Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

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Defeat in the main battle renders victories on subordinate fronts meaningless. When the main force is annihilated, auxiliary troops will not survive either.

Mason and Winters were busying themselves around a cannon.

"Can the ammunition be used?" Colonel Jeska came over and asked.

"The shells are fine! There's only a little gunpowder left." Mason's lips were trembling as he cursed, "Damn! What kind of weather is this! It starts raining just like that! And in winter too!"

"Is it still possible to fire?" the colonel asked again.

"I can." Winters gritted his teeth and answered, "I'll use magic to ignite it through the tarp, as long as no water gets into the bore."

"Alright, then fire them all!" Colonel Jeska's tone remained cool as usual, and with those words left.

His expression was also the usual, impassive, betraying no hint of emotions, with only his remaining right eye fixedly staring at people.

Yet it was this very face that normally made people avert their gaze, that now brought everyone an odd sense of stability.

The irritated Mason kicked a carriage fiercely, and sullenly said, "If I can survive and get home this time, I swear I'll never use this kind of junk carriage again!"

Four cannons set off at the beginning, but only two remained upon arrival at the battlefield. Stay updated with My Virtual Library Empire

For most of the artillery, the barrel and the carriage required separate transportation.

Some light artillery had their own carriages and could be directly towed.

But these four six-pounder long cannons meant for defending the fort had none, so they were brought on ordinary horse-drawn carriages.

Even if there were gun carriages, the [suspensions] and [bearings] were insufficient to support fast and long-distance travel.

The carriages of the time consisted of wooden wheels on iron axles, moving as if at a snail's pace, with creaking sounds audible from a mile away.

They couldn't even keep up with the pace of foot soldiers, let alone follow Colonel Jeska's "Dragon Cavalry" troops on the march.

Hence, "my beautiful daughters," as Lieutenant Mason referred to his cannons, used makeshift carriages adapted from passenger horse-drawn carriages.

For comfortable riding, passenger carriages were equipped with expensive [leather strap suspenders] and even pricier [cage ball bearings]—early versions of ball bearings.

Despite having suspensions and bearings, even just transporting light artillery weighing 450 kilograms resulted in two carriages getting trashed along the rough way.

"What about the shrapnel shells?" Winters suddenly remembered, "Have they gotten wet?"

Mason dumped the rainwater from his helmet beside his feet, "No, they're all fine. But if the rain doesn't stop, you won't be able to use them either."

On the battlefield, people's vision was obstructed by the rain, temporarily preventing anyone from noticing a squad of Paratu soldiers behind a hill about six hundred meters away.

Mason set up a tarpaulin over the cannon and began to load it with the gunners.

"No!" Winters stopped Mason, "It's likely we only have one chance to fire... we can't do it here..."

At this critical juncture, five officers from Jeska's troops drafted a new battle strategy in the rain.

Mason roared, "Damn it! Double the charge! Two rounds of ammunition! Let's do this!"

All those able to ride were ordered to retrieve their horses, and amidst the crowd, Winters caught sight of Pierre.

Pierre Gerardnovich Mitchell no longer looked anything like the noble Dusack.

Now, Pierre's eye sockets were sunken, his cheeks gaunt, and his cheekbones protruded prominently.

He was frowning, biting on a tassel, and silently and meticulously arranging his saddle.

His companions—the once laughing and frolicking kids from Wolf Town—were all the same.

No, to be precise, they were no longer children.

Winters blinked, and just like that, they had all grown up.

Noticing the Centurion watching him, Pierre took off his helmet and held it to his chest, nodding in salutation.

Winters nodded back.

The two, separated by a dozen meters, thus silently greeted each other.

The preparations were quickly finished.

Taking a dozen or so gunners, Winters and Mason pushed the gun carriages down the slope, with the others standing by on the counterslope.

The vent and the muzzle of the cannons were covered with leather, and the barrel was concealed by tarps.

All those pushing the gun carriages were temporarily dressed in Herder armor, looking like a troop of Herders from a distance.

Since it was necessary to be able to fire at a moment's notice, horses couldn't be used to drag the cannon, so everyone relied on manpower alone to push.

First, it was downhill, with Winters clutching the carriage frame, cautiously controlling the speed.

Afterward, as the slope leveled off, progress became increasingly difficult; everyone chanted in low voices, advancing at walking speed.

Fifty meters, a hundred meters, two hundred meters...

Although it was still raining, those pushing the cannons were already drenched in sweat.

There was sweat from the heat and sweat from fear.

The further they pushed, the more frequently Herder cavalry passed by their sides.

The chaotic sounds of battle filled the area, and most of the Herder cavalry couldn't be bothered with the handful of cart-pushers, narrowly zooming past the cannons.

Occasionally a Herder would speak up, but Winters didn't let Bell reply, just waved through the curtain of rain and continued pushing forward.

The closer they pushed the two cannons towards the rider in red armor on a green horse, the nearer they got.

When they were less than a hundred meters away from the red-armored, green-horse rider, Mason called a halt.

The artillery lieutenant whispered, "Stop pushing, this distance is perfect. If we push any closer, the killing range will actually decrease."

Then, Mason crouched behind the cannon, starting to adjust the firing angle.

Winters, Mason, two gun carriages and a dozen or so gunners were now practically among the Herders.

Rows of Herder cavalry galloped past them; the slightest mistake in revealing their identity and they would be utterly destroyed.

But this was the last resort; the Paratu phalanx was disintegrating, and they had to resort to desperate measures.

The gunners were tense, their heads bowed as they stared at the muddy water on the ground, swallowing saliva continuously.

"Hurry up!" Winters, gritting his teeth, asked, "Is it set yet?"

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