e-booksonline Chapter 44: The Army
Chapter 44: The Army
Devon took a deep breath, which aggravated the arrow wound under his ribs, causing his lips to twitch in pain.
He did not bend down. The remaining soldiers behind him were all the troops he had left in the valley. Every one of them was wounded, and they could not even splash a drop of water in front of these five thousand goblins.
The wolf riders led them through the goblin camp.
The further you go in, the stronger the stench becomes, but the more orderly things become.
The small goblins on the outer perimeter were huddled together in a chaotic mess. But once they reached the middle circle, the tents became larger, the patrolmen became large goblins, and their weapons became standardized: short spears, round shields, and several Northern Warblades stolen from human caravans.
The innermost circle consisted of a dozen large tents made of animal bones and cowhide, with two rows of elite goblin guards standing in front of them.
The wolf riders stopped in front of the largest tent, dismounted, and roared into the tent.
The curtain was lifted.
A goblin hero emerged.
He was nearly a head taller than the average goblin hero, almost 1.9 meters tall, and wore full chainmail with a human battle axe hanging at his waist.
His skin was closer to olive than gray-green than most goblins, with three parallel old scars across his forehead and half of his left ear missing.
What was most striking was his eyes; they weren't the murky, dark yellow common in goblins, but a cold, amber color, which were staring unblinkingly at Devon.
Dodok.
The monster that De Gea has fed with food, weapons and intelligence over the years.
A traitor among goblins, a top goblin hero, and the deepest spies that Degea has planted in the goblin tribe.
When Novia first went hunting with Bard, it was this Dodok who "happened" to appear on the outskirts of the frontier with his goblin detachment, attacking only the newly arrived frontiers and never getting close to De Gea.
This practice continued covertly for several years, as both sides benefited from it.
"Devin de Gea," Dodok said, his Common Tongue almost accent-free. "What are you doing here?"
If it weren't for its green skin and fangs, people would believe it was human.
"Ashwood Territory," Devon said viciously. "The valley camp has been wiped out. That territory is far more powerful than we expected."
Dodok's amber eyes narrowed slightly. He glanced at the ravaged black-robed mage, then at the remaining soldiers behind Devon, and slowly nodded.
"Come in! Tell me, what does Ashwood have?"
Three days later, the goblin army appeared north of Ashwood territory.
First, Shanlier, who was on duty at the watchtower on the north wall, spotted that line of gray-green on the horizon.
He rubbed his eyes, then took out his monoculars and looked through them.
This is standard equipment for the tallest watchtower on all four city walls.
Slowly and irreversibly, it crawls forward, like a polluted tide overflowing a parched wasteland.
He paused for a few breaths before reaching out to pull the rope of the alarm bell. He pulled at nothing the first time, but managed to ring the bell on the second try.
Dangdang Dangdang!
The alarm bell shattered the silence of the early morning.
The villagers rushed out of their cave dwellings, stood barefoot in the courtyard, and looked up to listen to the bell tolling from the north wall in waves.
The militiamen grabbed bone spears from the weapons rack and ran towards the city wall, while the strong women in the kitchen covered the stove fire and pushed a cart down the city wall to transport arrows.
No one screamed, and no one ran around.
Over the past few days, Fanta has made them practice emergency drills so many times that their bodies react before their minds do when they hear the bell.
When Ron walked up the North Wall, the sun had not yet fully risen.
The morning light slanted in from the east, turning the entire wasteland gray-blue.
He stood in front of the battlements and raised his binoculars.
The goblin army covered the northern horizon.
Not thousands, but tens of thousands.
The central army was the main force of Dodok. The tents were dismantled, and the supplies were left behind. Five thousand regular tribal warriors were arranged in more than a dozen loose square formations. In front of each square formation, a goblin hero riding a wolf was running back and forth, driving the formation.
Spears were like a forest, bone bows like locusts, and crudely made shields were painted with distorted totems.
