By the time they neared the battlefield, the fighting was already at a fever pitch. The ground was littered with corpses, most of them the common soldiers of the Cannon Company, with a smaller number of the distinctively styled members of the Wolf Pack scattered among them. War is a brutal slaughter, a life-and-death struggle, a collision of blood and fire. A chorus of screams, cries, and wails was woven across the battlefield. There was absolutely nothing beautiful about it.
It was an ambush. Lance could tell at a glance that this was a battlefield of the barbarians' choosing. A flat piece of ground, flanked on both sides by dense forest—a classic kill zone. He wondered why the Cannon Company's scouts had failed them so completely.
Ambushed in such an environment, both sides had already moved past the opening volleys and were now locked in close-quarters melee. It was clear the barbarians had no intention of giving the Cannon Company a chance to leverage the power of their firearms. In such a chaotic brawl, even the Wolf Pack's own gunmen dared not fire recklessly. With the inaccuracy of a flintlock, the probability of hitting a friendly was high.
The men of the Cannon Company were trained soldiers, veterans of many battles. They were not rookies, and they outnumbered the warriors of the Wolf Pack. But the Wolf Pack's equipment was far superior. The members who engaged in melee were clad in full suits of armor, their faces covered by visors. And as tribesmen, their skill in close combat was a cut above, to say nothing of the many white wolves that fought alongside them. In contrast, only a few of the Cannon Company's elites wore armor. Most of the common soldiers had none, or at best a motley collection of scavenged pieces taken from mercenaries and other brigands. The quality of such gear was questionable at best, a fact made clear by the bodies on the ground. The majority of the fallen were theirs.
As for the cannon, that great engine of war that required eight men to service, it sat silent. The body of the lighter lay beside it; it was clear the barbarians had made the gun crew a priority target. The cannon had not fired a single shot. It was a useless hunk of scrap iron on the field, with no one left to operate it.
On the other side, some of the Wolf Pack's gunmen, confident in their accuracy, were still firing from the cover of the dense forest. Every shot took another man down. The Cannon Company's elites were being particularly targeted. But no matter how good their armor, the Wolf Pack's men could not withstand being outnumbered three-to-one, or five-to-one. Even a bull can be cut down by a thousand swords. The Cannon Company could afford to lose men. But for the Wolf Pack, every death was a significant loss.
For a time, the battle was a stalemate. Everyone was lost in a frenzy of killing. No one could stop, not even the Captain, who had cast aside his command duties, drawn his saber, and joined the fray. He was a formidable warrior; two members of the Wolf Pack had already fallen to his blade. As he was about to cut down a third, a massive man with a greatshield charged out from the Wolf Pack's ranks and blocked his blow.
The Captain was not a small man. He was powerfully built and wore heavy armor, making him appear more imposing than those around him. But compared to the nearly two-meter-tall behemoth before him, he seemed almost a head shorter. What's more, in their clash, the behemoth had swung his greatshield and effortlessly deflected the Captain's attack. It was a greatshield of steel, as tall as two-thirds of a man, with spikes like shortswords riveted to its top and bottom, and a skull emblem on its face—an incredibly intimidating sight.
The shield-bearer had a high-bridged nose and triangular eyes, giving him a ferocious visage. He had a thick, long beard, but his hair was sparse, wrapped in a simple cloth. Unlike the other warriors in full plate, his arms were bare. He wore a suit of scale mail, with a large metal disc serving as a heart-guard. A pendant made from a white wolf's tail hung at his waist, and he wore metal greaves and steel-toed boots. His style of armor was nothing like the Empire's. And wrapped around his neck was the entire pelt of a white wolf, the wolf's head, bared fangs and all, resting on his shoulder as if merely slumbering, ready to wake at any second and bite.
This attire clearly set him apart from the common members of the Wolf Pack. The moment he appeared, Lance knew: this was their chieftain, the Alpha Wolf.
The two leaders clashed without a word. They both knew that at this stage, there was no stopping. There was no longer any need for reasons. All that was needed was to fight. And to kill the enemy.
The Captain was fierce and fearless, his saber striking at vital points. The Alpha Wolf's fighting style was more... exaggerated. He let out a battle cry like a wolf's howl and smashed forward with his greatshield, using the spikes on its surface to attack. Every blow was immensely powerful; an ordinary opponent would not be able to withstand it. It was both a shield and a weapon. The bits of flesh and blood stuck to its spikes told of the many men who had fallen before it.
They were both ruthless men. No one dared to approach their duel. The surrounding soldiers gave them a wide berth, and for a time, a space was cleared around them.
Watching from the rear, Lance felt the terrifying power of the two men. The Captain's skill was no less than Reynauld's, and the Alpha Wolf was even more ferocious. Though he did not know how much the shield weighed, from its metal face, he was certain it was no less than thirty or forty pounds. But in the man's hands, it seemed like a toy. His thick arms were as wide as Lance's own thighs.
These men are truly savage, Lance thought. He was glad he had chosen to turn the wolf upon the tiger. If either of these forces had attacked the Hamlet, he was not sure he could have defended it.
"Damn it," the lieutenant, Number Three, said. "The lighter was killed. The cannon is loaded, but it can't be fired. A pity. The battle is a melee now, and they've taken the ground around the cannon and its ammunition. Otherwise, if the Captain could have used the explosive shells, there's no way these men would be his match."
"Explosive shells?"
"The Captain brought two crates of ammunition. One is solid shot—simple material, cheap to make, can even be reused. The other is explosive shells. They create an area of effect upon impact. But they are expensive, and hard to replace."
As the lieutenant explained the situation, he watched the battle with a worried expression. No matter what, these were the men he had fought alongside, and the Captain had saved his life on the battlefield. At the same time, Lance noticed that after the Alpha Wolf's howl, all the members of the Wolf Pack seemed to have been injected with a stimulant, their frenzy growing. He knew that if he did not intervene now, the Cannon Company would be finished. He wanted a battle of mutual destruction, not a one-sided victory.
"The barbarians have surely committed all their forces. They will never expect us at their rear. Find their gunmen. Eliminate them."
With that, Lance handed a short-barreled firearm to the lieutenant and the long gun to Dismas. He had, in fact, already noticed the hidden gunmen. He led his small party in a wide circle, coming up behind them.
With the Wolf Pack's warriors and their wolves all engaged on the front line, their guard was down, and their gunmen were vulnerable. There were not many, just six of them, clad in white wolf pelts and holding long guns. They were spread out, each occupying a good position for taking potshots at the battlefield below. But this also made them easy targets for Lance's party.
He assigned the targets. "Move."
Dismas fired first. His target, one of the barbarian gunmen, fell without a sound. Then, with one hand, Dismas immediately drew the pistol from his belt. With his familiar weapon in hand, he displayed a terrifying accuracy, putting a bullet through another's head.
Obliteration.