Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

Chapter 445: Chapter 67: Demanding!

Murderous aura formed battle clouds at the third watch, and a chilling voice transmitted the call for duel for an entire day.

The westerly winds roared, as if murderous intent had materialized. Iron-like dark clouds pressed down toward the earth, and the sky seemed ever so low.

The Terdon Tribe was arrayed a mile away, while the Paratu People watched from atop the fortress walls. Everyone held their breath in anticipation, waiting for the champions of the Mak’gora ritual to emerge from the formations.

Only the crows circling in the sky emitted a series of ill-omened and desolate rasping cries.

Suddenly, the sound of a low horn came from the distance, echoed by more from all around the fortress.

The horn sounded as though it heralded the end of the world, as if a third of the sun, moon, and stars were struck, dimming the sky in turn.

Twelve brawny Herder drummers flung their arms, fiercely slamming their short mallets onto the round-table-like drum heads.

The war drums thundered, and a warrior stepped out slowly from the Terdon Tribe’s main formation.

The warrior’s stature was so towering; it was as if a giant from the edge of the world had arrived on the battlefield.

All other Herders beside him appeared comical, like dwarves and children.

Some Paratu People couldn’t help exclaiming in astonishment, for the giant was clad not in lamellar armor.

The Herder warrior wore a full suit of plate armor—breastplate, greaves, vambraces—all steel plates, truly like a giant cast from molten iron.

Only the helmet was in Herder style, topped with three large blue plumes showcasing a pair of eyes.

Such a suit of armor—let alone the material and effort—was such that one couldn’t buy a ready-made one of this size.

It had to be tailor-made; there was no chance it was a hastily crafted suit of common iron armor.

A squire then led a Warhorse for the iron giant, which also was no ordinary breed.

Herder horses were sturdy and resilient, but small in stature, unable to carry such a giant and his armor.

The giant’s mount was a heavy Warhorse [Destrier], only seen beyond the wilds, its withers even taller than the squire’s head.

That behemoth could not live on grass alone; it needed fine fodder and beer to drink, and careful attention within walled stables.

The iron giant mounted the pitch-black Warhorse, raised his lance high, and passed slowly before each Herder formation.

At each stop, a thunderous cheer erupted. The Herders, beating their weapons with all their might, shouted themselves hoarse to boost their champion’s morale.

Seeing that steel colossus mounted on the great horse, the Paratu People felt as though an invisible hand was gripping their throats, a suffocating and powerless sensation overwhelming them.

Atop the fortress walls, Priest Caman couldn’t help but mutter to himself:

[I looked, and there before me was a pale horse! Its rider was named Death, and Hades was following close behind him. They were given power over a fourth of the earth to kill by sword, famine and plague, and by the wild beasts of the earth.]

Next to Caman, Mason clenched his fist and smashed it against the battlements, cursing, “The barbarians are most cunning! No wonder they agreed not to use muskets!”

Prior agreements stipulated that this Mak’gora would be a mounted duel, allowing armor, no weapon restrictions, fight to the death, with only bows and muskets prohibited.

And now, the Herders had sent forth such an impervious iron giant.

The fortress gates burst open, eight trumpeters puffed up their cheeks and sounded the march, while the Paratu drummers also beat their smaller military drums.

Yet, against the Herders’ desolate and mournful great drums and horns, the trumpets and military drums seemed feeble.

A dashing silver-hued stallion galloped out of the fortress, charging into the no-man’s-land between the two armies.

Colonel Jeska agreed to the Mak’gora ritual but also thought a duel between the commanding generals in front of the armies lacked dignity.

He suggested both sides select champion warriors to act on behalf of the generals in a one-on-one duel.

Clearly, that iron giant was Terdon Tribe’s champion. Firelighters came prepared, no wonder they agreed so readily.

And the champion for the Paratu could only be Winters “Blood Wolf” Montaigne.

As Blood Wolf stepped forward, the Paratu People too struck their weapons and shouted with all their might, to boost their camp’s morale.

However, the oppressive presence brought by the steel giant was too strong, and the Paratu People’s spirit was ultimately suppressed.

Mason, anxious, watched his junior’s retreating figure; he knew Winters was a Spellcaster, but he also knew that Winters’s Arrow Flying Spell wasn’t powerful enough to penetrate plate armor.

At this moment, he felt an urge to stop the ritual and pull Winters back.

In the midst of the thunderous drumming, a black and a silver knight stood two hundred meters apart, the Herder champion holding a lance, Winters poised with a spear.

The Herder giant was entirely clad in steel armor.

Winters, for the sake of agility, shed his vambraces, shoulder armor, and skirt armor—all of it—and stepped onto the field wearing only a breastplate.

Under the watchful eyes of all, the Paratu champion dismounted, unhurriedly staked the horse post, and tethered the silver-hued steed.

Then, the Paratu champion stood with his spear and casually waved his hand at the iron giant, indicating a desire to face the mounted adversary on foot.

The Herder champion had never suffered such an insult; blood surged in his chest, and he bellowed nonstop.

The drumming abruptly stopped, and Mak’gora officially began.

The iron giant bellowed, spurring the flanks of the Warhorse with his boot spikes.

The all-black Destrier, stimulated, stamped hard on the ground with its hooves, carrying its rider charging toward that small upright ape who stood motionless ahead.

Atop the walls, every Paratu’s heart clenched in that instant, many even forgetting to breathe.

The Herders too held their breath, their pupils constricting, as they awaited the destined violent clash.

The Warhorse accelerated madly, and the Herder champion tucked his lance under his arm, the combined strength of horse and man converging on the lance’s tip, directed at the Paratu champion’s breastplate with unstoppable momentum.

Such force, even one in full plate armor could not be saved from death.

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