Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

Chapter 508 91 Act 1

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After twelve days of probing and harassment, the battle by the banks of the Styx had scarcely begun before it reached its most critical moment.

It seemed that the White Lion had driven the Paratu people into a desperate situation, but in reality, the Paratu people also had the White Lion by the throat.

With a great river in front and pursuers behind, there was no way to heaven and no door into the earth. No matter who judged the situation, the Paratu army appeared to be utterly doomed.

Without the Herders even lifting a finger, hunger and despair were enough to crush them.

But who could have imagined that the Paratu people would actually manage to construct a bridge over the Styx.

The Herders were not animals that ate raw flesh and drank blood, they had seen bridges and had their own bridges.

But to produce a bridge with an unstoppable momentum over a mighty and sacred river like Kurwaleya—this completely redefined the Herders' understanding.

If the Paratu could reach the other side in an organized manner, then nothing could stop them from going home.

In that case, the sacrifices made by the White Lion, the people of the Red River, and even all Herder tribes would amount to nothing more than a handful of flying ash.

Therefore, the determination of the White Lion to annihilate the Paratu people was just as firm as the Paratu people's determination to return home.

In their struggle to survive, the Paratu drove the White Lion to burn his bridges as well.

Colonel Haugwitz said, "Barbarians have no boats, at best they could come up with a couple of rafts," he was only half right.

Barbarians indeed had no boats, but cats have their ways, dogs have their paths, and the Herders had their unique method of crossing rivers—the hide rafts.

Peeling off entire cowhides and sheepskins, blowing air into them, and tying up the ends created natural air bladders, and strapping these to a wooden frame made rafts.

The best bladders were made from the hides of old bulls and rams, the older the teeth of the cattle and sheep, the thicker their skins. The most difficult step was in flaying the hide, as even a minor tear meant the entire skin had to be discarded.

The peeled hides still had to go through a process of hair removal, oiling, and sun curing in order to be transformed into a "leather bladder."

Storing the leather bladders was even more troublesome; they had to be preserved against rot, protected from drying and cracking, aired out, soaked, and oiled.

It was precisely because the structure was simple that the requirement for craftsmanship was even higher.

Three years ago, the White Lion began secretly preparing the hide rafts. To this day, the stockpile of sheepskin bladders had exceeded three thousand.

Sekler was right, even though he believed he was overestimating the White Lion, he was in fact underestimating his opponent.

If it had not been for the bridge, relying solely on the capacity of boats to ferry a small number of people across the Styx, the White Lion could still have pursued them.

But with the bridge, the situation was completely different. The bridge's capacity far outweighed that of boats, and the Herders couldn't even "attack the enemy halfway across."

If the Paratu army could maintain their formation and cross the river, then even on the East Bank, the Herders would be powerless against them.

The White Lion must destroy the bridge, or else all his previous efforts would be in vain.

So the White Lion too had reached a dead end—although most Paratu officers hadn't yet realized this, they would soon understand.

Haugwitz looked down on the rafts; a raft made of a dozen sheepskin bladders could hardly carry three or four people.

But what about a hundred sheepskin bladders? Or a thousand?

The Paratu's bridge was imaginative, but imagination... the Herd Barbarians had it too.

If anyone thought that the White Lion relied on driftwood to knock down the bridge pilings, they were sorely underestimating him.

Driftwood was just for removing the Dragon Slayer Sword. Now that the last barrier had been breached, it was time for the fire ships to take the stage.

Two thousand sheepskin bladders were tied together to form two giant hide rafts, carrying all the flammable materials that the Herders could gather, and with unstoppable momentum, they crashed towards the bridge.

The giant hide rafts were like floating castles, making even the pile-driving ships look particularly diminutive.

Either the Paratu would die or the Herders would die in vain; the White Lion staked everything on this single throw of the dice.

There was no need for Sekler to give the order, as every drummer in Paratu was vigorously beating their drums.

The oarsmen on the small boats were exerting all their strength, propelling the boats at high speed towards the "fire rafts."

The small boats launched grappling hooks, trying to drag the rafts away.

But on the rafts, there were Barbarian archers and oarsmen too; as soon as a hook caught hold of a raft, it was cut by a scimitar.

A brave Paratu soldier leaped onto a raft, three gleaming scimitars swung at him and he was sliced down in the blink of an eye.

