Chapter 31: For the Glory of Our Loved Ones

I was wrong.

After a brief period of slow movement, Winston’s Heavy Infantry began to speed up: from a walk to a quick step, from a quick step to a trot. These warriors, chosen from the regular soldiers for their unusually tall and strong builds, had enough strength to carry their heavy armor and massive swords, and there was enough distance from the dock to the first defensive line for this dangerous army to gain speed. When they finally turned their trot into a full sprint and built up enormous momentum, I could already feel the immense force of these men even before a single clash.

To be fair, their running speed was not very fast. That was a statement soldiers who had once managed to stay alive by the skin of their teeth under Carlson were qualified to make. But you can imagine the enormous pressure you would face when a squad of huge men, fully armored and weighing as much as two people each, charged straight at you in formation without hesitation, and you had no way to dodge.

Sweat had already gathered in my palms. I wondered what burden Rodrick and the others below the city, who were facing this charge directly, were carrying.

“As expected of the Winston Imperial Army, said to be the strongest on land.” Fred looked seriously at the Heavy Infantry formation approaching step by step below. A resolute look that did not match his age appeared on his face, and even I had the illusion of mistaking his age.

“Even during a rapid charge, they can keep their formation intact. This Duke Rivera is not a simple opponent.”

I had no time to listen to my friend’s praise of the enemy. Below the city, the first rank of Heavy Infantry, already not far from the barricades, raised their shields in unison. Heavens, they actually disdained to move the obstacles blocking their path. I had never heard of such a savage and unreasonable method of fighting.

Only those strong enough could be unreasonable. I had seen that with my own eyes. The soldiers in the first rank suddenly accelerated, concentrated their strength, and slammed into the joints where several barricades were connected. Then, using the momentum, they pushed the obstacles blocking the way aside and cleared several passages wide enough for two men to pass side by side. The soldiers behind were almost completely unhindered, and calmly and quickly they charged in orderly formation toward the next obstacle.

“Archers, ready!” Rodrick’s voice came from the first defensive line. There was no panic, no fear. His voice carried a trace of hatred so subtle it was hard to notice.

He was a somewhat introverted young man, and his introversion was different from Roll’s. He was not timid when talking to strangers, and he did not blush when shouting curses with his comrades, but he would never show his feelings in front of us or talk about what was on his mind. His behavior in the past few months had been so calm that we even thought he had forgotten that his brother had died in front of him at the hands of the Winston. He ate and slept like us, trained and joked like us. When facing Kaplan’s great axe on the river, he did not behave more impulsively or more bravely than us.

But we all knew that this was his way of expressing himself.

It was not time that had weakened his hatred for the Winston. On the contrary, once this long-suppressed hatred burst out, it would be fiercer and hotter than ever.

Now he had a chance to avenge his brother openly on the battlefield and collect his blood debt like a true warrior. If I were him, I would never miss this chance.

“Volley!” The cold order was shouted out loudly. A wave of arrows flew low and flat over the line Rodrick had set up and pierced densely into the Heavy Infantry formation.

The damage caused by this attack was surprisingly small. Only a few scattered soldiers fell in the rain of arrows. Some arrows barely pried open the enemy’s thick armor and caused light, non-fatal wounds. More arrows scraped against their bright, smooth armor and flew off at an angle, not even making a loud sound.

The Winston broke through the second obstacle.

“Volley! First rank, ready!” Rodrick’s firm voice sounded again. He drew his standard-issue officer’s longsword, pointed it at the sky, and shouted to the soldiers around him: “For the glory of our loved ones!”

“For the glory of our loved ones!” Not just the first rank of defenders—the defenders of every rank raised their weapons and shouted with abandon. No one fell back.

The Winston broke through the third obstacle. The first defensive line was right before them.

“Volley! Infantry, advance! Spearmen, ready!”

Twenty paces…

“Hold formation!”

Fifteen paces…

“Hold formation!”

Ten paces…

“Volley! Hold formation!”

Five paces…

“Raise spears!”

At the command, three or four layers of bright, sharp spears rose in front of the soldiers with short swords in the front ranks, pointing straight at the Heavy Infantry rushing toward them. With a series of crisp cracking sounds, the Winston, for the first time since landing, met a large-scale resistance.