Interspersed among the formations were a dozen or so rudimentary siege vehicles. They weren't counterweight catapults, but rather manpower-pulled battering rams with wheels made from whole tree trunks sawn off. Each vehicle was followed by dozens of goblins carrying ladders.
To the east and west are the cannon fodder tribes that Dodok has gathered along the way.
There was no square formation, no array; they were just two chaotic swarms of gray-green locusts, numbering at least four thousand.
They carried all sorts of weapons: stone hammers tied to wooden sticks, sharpened animal bones, and rusty swords peeled from human corpses.
To the very north of Ashwood, amidst the dark mass of soldiers, stood the tallest banner: a twisted ram's head painted on a cowhide with animal blood.
Old Hall had somehow appeared beside Ron, and he was watching too.
"The ram's head banner belongs to one of the goblin tribes that besieged Wenger's territory last time. Dodok incorporated them into his forces." Thun naturally recognized the surrounding goblin tribes. "Including these cannon fodder, their total strength is around nine thousand."
Ron nodded without saying anything.
The militiamen on the north wall were all watching the gray-green tide.
Shanlier stood behind the battlements, his bone bow resting in his hand, the bowstring trembling slightly—not from his hand, but from the wind.
Mad squatted beside the barricade, his lips pale, his knuckles white from gripping the round knife so tightly in his hand.
Panic is spreading.
It wasn't that someone was shouting or running away; Fanta's training had at least kept them standing. Rather, it was a stiffness that seeped from the very marrow of their bones.
Everyone stared at the gray-green tide, their pupils dilated and their breathing shallow.
Then someone secretly glanced back at Ron.
Ron wasn't looking at the goblins; he was looking at Sanlir.
"Sanlir, what did you have for breakfast?"
Sanlier was stunned.
It probably took him a few breaths to confirm that the lord had asked him what he had eaten that morning in front of nine thousand goblins.
"Dark bread, and the leftover meat broth from last night."
"Are you full?"
"I'm full." Sanlier straightened up a bit subconsciously. "Mrs. Moriel added an extra spoonful of broth this morning, saying that with the war going on these next few days, we can't go hungry."
"That's good." Ron handed him the water bottle. "Stand up straight after you've eaten. Aim carefully before you shoot, don't waste arrows."
Sanlier took the kettle, his throat moved, and the muscles on his face relaxed.
Among the militiamen who overheard the conversation on the north wall, one let out a very soft laugh.
It wasn't that I actually found it funny; it was just that something loosened my shoulders, and I could finally exhale the breath that had been accumulating in my chest.
The panic hasn't disappeared, and it can't disappear, but it's being replaced by something more concrete.
The lord is still here, old Hall is still here, Fanta is still here.
They didn't run away; they even had the mind to ask what they had for breakfast.
This is crucial, especially for the people of Wenger, who were abandoned by their lord.
Now, seeing their lord standing at the forefront, what could be more reassuring for them?
Fanta stood at the edge of the battlements, his longsword still sheathed. He glanced at the militiamen on the north wall and shouted in a deep voice, "Have you all spotted the target?"
"I saw it!"
The militiamen responded reflexively, their voices uneven, but someone shouted again, this time with even more force.
The crossbowmen rechecked their bowstrings, and the spearmen rested their spears against the crenellations with the tips pointing outwards.
Doron ran back and forth between the catapults, giving the winch of the torque arm one last check.
In the past few days, in addition to manufacturing eight-ox crossbows, Ron has also increased the number of catapults to four and placed them in the city.
Mad switched the round knife to his left hand, wiped the sweat off his trouser leg with his right hand, and took out the bone bow again.
Ron turned around and faced north.
The morning breeze has stopped.
The goblin army's horns sounded from the horizon, hoarse and shrill, like the howl of wolves or a broken gong.
The grayish-green tide began to slowly creep forward.
"The crossbow is cocked."