But he had bought time for his comrades, and three more Paratu soldiers seized the chance to jump onto the raft.

Paratu oarsmen swinging their oars and Barbarians wielding their scimitars fought on the unstable hide rafts, while the musketeers on the boats and the archers on the rafts aimed at each other's foreheads and exchanged fire.

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Both sides were seeing red; it was a matter of kill or be killed, with no room for reason.

Only by risking their lives could they hope for a slim chance of survival.

The curved blades left terrible wounds on the unarmored Paratu soldiers.

But the armored Herd Barbarians, once knocked into the water, would sink instantly, without even a chance to struggle.

The musketeers on the shore finally arrived. The lead balls indiscriminately struck everyone on the rafts, and in the darkness, there were only screams of agony.

"Stop firing! You're hitting our own men!" shouted those on the small boats, their voices hoarse with desperation.

But the people on the shore didn't care and kept firing deadly volleys at those on the rafts.

These two giant rafts were simply too large; bullets hitting them had no effect, and even piercing a couple of sheepskin floats did nothing to sink them.

On the rafts, half of the Herders and Paratu People were fiercely trying to slaughter each other, while the other half were desperately rowing in different directions.

The sounds of killing, roaring, and screaming in two languages mixed together, like a wild beast wailing in agony in the dark.

With the bridge as the center and a radius of one kilometer, at least tens of thousands of Herders and Paratu People were within this range.

But the actual battlefield was only as big as the two giant rafts and twelve small boats.

The outcome—if there truly was such a thing—depended entirely on the battle on the water.

Water, seemingly harmless, now became an insurmountable obstacle.

Both the Paratu People and the Herders on the other shore could only watch helplessly as everything unfolded.

Two armies that had never placed much importance on naval warfare were now staking their victory or defeat on it, and nothing was more absurd, laughable, and deeply frustrating.

Both sides had lost control of the giant rafts, but this was precisely what the White Lion wanted.

The Herders didn't need to control the rafts; letting them drift downstream was enough.

In the Paratu People's desperate gaze, the two unstoppable water castles headed straight for the bridge.

"Boom!"

Because of the Paratu soldiers' desperate obstruction, the Herd Barbarians on the first raft didn't even have the chance to light it up before it solidly struck a bridge support.

The bridge, like an elderly man burdened with weight, stood trembling yet somehow withstood the impact.

Meanwhile, the Paratu sappers hurried to dismantle the bridge, swinging their axes and chopping at the lifeline they had just built with all their might.

It was like cutting off one's wrist to deal with a viper bite; only by sacrificing part of the bridge could they save the rest.

The second burning raft crashed into the first one, and several bridge supports were instantly uprooted.

Those still on the bridge stumbled, and one of the sappers even got thrown off.

Amazingly, the bridge held once more. The supports directly hit by the impact had dislodged from the riverbed, with the rest beginning to tilt as well.

It was as if half the roots of a plant had been torn from the soil, with the other half still stubbornly clinging to the earth, refusing to let go.

Both rafts were now engulfed in flames, and the fire was spreading towards the bridge, causing the sappers dismantling it to flee in panic.

Colonel Laszlo, ignoring the protests of others, leaped onto the now tilting bridge.

While everyone else ran towards the shore, Laszlo was the only one moving against the tide, headed onto the bridge.

He picked up the fallen sapper's axe and hacked at the bridge, stroke after heavy stroke.

The fleeing sappers returned, one after another, picking up their axes and joining Laszlo in destroying the bridge.

The sappers chopped and shouted with each blow, as if trying to drive away all their fears with their voices.

When the last rigid connection was severed, a forty-meter section of the bridge—the part that had been hit and set ablaze—broke away and was pushed downstream by the flaming rafts.

The sight was like a child being torn from its mother's arms, and many on the scene swore they heard the bridge sigh.

While the Paratu People tried with all their might to save their bridge, the White Lion launched an assault on the Southern Highlands and the Northern Highlands encampments.

Alpad, leading the Cavalry, also encountered an unknown number of enemies, and a chaotic battle began in the darkness. Lance clashed with lance, steel met steel.

The White Lion had already set off a storm, and ironically, the quietest place was now Winters' Bridge Forest encampment.