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Chapter 673
🕑 Added 2025-01-29 18:26:37 +0000 UTCBoom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom…
The second round of artillery fire was slightly less synchronized than the first, but the rolling thunder of explosions still carried a lingering echo-like resonance, stretching across the battlefield. First came the flashes of fire and plumes of thick smoke. Then, a beat later, the shockwaves slammed into them. Only at the very end did the cannonballs arrive—hurtling down like judgment from the gods.
Matthos Rowan’s shoulders jerked involuntarily. He held his breath, as if afraid even breathing might summon a cannonball toward him.
----
There had been a gap between volleys.
And that had saved them—barely.
With time to react, his troops had spread further apart, shifting into a looser line formation. A few soldiers, having witnessed the first barrage firsthand, even managed to dodge the rolling cannonballs at the last moment.
The result? Fewer casualties than before.
But only slightly.
Dozens of iron orbs still crashed through the hastily-raised shields of the front ranks. They tore bloody paths through the masses, sending fountains of gore into the air.
Another hundred men gone.
Rowan's breath hitched.
The losses were lower—but the impact was worse.
Because this time, the cannonballs had landed closer.
One shot had missed his command post by mere yards.
He watched in horror as an entire row of men, positioned right beneath his vantage point, were obliterated in an instant. The cannonball struck, bounced twice, then came to a dead stop—mere twenty or thirty paces from where he stood.
The only reason it hadn't kept skipping was the gentle incline of the slope, which had finally buried it in the mud.
Behind him, Rowan’s knights, who had been moments away from dragging their lord onto a horse and fleeing, exhaled in unison.
----
The cannons fell silent.
Smoke, thick and acrid, billowed forward, carried by the southeastern wind, creeping across the Reachmen’s ranks like a funeral shroud.
Less than five minutes into the battle, and the vanguard had already suffered nearly two percent losses.
Terror gnawed at them.
Then came the realization—the command tent had to act now.
----
“My lord, if we take two more rounds of this, our army will break before the battle even begins!”
Ser Osgrey of Standfast swallowed hard. “We must decide, now—fight or retreat! Every second of hesitation means more Reachmen who will never return home!”
----
Fight or retreat?
Return home?
What a load of horseshit.
Rowan didn't give a damn about the fate of some vague "Reachmen."
What mattered was that the next volley might land directly on his head.
A knight could not abandon his lord—but he could certainly urge him to flee.
Osgrey’s speech was righteous in tone, but Rowan’s inner circle knew the truth:
They had never been expected to win.
Their role was to feign defeat.
To lure Aegor into a pursuit.
Rowan wasn’t a fool.
He would never order a suicidal charge in the face of artillery.
This wasn’t about whether to fight or run—it was about how fast they could retreat without looking like cowards.
----
“My lord, I’ve noticed something,”
Ser Webber of Coldmoat was calmer than Osgrey, his voice level.
“The enemy’s cannonballs require an extremely specific angle to skip across the ground. Even a slight rise in terrain drastically reduces their effectiveness. If we move our command post to the reverse side of the slope, we’ll be far less exposed!”
Rowan immediately considered it.
The idea of getting the hell away from the firing line was very tempting.
But he wasn’t so shaken as to forget his duties.
----
“If we move behind the hill, how do we maintain command?”
“The signalers and scouts can remain at the crest,” Webber answered. “We’ll observe from behind the hill, out of sight of the enemy’s artillery.”
“Precisely!” Osgrey pounced on the idea.
“My lord, the army cannot afford to lose its commander! Even if you have yet to decide whether to fight or retreat, at the very least, you must ensure your own survival!”
----
A reverse slope defense.
In this entire world, Webber might be the first person to ever think of it.
Rowan didn’t hesitate.
“Move the command post behind the ridge!” he ordered.
The knights wasted no time, herding him over the crest.
The hill was shallow—so much so that even the rising sun wasn’t fully obscured. But as soon as Aegor’s forces and their cannons disappeared from view, so did the immediate threat of being blown to pieces.
And with that, sanity returned to Rowan’s mind.
----
Charging was suicide.
But standing still and letting his men be slaughtered?
How was that any better?
Yes, the plains of the Reach were vast and open, but the land was not perfectly flat. There were gentle rises and dips—like the very hill he now hid behind.
If his entire army could find cover, they could weather the storm.
----
He voiced the idea.
The response?
Silence.
Not disagreement, but calculation.
The problem was obvious:
The land was uneven, not uniform.
If each unit hid separately, the army would scatter into isolated fragments—easy for the enemy to pick apart.
And communication?
No radios. No instant messaging.
Command relied on flags, drums, and couriers—all of which required clear sightlines.
If the troops were too far apart, command would collapse.
Orders would never reach them in time.
If they scattered now, they’d never be able to regroup.
----
What now?
Seconds ticked by.
Sweat dripped down Rowan’s face.
A horrifying realization pressed down on him:
While he hesitated, Aegor’s gunners were already reloading.
The third volley was imminent.
----
Then it hit him.
Their goal wasn’t to defeat Aegor.
So why did they need a perfect formation?
If they didn’t need to look strong…
Then they only needed to look big.
----
Rowan’s gaze sharpened.
“New orders!” he bellowed.
“All troops are to take cover behind slopes! Leave flag-bearers at the crest to maintain our battle presence!”
A moment of stunned silence.
Then—
“My lord, if the enemy charges—”
Rowan cut him off.
“Listen carefully.”
“The rear guard will patrol the field. If any banner falls before the enemy attacks, the officer responsible will be executed.”
He paused.
“And the moment the enemy moves to engage?”
“Abandon the flags. Abandon the supplies. Run. As fast as possible.”
----
Aegor’s army would not advance as long as the Reachmen stood firm.
But what if the flags still flew…
While the troops had already vanished?
----
“If the cannons keep firing, we’ll bleed them dry of powder.”
Rowan allowed himself a thin smile.
“And if they dare to advance? Then the main cavalry force behind them…”
“Will become their worst nightmare.”
