Chapter 3: Crisis Ahead
When dozens of battering rams appeared on the western border of the Kingdom of Nicosia, surrounded by groups of Minotaur warriors with excited and triumphant expressions, nearly all soldiers of the Iron Cross Army felt their chests constrict as their hearts turned as cold as their armor. They had heard about the Battle of Messenia last year, during which the people of the Duchy of Mellen faced off against the orcs’ battering rams. At the time, everyone had been skeptical, as in centuries of war between humans and orcs, there had never been any record of orcs possessing the intelligence to create such sophisticated devices that required intricate craftsmanship and even a small amount of magic metal. Such products were the result of centuries of human ingenuity, and aside from humans, perhaps only dwarves on the continent could produce them. Even among humans, not everyone could create them—the high standards of craftsmanship and the need for special magic metal made it impossible for ordinary workshops to achieve. Only large workshops designated by nations or cities could do so, while others could only remain theoretical. Yet dwarves had never shown interest in creating mechanical devices other than metal weapons, and since the mountain dwarves skilled in such crafts lived in the south, humans had never imagined orcs could possess such weapons.
The orcs were still at a primitive stage in producing their own armor and weapons. Without their formidable physical strength and tenacious fighting spirit, they would never be able to compete with human soldiers. But it was the harsh natural environment of the Mogan Wasteland that had forged their strong physiques and fierce fighting style, allowing them to launch attacks against humans, who had far superior material resources, using simple equipment and still gain the upper hand.
Now, they possessed battering rams they had never dreamed of—dozens of them, arranged in neat formations, charging forward. This made the soldiers of the Iron Cross Army stationed in the fortress feel their hearts sink. Retreating now meant certain death, as the orcs’ exceptional speed far surpassed even that of human cavalry. Apart from the knights of the order, few military units could match their mobility and endurance.
The massive battering rams raised their rugged impact arms high; the highly elastic demon metal emitted a strong, rigid odor. Each ram had three impact arms, using magical springs to convert rotational force into striking power. The heavy hammers were forged from special heavy metals. The force generated by the springs, combined with the inertia of the heavy hammers, was enough to split mountains and rocks. Even the incredibly hard bluestone city walls were no different from ordinary mud and clay walls under the assault of these rams. Continuous rotational strikes ensured that walls made of bluestone or basalt could only collapse. Compared to primitive trebuchets, these rams amplified their power by several times thanks to the force of the demon metal springs and the impact of heavy metals.
Philtis instinctively gripped the dagger at his waist. A slight sweat made his back feel cold. As a seasoned warrior, he had never been this nervous before. The appearance of dozens of battering rams nearly shattered the soldiers’ will on the fortress walls, stripping them of their defensive advantage. What could they use to counter the orc army? All the soldiers thought of failure, which meant death. If it weren’t for Philtis decisively killing two soldiers who were trying to flee and undermine morale, he was sure the fortress would already be in chaos with everyone scrambling to escape. There was indeed a significant gap between the Iron Cross Regiment and the Golden Oak Regiment. Over a year of training hadn’t been enough to turn them into competent warriors. Perhaps only after this battle could they bravely face the orc army’s challenges.
The wilderness was almost filled with orc minotaurs. Their yellowish leather armor appeared simple and crude, but their aura was extremely fierce. Though they weren’t the strongest fighters in the orc army, their fighting spirit and endurance ranked among the best in the entire continent’s armies. Their strong will and innate resistance to harm made them the most troublesome light-armed infantry for human armies. Perhaps aside from their somewhat lax discipline, these warrior races were flawless. To defeat them, one needed to possess even greater strength.
But could the Iron Cross Regiment withstand these wild and ferocious orc armies now?
Hidden among the minotaurs or appearing in groups were clearly the Fox Clan’s Feathered Arrowsmen and the Tiger Clan’s Mighty Warriors. Though not the main force, they often played a crucial role in battles. The Feathered Arrowsmen’s arrows didn’t have a long range, but their accuracy was unmatched by mortal archers; perhaps only elves and half-elves’ crossbowmen could rival them. They often hid behind the massive shields formed by the minotaurs to launch precise shots, with almost every arrow costing mortal soldiers their lives. The Mighty Warriors of the Tiger Clan might not be as ferocious as their elite Variegated Armored Troops, but their innate divine strength made them ideal for charging infantry with short bursts of speed and overwhelming power.
