Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

Chapter 450: Chapter 70: Cracking Technique and Fragmentation Grenades

After that epic duel at the front, Jeska’s squad had been fighting for six hours.

The setting sun hung low, with corpses strewn inside and outside the trenches, both human and horse alike.

Every body was horribly disfigured by solid shot, grapeshot, and bullets, but at least they still had a shape.

Just a few steps away—the area between the trenches and the walls—the scene was completely different.

In stark contrast to the trenches, the ground beneath the walls was littered with shattered chunks of flesh, scattered limbs, spilled entrails, and horses with eviscerated bellies.

Those who died here were mostly torn apart by exploding grenades.

By comparison, deaths by sword were a more tolerable sight.

At the edge of the ditch, a Herder, trapped under a horse carcass, was begging for relief from a life he could not cling to and a death he could not reach.

His intermittent groans, incomprehensible to the Paratu People, made everyone’s skin crawl.

Finally, a musketeer couldn’t bear it any longer and stood up to shoot the Herder, and the others soon followed suit, granting him a swift end.

Upon hearing the gunfire, an irate sergeant slapped the musketeer hard across the face for wasting ammunition.

The Terdon Tribe, having been repelled once again, was regrouping to the west of the Bridgehead Fortress, with the Khan’s symbolic blue horsetail banner moving towards the southwest.

At the cost of a thousand lives, the Terdon People slowly discovered the weakness of the fortress: not the north or south, but the east and west.

This Bridgehead Fortress only had gates to the south and the north, with the southern gate pressed against the river and the northern gate protected by a bastion, the strongest points in the defense system.

Since there were no gates on the east and west walls, the Paratu soldiers had to detour from the southern and northern gates to counter-attack, allowing the besiegers the opportunity for interception.

Moreover, there were no bastions on the outer sides of the east and west walls, enabling the attackers to strike directly at the walls.

The fortifications outside the west wall had been severely damaged, with barricades uprooted, trenches filled in, and breastworks overthrown.

The Terdon People pushed their rudimentary equipment, advancing step by step toward the west wall. This time, there were no divisions, no feints; the pyremen were going for a decisive strike.

The Paratu soldiers with any fight left in them were also concentrated on the west wall.

“Don’t be afraid!” Winters walked among the soldiers, patting each one on the shoulder and back, “The Herders can’t hold out! This is just the last shiver of taking a piss!”

Corporal Heinrich held the regimental flag high behind the Centurion, with a large medal tied to the tip of the flagpole.@@novelbin@@

The faces of the soldiers were caked with a thick layer of gunpowder soot, sweat, and mud, obscuring their features from Winters’s view.

The wounds of the lightly injured soldiers were hastily wrapped with bandages they made themselves, many of which had been soaked through with blood.

The Paratu People were exhausted to the point that they couldn’t even muster the energy to speak.

Only the Centurion’s voice, though hoarse, remained loud and clear, “If that monkey-assed face meets us, it’s his bloody bad luck! When this fight is over, he’ll piss blood in his next life, and it’ll even split!”

A burst of laughter erupted on the ramparts.

On his rounds, Winters collided with Father Caman at the southwestern bastion.

“How did you get up here?” he quickly pushed Caman towards the stairs, “You’re the only surgeon! Get down!”

Surgeons were already scarce, and with the Church forbidding clergy “to stain their hands with blood,” clergy trained in surgery were even rarer than dogs that walked upright.

The old priest was in the main camp, leaving only Father Caman among the clergy at the Bridgehead Fortress.

With him in charge of the infirmary, the wounded felt at peace regardless of whether they lived or died. Winters could not afford to lose Father Caman.

“Don’t spill it!” Caman protected the silver chalice in his hand, a bag with a holy emblem hanging from his chest, “Everyone should receive Communion, right?”

“Is it Sunday today?” Winters paused, only then noticing that Caman was wearing a holy robe.

“Yes.” Caman took out a small biscuit from the bag, dipped it in the wine in the chalice, offering it to the Spellcasters, “Would you like one?”

Winters snorted softly and reached into the bag to pull out a handful of biscuits, “I’ll help myself.”

Amidst the banter, the Herders had closed in to eighty meters, and Mason fired first.

The seven cannons positioned at the northwestern and southwestern bastions roared in succession.

Walnut-sized grapeshot swept across the battlefield like hail, tearing Herders to shreds and even blasting several gaps in their formation.

The cannons were like starting pistols, the battle drums rolled thunderously, and the Terdon Tribe shouted as they rushed toward the west wall.

The drummers on the fortress also struck their snare drums.

Musketeers stepped to the edge of the wall, setting up their muskets. Each one chose their target, aiming carefully.

The drumming stopped abruptly, and the clang of the gong pierced the noise, “Crash!”

“Boom! Boom! Boom!” A volley of gunfire.

Several Herders fell to the ground, but many more pressed forward.

The drumming continued, and the second team of musketeers stepped to the edge of the wall.

After dozens of rounds of live firing, the execution of the rotation tactic no longer required Winters to shout commands.

But just as the musketeers had fired their third volley, with a “clang” and “clang,” two ladders had already been placed against the wall.

The Herders, clenching curved knives in their teeth, quickly climbed towards the top of the wall.

This was the consequence of losing the works at the base of the wall; the window for ranged weapon fire was greatly reduced.

Some musketeers were in the watchtowers; though they were in an excellent position, they were continuously shot down by the Herder archers.

“Sergeant Karl! Take your men to the wooden wall! The rest of you, fire at will!” Winters shouted, “Spearmen! Push them down!”

A portion of the musketeers hurriedly ran to the second wooden fortification at the rear, where Colonel Jeska personally commanded.

The musketeers from the watchtowers should have been effective, but they were continuously taken out by the Herder archers.

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