felt their pulses race before stepping onto the battlefield.

At their feet lay neatly stacked bundles of arrows, and at the corners of the ramparts behind them sat piles of heavy boulders. Although the barbarians lacked large siege engines, they still possessed crudely built scaling ladders, and their grappling hooks were a threat that could not be ignored.

Aided by a flawless chain of command, Midolan Fortress—where Viscount Namisha was stationed—completed its battle preparations.

The infantry had donned their standard chainmail, and the cavalry stood beside their warhorses. Because their enemies were barbarians, more than half of the Kingdom of Rowe's border garrison consisted of light cavalry, while the more commonplace infantry and auxiliary troops made up the rest.

Aside from the emergency response and reserve units, the infantry stood on the City Walls alongside Viscount Namisha, the supreme commander of the border guards, watching the barbarian ranks draw ever closer.

The barbarian army finally breached the horizon. Tens of thousands of barbarians, riding fine steeds, spread out and charged straight for Midolan Fortress. The thundering of hooves shook the heavens. Judging by their posture, they seemed intent on encircling the stronghold.

However, this was not the case. Charging cavalry kicked up massive amounts of dust; if they rode in long columns, the riders in the rear would swallow thick clouds of dirt. No one could endure inhaling dust for long. Consequently, cavalry units on the march did their best to ride in wide horizontal lines.

"Ooo-ooo-ooo!"

It was not long before the soldiers on the wall heard the barbarians' distinctive war cries mingling with the thunder of hooves.

Viscount Namisha's expression darkened.

"Order the First, Second, and Third Cavalry Regiments out of the city. Tell them to scatter into the forests."

"Yes, sir!"

As the orders were relayed, the rear gates of Midolan Fortress swung wide open. The three designated cavalry regiments filed out, galloping toward the vast forests in the interior of the Kingdom of Rowe.

The Kingdom of Rowe had constructed five military fortresses along its border with the barbarians. The hundred-thousand-strong border garrison was spread across these five strongholds, maximizing the protection they offered the kingdom's interior.

Midolan Fortress sat dead center among the five, serving as the border garrison's central command. Inside Midolan Fortress were six cavalry regiments, each two thousand men strong.

In peacetime, these six regiments rotated patrols along the border, preventing small bands of barbarians from slipping inland to cause trouble.

But now, with a massive barbarian horde attacking, keeping their already disadvantaged forces spread thin would be absolute folly. Viscount Namisha had concentrated all six regiments here.

The barbarians lacked siege engines but held a massive advantage in strength. Viscount Namisha guessed they would employ a strategy of surrounding the fortress without storming it, trapping the garrison inside. Then, they would send detachments past the city to pillage the Kingdom of Rowe's border villages, trying to goad the defending troops into sallying forth.

Rather than being forced to deploy under pressure, it was better to preemptively dispatch a portion of his forces into the hinterland forests to ambush any passing barbarian detachments. Cavalry hidden in the woods would also serve as a powerful deterrent.

The forces remaining inside the city were more than enough to hold the fortress. The three cavalry regiments kept back would act as a strategic deterrent; once the White Castle Army arrived, they could be used in a pincer attack against any barbarians ravaging the kingdom's interior.

Viscount Namisha sighed. Even with cavalry scattered as a deterrent, there were simply too many villages within the kingdom to protect them all.

Fortunately, they had notified the villagers in advance to flee to the nearest cities for refuge. Yet, while the monks could run, the temple remained. The abandoned villages would inevitably be ravaged by the barbarians.

Just beyond crossbow range, the barbarian army halted their horses. They fanned out into a long horizontal line, howling strangely and waving their weapons in the air.

Hailing from different tribes, these barbarians favored all sorts of weapons—the most common being axes, scimitars, and spears. Their clothing was completely unstandardized, making them look like a ragtag mob. Yet the combat power of this mob was not to be underestimated.

There was a good reason the barbarians had become a scourge upon The North. They were physically robust, masterful horsemen who struck like the wind, and they fought with ruthless savagery. When driven into a frenzy, they would even tear into wilderness monsters with their bare teeth. Ordinary people truly were not their match.

In the distance, a single barbarian spurred his horse, breaking away from the ranks and galloping toward Midolan Fortress.

Halting below the gates, this muscular, war-painted barbarian sneered up at the men drawing their bows along the ramparts.

"I am Pomahan! Chieftain of the Muro Clan! Leader of this great army! Tell your commander to show himself!"

Up on the wall, Viscount Namisha spoke in a ringing voice.

"I am the supreme commander of the Kingdom of Rowe's border garrison—Namisha Schimmel! Speak your piece!"

"Namisha?! I've heard of you!"

Pomahan's voice suddenly spiked a few pitches higher as he demanded furiously, "Who gave you the courage to slaughter the children of Sandonar?! Do you dare come out and fight me to the death?!"

"I do not dare!"

Viscount Namisha's perfectly matter-of-fact tone choked the barbarian chieftain, rendering him completely unable to deliver the rest of the furious speech he had prepared.

The scene immediately became incredibly awkward.