More than a dozen spears pierced through the thick armor of the front-rank soldiers, and the momentum of their own running pushed them deeper into the killing weapons. That was not all. The soldiers in the rear did not stop because of this. Inertia shoved their comrades forward hard, letting the spears pierce through their bodies.

It was a bloody scene.

We did not see the legendary sight of a spear piercing through several bodies at once—that was something the pikemen who joined up with us in the recruit camp often bragged about, and it could happen only when dealing with dense Light Cavalry charging at high speed. The Heavy Infantry’s armor was too tough. After piercing one body, almost all the spears in the first rank broke with a sound and fulfilled their mission.

I said: fulfilled their mission.

Yes, the spears had fulfilled their mission. The Winston had stopped. This steel flood had finally stopped. What stopped them was not only the sandbags and sacks piled chest-high, the ship deck materials used to strengthen the defenses, and the sharp spears, but also bodies of flesh and blood.

None of the ten warriors in the very front who had protected the spearmen survived. They had almost been squeezed and trampled to death by this tide of men. The sand-and-earth barricade had not played the role expected of it and broke apart in an instant. The armored warriors, still pushing against our human wall and spear points, forced their way forward a few more steps before their mad surge finally stopped.

Swords flashed, blades clashed, and the fight became close combat.

If this had been on an open plain, light armor, short swords, and spearmen alone could never have resisted a large-scale, full-frontal charge by Heavy Infantry. Once they smashed a gap, the whole line would collapse.

But this was a dock.

There was only one road here. On this single narrow, long road, the power of the spear reached its extreme. Thrust after thrust, wave after wave of almost endless concentrated thrusts left one body after another on the ground. Soon, the lifeless bodies of their own comrades piled up on top of them. Warriors who had lost their spears drew their short weapons, stepped into the front rank without hesitation, and protected the comrades behind them with their own bodies until death arrived.

On this road, one hundred men blocked the way of nearly a thousand.

They blocked them with difficulty, but they did block them.

“Fall back! Archers, cover them!” Rodrick gave the order decisively while desperately resisting the surging tide. Indeed, the Heavy Infantry’s most threatening charge had been stopped, and the mission of the first defensive line was complete. Going head-on against this powerful force with heavy swords and thick armor without using the advantage of the barricades was not courage; it was stupidity.

The rows of spear formations moved slowly backward. Although the long lack of training had made the formation somewhat chaotic, the concentrated thrusts did not stop. The Winston did not get the chance to swarm forward and slaughter at will. The pressure of death being so close forced the spear ranks to hold their positions. A few stragglers who did not retreat in time were swallowed by the flood of armored warriors and chopped into pieces by several heavy swords working together.

Spears thrust out in time from the second barricade helped Rodrick drive back the nearest enemy. He was the last to leap over the barricade and stood ready.

The second-rank soldiers, full of admiration, made way for their returning comrades to go back to the city. These men had borne the enemy’s fiercest attack head-on and lost almost half their number. Among those who survived, you definitely could not find a single unharmed person. Except for Rodrick, all the soldiers of the first rank went back into the city for treatment.

At the second defensive line, warriors of both armies fought fiercely. The brave Winston soldiers used their strong combat ability and outstanding courage to make up for the disadvantages of terrain and weapons. From time to time, one or two fearless warriors charged through the forest of interwoven blades, dragged their heavy armor over the barricade, swung their huge weapons with savage valor, and before dying, dragged down an unlucky opponent. Some even threw away their protective shields, which were as tall as half a man, took off the helmets that blocked their vision, gave up solid defense, and used their own lives in exchange for more enemies’ lives. Even though they were enemies, I had to admit that these fierce men were true warriors. Their obsession with killing had covered their fear of death. No one, regardless of who they were, would be willing to face such enemies head-on.

Rodrick was confronting them. He stood bravely at the very front, facing three or even four opponents much taller than him at the same time, setting an example for his soldiers.

