Chapter 403: Chapter 46
Thirty-one years ago, an Herder baby boy was born in a tent with a cry.
The mother of the baby died that very night, and according to the customs of the Herder people, the baby who caused his mother’s death should also have been abandoned—the underlying logic of the custom was harsh and realistic, for a newborn without its mother could not survive.
The baby’s father was off warring with Queye Khan, and it was his grandmother who took pity on him and brought him back to the tent, placing him in steaming hot sawdust.
For the first three days, they hired another nursing mother with two cowhides to breastfeed him, and later fed him with cotton cloths dipped in mare’s milk.
When two months passed and they determined that the dark-skinned child would survive, his grandfather took him to see the Shaman.
The Shaman named the child, Koshi Hazi—child raised on mare’s milk.
Thirty-one years later, Koshi Hazi, who stayed on the hilltop, was surprised to find that the group of Paratu People on the opposite slope had not been lured away. Instead, they formed up and charged towards the bottom of the gully.
The male infant who had survived on mare’s milk was now the Turu Koda of the Wasteland tribe.
The cries and the smell of blood made the warhorses restless, stamping their hooves uneasily.
A young Cavalryman with red feather asked anxiously, “What do we do, Koshi Hazi? The bipeds are coming down! Call Mangtai back quickly!”
Koshi Hazi’s brows knotted, “Mangtai has already charged over. There are only fat sheep over there, how could he come back? Besides, he never listens to me; I’m not his chief.”
“What to do?” Koshi Hazi glared, “Fight.”
The hundred-man unit, still maintaining a rough formation while at full sprint, was the result of training.
Winters was anxious, but he did not lead them headlong into the fray because more than half of his men were crossbowmen and musketeers.
The Montaigne hundred-man unit stopped their advance a dozen meters outside the melee.
“Pikemen! Hollow square! Musketeers and crossbowmen! Two lines abreast!” The command from the lieutenant sounded muffled from within the helmet, “Hit the Herders behind!”
Winters knew all too well the poor marksmanship of his subordinates. They aimed for the enemy but were more likely to hit their own.
They could only be told to fire towards the rear of the battlefield, where there were more Herders.
Amid the curses of the Centurion, the pikemen formed a small square, only eight men wide, and the shooters hurried to the front row.
The shooters held their breath.
The gunshots echoed through the valley as lead and crossbow bolts whizzed through the air, toppling a dozen-plus Herder Cavalrymen. The combatants on either side involuntarily paused.
After a volley, the musketeers and crossbowmen began to fire at will.
The enemy noticed the Montaigne hundred and several Herder Cavalrymen broke away from the battle, charging toward the militiamen who were still rearming and drawing their bows.
Winters drew his revolving pistol from his holster and took aim at the incoming foes.
The first shot, missed.
The second shot, also missed.
The enraged Montaigne lieutenant threw his pistol to the ground, drew his saber, and spurred his horse toward the Herders.
Leading the charge was a burly and fierce Herder. He had long noticed the silver-grey steed and the Paratu officer on the saddle.
This was a textbook cavalry charge. In the instant of crossing, life or death would be decided.
The adversaries approached each other from the right-hand side, both reaching desperately forward with their sabers, neither yielding an inch.
With only two horse lengths left and death seeming certain, Winters suddenly pulled hard on the reins, his horse leaping forward to the right as if it instinctively understood.
Simultaneously, Winters deftly transferred his saber from the right hand to the left.
In the Herder’s astonished gaze, Winters’s saber struck his left shoulder.
This move had been taught to Winters by Gerard Mitchell, a special technique of the old Dusack. For a right-handed swordsman, the left side was an absolute weak point in defense.
After dispatching the leading Herder, Winters found himself surrounded by several other Herder Cavalrymen.
The Herd Barbarians were numerous, but the lieutenant was clad in three-quarter armor. They hacked at each other on horseback, swords clashing, sparks flying.
The musketeers and crossbowmen dreaded hitting their own and refrained from firing. The pikemen, without orders, did not dare to break formation.
Winters reached for his caltrops, only to find a piece of iron plate—his pocket with the caltrops was under his armor.
Outnumbered, Winters fell into a disadvantage. The curved blades came at him from all sides, aiming for the back of his thigh, joints, and other areas where the armor was thin or nonexistent. He barely managed to parry.
His warhorse, Tess, bit at the neck of the Herder warhorses, kicking furiously with its hind legs.
Another powerful slash struck across Winters’s back like a fierce whip. The curved blade did not cut through the iron plate, but it still hurt tremendously.
The next moment, however, his pressure suddenly diminished.
The Herder Cavalryman in front of him was knocked off his horse by a heavy halberd. Heinrich stepped on the fallen man’s chest. Berlion swung his warhammer down with full force on the Herder’s head.
The struck Herder Cavalryman twitched a few times, then lay still.
As Xial, holding a long pike, shouted and grappled with another Herder Cavalryman, The rightful source is noⅴelfire.net
With the help of his three bodyguards, Winters quickly dispatched the rest of the Herders.
“Back to the formation,” Winters said, panting heavily. The skirmish had lasted only a few minutes but left him feeling utterly exhausted.
From the hillside came two horn calls, one long, one short.
More Herder Cavalry broke away from the fray and began to regroup. They skirted the battlefield and cut towards the Montaigne hundred.
The musketeers and crossbowmen hastily took refuge within the square formation.
“Fire at will!” Winters removed his helmet—this iron canister was stifling him—and shouted loudly, “Hold the line!”