Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

Chapter 510 92 Act 2_2

At the same time that dense smoke was seen rising in the north, Lt. Col. Robert ordered the Bridgelin camp to prepare for war.

The troops at the Bridgelin camp were divided into two parts: "those who could sortie" and "those who could not."

Winters's hundred-man team was, because of their strong combat power, assigned to the side of the forces that could sortie.

The premonitions of the two "pessimistic" officers soon came true.

As the sky was just beginning to lighten, an envoy cavalry, who had lost his helmet, brought Alpad's ring and a verbal message: The Bridgelin camp's defenders were to move out to meet them.

"Could this be a fake?" objected Lt. Varga, opposed to the idea of a sortie: "Would General Alpad ask us for help?"

Lure the defenders out of their solid camp and then surround and annihilate them. This trick had already been overused by the barbarians, cautioning the Paratu People to be wary.

"It has been verified, the ring is real, and so is the person," Lt. Col. Robert put an end to all discussion: "Alpad must have really run into trouble."

Carrying three days' worth of dry food and a day's drinking water, but without any supply wagons, Lt. Col. Robert led twelve hundred soldiers in a light-armed sortie.

Winters was among them.

...

Keep walking, step forward, keep moving without stopping.

Initially, there were only scattered Hurd light cavalry around; their courage was as tiny as that of sparrows, and they would flee at the slightest scare.

The further they advanced, the more numerous the barbarians gathered around Robert's troops became.

As their numbers grew, the barbarians' audacity swelled; a lone rider would only stealthily watch from afar, but a group of a dozen or so dared to boldly approach and observe.

Strong Tess snorted, and Winters gently caressed its neck. Horses snort when they are anxious and when they are excited; only a rider intimate with them can discern the subtle differences.

"Easy there, little one," Winters fastened his helmet, lifted his gorget, and lowered the visor: "Take it easy."

Eight hours later, Alpad's Department finally joined forces with Robert's troops.

The barbarian cavalry retreated in defeat, but the Paratu People had only won a Pyrrhic victory.

Winters saw Jeska of Wolf Town, Dusack; the cavalry of the Jeska squadron had also joined in the battle with Alpad last night.

He did not see Andre or Bard.

"Andre! Bard!" Winters frantically searched among the wounded, asking everyone he saw: "Have you seen Lt. Bard? What about Lt. Chellini?"

No one could provide an answer.

Amidst the clamor of voices and the neighing of horses, Winters's mind was a complete blank.

"I think I saw Lt. Chellini behind us," mentioned a soldier in a low voice.

Winters mounted his horse and galloped to the back of the column.

He did not see Andre, but he did see Andre's extremely robust black warhorse.

That horse he could not mistake, for it was the champion of Terdun, found by the river after the battle.

By the rules, as Winters had defeated the champion of Terdun in combat, the horse belonged to him, but he had then gifted it to Andre.

Seeing that black horse and, upon closer inspection, recognizing the dirty coachman holding its reins was indeed Andreya Chellini, Winters dismounted and hurried over, gripping Andre's shoulders tightly. He wanted to cry at first, but upon seeing Andre's disheveled appearance, he couldn't help but burst into laughter.

Winters had never seen such a disheveled Andre in his life.

The latter's once-immaculate Piaoqi Troops uniform was now scorched, its tassels completely burnt off.

His bearskin cap was nowhere to be seen, and at the moment, he wore a tattered needle-and-thread cap that he swore he would "never be caught dead wearing"—it seemed warmth was more important.

Winters had a bit of stubble on his chin because he had been too lazy to shave.

Andre, in contrast, had meticulously grown a very refined beard for the sake of looking handsome, requiring daily grooming.

Now, that beard was gone, or to be precise, singed and curled.

Andre's face was smeared so badly it looked as if he'd washed it with coal—an extreme contrast to his usual appearance, making it so that Winters, at first glance, did not recognize that "coachman" as Andre.

"How did you get here?" Andre was initially startled, but recognizing who was before him, he was extremely pleased.

"We came to support you!" Winters quickly asked, "Where's Bard?"

Andre's face turned ashen as he pointed to the crude sled that the black horse was dragging, and said in a low voice: "He's in the back."

The black horse was dragging a rudimentary sled made of branches and straps. Bard lay motionless on the sled, with his head haphazardly wrapped in blood-soaked bandages.

The words struck Winters like a bolt from the blue; his vision darkened, threatening to buckle his knees.

"He's not dead!" Andre noticed something was amiss: "He's not dead!"

Ignoring everything else—although he really felt like punching Andre hard—Winters immediately checked Bard's condition.

Bard was still breathing but in a deep coma. None of the other injuries on his body were fatal, so that only left the wound on his head.

"He got hit by a hammer on the head," Andre became increasingly distressed, "Even his helmet was dented in."

"As long as he's alive, that's good," Winters carefully secured Bard's neck with a piece of clothing: "Alive is good."

Andre squatted down, grabbing his hair in agony: "What are we doing... what is this?!"

"I... don't know either."

"We should've run; from the very start, we should've fled. If we had made up our minds then to escape back to Vineta, now we..."

"No, listen to me!" Winters yanked Andre to his feet, looking him directly in the eye, and spoke word by word, "What happened in the past doesn't matter anymore. Now, whether we like it or not, we have to win this war for the Paratu People. Only by doing so will we have a chance to survive."