If the Berserker Warriors were the unbreakable shield of the Orc Alliance, then the Spear Bearers were its unstoppable spear. Mortal heavy infantry seemed like paper shields in front of them. The frenzied Tiger Clan warriors could easily tear through an infantry line ten times their size. If not for the Tiger Clan’s lower fertility rate, which prevented the expansion of their Spear Bearer units, the defenses of the northern kingdoms would have been shattered countless times by the Orc forces.
Fine beads of sweat trickled down Phertemis’s forehead. He knew this was likely the toughest battle of his life. This time, the Orcs’ attack seemed different from any in the past few decades. The fortress of Saint Nicholas had fallen mysteriously, and the Orcs swarmed in. The Golden Oak Regiment, caught between enemy forces, faced an unprecedented onslaught from the Orc alliance. More than 30,000 soldiers, from the regimental commander down, were wiped out, with barely over a thousand escaping. Even worse, the Court Mage Corps and the Flame Knight Corps suffered heavy losses, especially the Court Mage Corps, with over a dozen mages killed and several injured.
Meanwhile, the Blue Dove Regiment was desperately trying to hold back the Orcs at the northern defenses to prevent further advances. Given their newly formed combat strength, it was hard to imagine how they could resist the frenzied Orcs. As a result, the kingdom had withdrawn seven out of the ten mages and magic users originally assigned to the Iron Cross Regiment, leaving only one mage and two magic users. Could these three alone withstand the howling Orc soldiers charging from the fields below the walls? Could they destroy the battering rams that might destroy the fortress below? Phertemis didn’t dare think further.
“My lord, what should we do?” The words of the officer beside him seemed to reflect the thoughts of the officers gathered around Phertemis. No one believed the Iron Cross Army had any chance in this battle. Seeing the massive deployment of orcs, the officers of the Iron Cross Army were already considering the brutality of the fight. Dozens of siege engines completely shattered their hopes of using the sturdy fortifications to hold off the orcs. With only three court mages left to support the situation, the dire circumstances were evident.
Ignoring the officers around him, Phertemis took a deep breath of the cool air from the wilderness to calm himself as much as possible. He couldn’t give them any answer now; he needed to carefully assess the strengths and weaknesses of both sides. Although the orcs far outnumbered the Iron Cross Army and appeared terrifying, he also noticed that these minotaur warriors, eagle-winged fighters, and tiger warriors lacked discipline and fighting spirit compared to the orc soldiers he had encountered while serving on the border. Clearly, this orc army was not the elite forces of the orcs.
Phertemis inferred that the orc forces breaking through from the north to attack the Golden Oak Army in the Issek Lake region were the main force of the orc alliance. Otherwise, given the combat strength of the Golden Oak Army, known as the best army in the kingdom, even if the orcs had breached Fort Saint Nicholas, it wouldn’t have ended in such a tragic outcome. As a veteran of the Golden Oak Army, he understood deeply their proud combat strength and tenacious fighting spirit. Under normal circumstances, the Golden Oak Army would never have suffered such a defeat.
The warriors of the Iron Cross Army were not afraid of the orcs’ ferocity. Although most of the soldiers in the Iron Cross Army were new recruits drawn from reservists in the past one or two years, many of these reservists were veterans who had retired from the Golden Oak Army. As the situation in the north grew more tense, these veterans were re-recruited to form the Iron Cross Army. With their help, Phertemis quickly got the troops in fighting shape. These veterans served as both junior officers and instructors, having grown experienced during their time guarding the western borders of the kingdom. While their combat strength couldn’t compare to that of the Golden Oak Army, Phertemis believed his troops were capable of fighting the orcs, at least when relying on the sturdy fortifications to defend against their conventional attacks.
