The Church army mobilized even later than Horn expected. According to the speculations of the privy advisors, he should have realized at that mont that he either had to fight or retreat.
He hesitated without advancing or withdrawing, delaying until now, and Horn had already gathered over 3,000 troops. Surprisingly, it was at this mont that he decided to attack.
The privy advisors had both contingency plans unused, every step taken by the opposing commander walked through unanticipated grounds.
On the midday of February 13th, Kush Cavalry delivered the news that the Church army was gathering.
Horn, who had long waited, imdiately ordered the deploynt of the 12564th regint of the Guard. As for several regints of the Black Hat Army, they remained stationed in place.
After all, nobody knew if anything unexpected might happen, better to reserve so backup and safeguard troops.
"Woo——"
The Legion Commanders who received the attack orders promptly blew the horn, the war trumpet imdiately awakened the entire camp.
In an instant, weapons clashing and footsteps erupted within the camp, black-clad soldiers stread out of the tents and huts in a chaotic yet orderly manner, heading towards the gathering square at the camp gate.
Upon hearing the trumpet, Delawan instinctively leaped from the bed, quickly dressed, grabbed a weapon sword, and rushed out.
This was a habit honed in small-scale battles within the past few days. Those terrifying Church Knights were incredibly fast; one second the trumpet sounded, the next they were visible to the naked eye.
If you weren’t quick enough, the regint wouldn’t wait for you.
"Where’s the enemy? Where have they reached?" Delawan hurried to the gathering square, asking the old service soldiers already present.
Several service soldiers arrived earlier, but their relaxed deanor was not sothing Delawan could match.
They stretched lazily, gathering dicine and makeshift stretchers, "No sign yet, at least five miles away, the War Monks have assembled, we’ll proceed out in sequence."
Hearing the old service soldiers’ words, Delawan beca more tense. He had seen small-scale skirmishes, but had never witnessed such an assembly of seven to eight thousand combined forces.
He thought he had adapted, but evidently, he hadn’t.
Clearly, Delawan was unaware of the "Little Mud Ditch Battle" secret history of the Pope Country.
Delawan’s throat felt a bit itchy, unable to resist drinking several sips of water, which the old service soldier quickly snatched away.
"Stop drinking, careful not to wet your pants from nerves on the battlefield."
"Right, just like you," a familiar service soldier chid in.
"Damn you," the old service soldier glared, pretending to throw the water bag at him.
Seeing several of them jovial and laughing, Delawan couldn’t help but ask, "Aren’t you nervous or afraid? This is a decisive battle."
"Who said? I’m still scared to death," said the old service soldier calmly, while hooking a heavy backpack onto Delawan’s back. "But let tell you, once on the battlefield, even service soldiers no longer control their own fate.
Apart from doing your utmost in your duty, believe in the Holy Father and the Commanders; everything else is in the hands of fate."
Delawan clearly hadn’t grasped the old service soldier’s aning yet, rely nodding blankly, "What do we need to do next?"
"Relax, I’ve got a nice task for you." Without further explanation, the old service soldier placed a battered iron helt on Delawan’s head, "We’re going to help the Miracle Priests push the fireball siege engine."
Pushing the fireball siege engine was indeed a good task, but when pushing it to the pre-prepared mound, Delawan almost collapsed in exhaustion.
Not only him, those Defensive Army and service soldiers were also kneeling on the ground panting.
"This... this is... working... really... good, good task?" Holding his waist, Delawan asked brokenly, casting a sideways glance at the old service soldier.
"With the snow lted, the ground is too soft. I wonder why no one fought for this task?" the old service soldier complained, sitting down on the muddy ground.
Pushing the siege engine was initially a good task because mules and horses pulled the cart, only needing help to push on inclines.
However, after three days of clear weather, the lting snow changed the situation.
The packed dirt roads were still manageable, but on such side roads and adows, it was a mire, where the siege engine wheels frequently sank.
If that happened, they had to lift the cart edge out of the mud and continue pushing.
After a short break, Delawan used breathing techniques to recover his strength, becoming the first among the service soldiers to stand and move again.
Standing on the mound, Delawan gazed down at the battlefield.
The battlefield was not very wide, with the Lapper River behind them, the flags of the Laper River Camp visible across the river.
The riverside area was scattered with willow trees, reeds, nurous gravel patches, and obstructing boulders, about two to three kiloters long and wide.
On the banks, a forest of steel moved slowly, composed of long spears and Holy Guns, arranged in a classic V-shape.
On each side were Holy Gun Cavalry, albeit with Kush Cavalry replacing the Cuirassiers, for the Beastman Cavalry had to patrol the downstream of the South Nao’an River to prevent a diversionary attack by Blago’s commander.
Delawan was about to speak further when a service soldier nearby shouted, "Red-blue flags, left three, right two."
Delawan quickly turned around; he had learned flag signals aning "enemy warning," implicating the Church army had entered the battlefield.
"Can they be seen?" The White Mountain Hermitage’s Astrologer Cultivator squinted myopically, tapping the Fireball Mage’s arm beside him.
"Not yet... wait, no, they’re here, northwest direction."
Taking out an astrolabe and crystal pendant, the Astrologer spun his body tremulously, continuously rotating in place, while the Shaping Wizard lazily rested his hand on the siege engine without casting any spells.
Instead, two service soldiers retrieved several round balls from a wooden box, supported by an iron frawork, wrapped in leather, even with a small winding key aperture left.
One Blessed walked forth, inserting the winding key into the aperture.
As the familiar gear turned, hoofbeats started to echo across the riverside.
Delawan, well-acquainted with hoofbeats, imdiately stepped forward, standing at the edge of the mound.
On the stones and pastures, a colorful line charged down the road, likely three hundred knights.
Battle flags flying, shield armory dyed with blood, symbolizing glory, family lineage.
"In the na of the Lord!"
"Leia!!!"
Swallow-tailed flags and battle cries simultaneously soared skyward.
"300 ters," Delawan, recalling distance asurent techniques from school, instinctively shouted, "250 ters, 200 ters... they’re accelerating!"
Before Delawan completed his shout, a continuous whoosh arose from the mounded hills around.
Dozens of cabbage-sized dark shadows flew up, spanning hundreds of ters, landing along the knights’ charging path.
But the spectacle Delawan anticipated didn’t manifest.
Those were rely leather-frad balls, upon landing ignited neither flas nor acid, the legendary red dragon’s breath and green dragon’s breath absent.
Shouldn’t there be fireballs? He turned toward the lethargic Fireball Mage, uncertain of what transpired.
Subtly, he seemingly heard a piercing buzz, as Delawan looked back at the battlefield, knights stepping past the balls universally displaying pained expressions.
As if an invisible shockwave swept through, the adjacent knights’ horses seed hamred by a great blow, agonizingly neighing.
So reared upright, others stiffened, successively collapsing onto the ground.
Blood flowed from the ears and noses of these horses, nurous stumbling due to dazed legs.
In the two-ter air span, all were airborne Armored Knights.
They rolled across the snow and mud waves erupted, the skies filled with snow and mud scattered by them.
So knights froze in place, as if struck by an immobilization spell, standing motionless until falling off the horse, belatedly crying out.
Dragging fractured limbs, they stared cluelessly at the devastation before them, still unknowing of the enemy’s exact location.
"What was that?" Delawan instinctively stepped forth, nearly tumbling down the mound.
"It’s Princess Hilov’s new secret weapon, I call it the Banshee’s Wail." The Shaping Wizard who grasped him explained, "Inside those leather-frad balls are shattered dragon bone whistles and wind conches driven by brass springs."
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