“For the glory of our loved ones!” Every time the line was on the verge of collapse, he shouted this cry. The soldiers who heard this battle cry seemed to be struck by some evil spell, and as if possessed by vengeful spirits, their fighting spirit surged. They forced back the enemy, whose formation had almost been shattered, again and again. Spears thrust out viciously like poisonous snakes, leaving deep wounds on the enemy’s bodies. When a spear in the front rank was pulled out of an enemy’s body, a new wave of blades rose from the back rank. You could not expect these soldiers to move in a neat and coordinated way, but the terrain and the barricades helped them, making their concentrated thrusts strike the enemy effectively.

“For the glory of our loved ones!” For these soldiers who had left their hometowns and lost their homes and families, there seemed to be no words that could inspire courage more than this. If they could not protect the lives of their loved ones, then at least let them use their own blood to add a little glory to the names of their wives and children. This was already the only thing these hot-blooded men could do for their loved ones.

“For the glory of our loved ones!” They could no longer add a handful of soil to their loved ones’ graves or place a bouquet of flowers there. Then at least, when they thought of their loved ones’ faces and said their names, let them be able to stand tall with their heads high, feel no shame, feel no regret, and not toss and turn all night because they had personally let the murderers who brought harm to their loved ones get away.

“For the glory of our loved ones!” For a father’s sternness, for a mother’s tenderness, for a sister’s gentleness, for a brother’s fierceness. For one’s own name—that was perhaps the first and only keepsake one’s elders gave one. For one’s own surname—it was not only nobles who had a history worth being proud of. From today, from now, from the moment an enemy’s blood splashed from the spear in one’s hand, my surname would be carved into history. Perhaps someone would feel great pride because he shared my surname. Thousands of years later, those who shared my surname but had no blood relation to me would tie my surname tightly to their pride.

“For the glory of our loved ones!” Not for the glory of a king, not for the glory of the land, not for the glory of a master, not for the glory of a superior, not for the glory of those cruel, cowardly, stupid people who had nothing to do with us. The names of our loved ones gave us reason to fight; the glory of our loved ones gave us reason to pursue courage.

For the glory of their loved ones, an army that had been in disarray only three days ago stood against a larger number, facing the most ferocious enemy on the continent without showing the slightest fear. It was true that the enemy’s physical strength could not be overcome, but our soldiers possessed true courage. This courage made the fleeing sheep sharpen their horns and made the darting sparrows show their claws.

This unexpectedly stubborn resistance plunged the powerful enemy into a bitter struggle. Even though they held an absolute numerical advantage, the loss ratio on the battlefield was almost one to five in our favor. When the defensive line finally collapsed and Rodrick gave the order to fall back, fewer than fifty of the two hundred spearmen remained. It was impossible to find a lightly wounded man among these dozens. Every single one of them carried at least six or seven wounds serious enough to make a man lose his will. Rodrick’s left elbow had been cut open in a deep gash, and his arm was almost completely useless, but this was not his worst wound. Blood covered his whole body, and at least half of it had flowed out of his own body. His soldiers tried to persuade him to go back into the city for treatment, but he stubbornly refused. After a simple bandaging, he stood again in the position of frontline commander.

“Pull him back. Knock him unconscious if you must, but pull him back.” Fred gave this order to a guard with tears in his eyes. But when the guard turned and left, my friend called him back: “Stop. Cancel that order. Tell him we need him there until the end.”

In the short battle just now, Rodrick had raised the banner of leadership in the hearts of the soldiers below the city. That banner’s power could not be replaced by anyone else. If Rodrick left, the remaining three defensive lines would become unable to withstand even one blow at once. Fred knew this, I knew this, and Rodrick himself knew it too.

“Go tell him that he is my soldier. Tell him to come back alive to see me. Otherwise, even if he becomes a ghost, I will find a hound from hell to chase him for three days and three nights.” Carlson grabbed the guard and shouted with red eyes. At this moment of life and death, our cold-blooded commander could not help showing his true feelings. “Tell him he is a good man. He has earned enough honor for his brother.”

The guard braved the danger and rushed out of the city gate to deliver these words to Rodrick face to face. On the city wall, we saw Rodrick raise high his longsword, whose blade edge was already curled, and give a standard military salute toward the gate tower.

“For the glory of our loved ones!” The voice rang out once more and echoed through the sky.