But now the situation has changed. The appearance of battering rams in the wilderness caught Phortis by surprise and filled the officers with fear. Although Phortis had vaguely heard of orcs using battering rams during the war that led to the fall of the Principality of Mellen, she had never taken it seriously enough. According to the information available at the time, the enemy used only a small number of battering rams, and the orc soldiers were unskilled in operating them, so they didn’t have much practical effect. Phortis even suspected that the soldiers of the Principality of Mellen might have exaggerated the orcs’ combat strength on purpose, or that the orcs had assembled one or two battering rams through smuggled parts to boost their own morale. But now it seemed she had made a mistake. If she had known the orcs would use battering rams on such a large scale, she would have risked disobeying orders just to prevent the kingdom from sending away those seven magicians and sorcerers. Now, she faced the difficult task of destroying those deadly battering rams. Traditional trebuchets couldn’t easily destroy such battering rams—the orcs had clearly taken precautions, covering them with thick leather to reduce the impact of attacks, and even installing a net at the front to prevent damage from long-range weapons like trebuchets until the battering rams reached the walls, after which the net could be removed to launch an attack. The orcs weren’t foolish; although this method was simple, it was quite effective. Since trebuchets were useless, the only hope lay with the magicians. And now, the only ones who could help her were the magician and two sorcerers at her side. Phortis had no confidence at all—she needed the support of the magicians. “Mr. Cavendish, what do you think of this battle?” In the distance, the minotaur soldiers were already lining up. The tall minotaur officers kept marching forward, waving small flags to signal the soldiers to move in formation. Those damned orcs—when did they learn this human military tactic too? They even tried to form ranks to fight back. Phortis felt bitter once again.
“Lady Phaedtis, you are the commander; we are merely here to assist you. Whatever you need us to do, as long as it’s within our capabilities, we will do our utmost.” The pale and thin magician was clad in a loose robe, appearing rather frail, yet the intense gaze from his deep-set eyes proved that he was no amateur. The two magicians beside him seemed inferior, their nervous expressions showing that they too were intimidated by the orcs’ formidable presence.
“Mr. Cavendish, I don’t want to hide anything from you. I hope you can give me a sincere promise as well. If we can destroy half of these siege engines controlled by the orcs, I think we might have a chance to repel their attack. If not, continuing here is meaningless—we can only fight to the end.” Phaedtis stared intently into his eyes, speaking each word carefully.
“Hmm, Mr. Phaedtis, have you counted how many siege engines there are already?” The pale magician wasn’t intimidated by Phaedtis’ words and remained calm.
“About thirty, I guess. I estimate there are roughly forty siege engines used by the orcs this time,” Phaedtis deduced based on his observations.
“It seems we have no other choice. Retreating now would only mean certain death. Better to take a gamble. I enjoy gambling—how about we gamble with the lives of everyone in our fortress?” The pale magician’s eyes gleamed madly as he grinned in a strangely unsettling manner.
“Very well, Mr. Cavendish. Let’s take that gamble. What are your conditions?” Phaedtis gritted his teeth, his eyes reddening. With no other way out, they could only rely on this oddly behaving magician.
“It’s simple. They will surely concentrate their attacks on one point with their battering rams. Once the city walls are breached, don’t rush to repair the gap—they’ll definitely try to widen it. I’ll act only when their battering rams are focused there. Until then, you can only use your soldiers to hold off the orc attacks. Otherwise, if the orcs detect our intentions, we’ll fail, and everyone will be doomed.” With a leisurely smile, his pale teeth came into view, causing Phaedermis to suddenly notice that his two pairs of canines seemed rather special—extremely sharp and glaring. But the man seemed to sense something as well and immediately closed his mouth.
At this moment, Phaedermis didn’t have the mental energy to think about anything else. Even if the man was a devil, he would borrow his strength without hesitation—anything to survive this crisis. He was even willing to go to hell if it meant overcoming this ordeal.
“Very well, Mr. Cavendish. We’ll follow your advice. As long as we can destroy their battering rams, we still have a chance of winning this battle.” Phaedermis gritted his teeth, his breathing becoming heavier. With a fierce gaze at the officers around him, he declared firmly, “Those who want to live, get to work! If we can’t win this battle, we’ll all end up as corpses devoured by dogs in the wilderness. We have no choice—understand?!”
“Understood!” In an instant, the fighting spirit of the officers present soared to its peak. Fighting for survival—nothing could be more motivating. Win, and you live; lose, and you die. There was no way back.
As the officers quickly dispersed to their posts, the pale magician spoke softly, “Lord Phaedermis, I must remind you. Your words to boost morale were good, but you need to realize that we have no chance of winning this battle. All we can do is buy ourselves a chance to escape. I hope you won’t act impulsively.”
With a faint bitter smile, Phaedermis sighed before saying, “Mr. Cavendish, I understand this better than you do. What worries me more is that we might not even survive this battle. If I don’t encourage them like this, I’m afraid they won’t be able to hold on.”
“That’s good to hear. We need to get ready too,” the magician nodded in satisfaction. “The gods will bless us. Those faithless orcs will be punished.”