Chapter 682

Clang! Thud!

Scattered arrows clattered against armor, some finding flesh with wet, sickening sounds. But the Reach’s cavalry, seasoned and disciplined, remained unfazed. They ignored the occasional fallen horse or unseated rider, pressing forward with unwavering momentum. As orders rang out, they began tightening their formation, shrinking the wide and loose battle line into a more concentrated wedge.

Yet while the soldiers’ positions remained fixed, the artillery had a different challenge to overcome. If the cannons simply pivoted from firing westward at the Reach’s infantry to facing southward at the incoming cavalry, their alignment would shift—what had been a side-by-side formation would become a stacked one. In such a setup, the muzzle blast and shockwave from the rear cannons could injure or even incapacitate the crews operating the ones in front.

The roar of the cavalry charge surged forward like a tidal wave, accompanied by deafening war cries. And then, after a brief, almost eerie silence, the waiting artillerymen finally answered with thunder of their own.

To fire effectively, they had to reposition. They needed to spread out, haul more than half of the cannons a short distance, and realign the entire battery from a vertical arrangement to a horizontal one—so they could face the charging enemy head-on. Only then could they begin loading and prepare for the decisive shot.

Grapeshot had only half the range of solid shot, but it still far exceeded that of bows or crossbows. However, there was a complication: the artillery was stationed within the depths of the wedge formation, protected on all sides by infantry ranks. Though the cannons had formidable range, the spacing of their own lines and the depth of their defensive formations effectively shortened it. This meant the Reach cavalry would enter the range of longbowmen before they reached the kill zone of the grapeshot barrage.

And so, before the cannons could even roar, the sharp twang of bowstrings filled the air.

The western longbowmen, now fully absorbed into Aegor’s forces, loosed the first volleys. To an army of knights and riders wielding steel and riding flesh-and-blood horses, those thirty-odd small cannons were nothing less than thirty reapers of the battlefield.

The wedge formation executed its orders with such speed and discipline that an unintended consequence emerged—having finished their preparations almost immediately, many soldiers found themselves standing idle, waiting. Worse still, the artillery, which should have erupted in fire and fury, remained silent.

The Queen’s army fell into an unnatural hush, a stark contrast to the earth-shaking battle cries of the enemy.

It wasn’t because they were out of ammunition. It wasn’t because something had gone wrong.

It was because they were in no hurry.

Amidst the rising cacophony of hooves and war cries, a more ancient form of ranged warfare had begun its grim work.

Due to limitations in metallurgy and the necessity of mobility and ease of training, Aegor’s army fielded only small-caliber cannons, no larger than six-pounders on Earth. With such small barrels, their payloads were equally limited—each grapeshot canister contained no more than thirty to forty pellets. Any modern military enthusiast witnessing the scene might scoff at the unimpressive firepower.

The Reach cavalry had begun their charge in a loose formation to minimize losses from cannon fire, but a cavalry charge needed density to be effective. To achieve the crushing impact necessary to break infantry lines, they had no choice but to tighten their ranks as they neared their target.
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On the western flank of the battlefield, the thick smoke—intentionally laid as part of Aegor’s deception—began to clear. The false Reach troops posing as an enemy vanguard were on the verge of being exposed. And at this critical moment, a high-pitched, urgent signal rang out from the true Reach main force.

Then, as if to validate the ruse, the Reach army committed to a full-scale advance.

In theory, Aegor’s artillerymen had time to fire a round of solid shot before switching to grapeshot for the second volley. But after weighing accuracy, efficiency, and ammunition reserves, Aegor had chosen a safer approach—foregoing the riskier first strike and loading grapeshot immediately. He would let the enemy come just close enough, then unleash hell at full power.

But the Reach commander, whether through desperation or ruthless calculation, had chosen to go all in. By committing both his infantry and cavalry to a simultaneous assault, he had completely overturned Aegor’s ideal battle sequence. The hope of first smashing the cavalry and then turning the artillery back on the advancing infantry was now impossible.

Aegor let out a slow breath. There was no point in lamenting unforeseen developments. No plan survived the enemy. Instead of dwelling on what could have been, he focused on what must be done.

He still held the advantage—his deception had forced the enemy into a reckless offensive. He just had to capitalize on every inch of that edge, grinding out victory one successful exchange at a time.

The cannons fired.

A deafening, synchronized explosion tore through the battlefield.

Under the force of igniting gunpowder, the grapeshot canisters shattered upon leaving their barrels, sending a storm of iron balls hurtling outward. Thirty overlapping cones of shrapnel expanded through the air, merging into a singular, all-consuming wave of destruction. They overtook the second volley of arrows before the shafts had even reached their mark, turning the sky into a blistering cascade of hot lead and cold steel.

The front ranks of the Reach cavalry disappeared in a mist of blood and splintered bone.

Aegor’s original plan had been simple: lure the cavalry into an ill-fated charge, crush them, and then force the infantry into a panicked response. If the enemy commander hesitated, so much the better; if he foolishly pressed forward, then the trap would only deepen.

But now, with the full enemy force pressing forward at once, his strategy had to adapt.

No matter. The battle was still his to win.

Had he been leading a modernized army like the Unsullied, with drilled musketeers and artillery divisions, things would have been far simpler. But the Westerlands army was a true feudal force—wealthy, well-equipped, but bound by the traditions of cold steel. Their strength was in superior arms and armor, not disciplined gunpowder volleys.

And so, before the cannons had even fired, before the artillerymen had finished reloading, the longbowmen loosed again.

A cloud of black-fletched arrows darkened the sky, hissing downward like a storm.

Aegor felt the briefest twinge of unease—then pushed it aside.

There was no time for doubt.

The artillery had its work cut out for them. The wedge formation’s compact design and strategic positioning had been carefully chosen to ensure that any enemy attack—no matter the direction—could be answered with cannon fire.

"Kill them all!"

The cry rang out across the Queen’s ranks, as clear as a bell over the thunder of hooves.

Despite all their meticulous preparations, despite the soldiers steeling themselves for this very moment, there was no avoiding the truth—moving these iron monstrosities, pivoting and repositioning them, could only be done so fast.

And the enemy cavalry, once just a distant presence at the battlefield’s edge, had now crossed the threshold of no return.

The charge had entered its final phase.

Drums pounded. War horns blared. The Reach cavalry, now fully committed, pushed from a gallop into a full-blown sprint.

The ground shook.

With every second, the thunder of hooves grew louder, the frequency and force exceeding even the frantic hammering of the soldiers’ own hearts.

The first wave of Reach knights, spurred by their commanders’ signals, surged forward—shields raised, lances poised, warhorses hurtling toward the western army’s formation like a living avalanche.

The true battle was about to begin.