Sword of Dawnbreaker

Chapter 397 - 396: The Rout of Two Allied Armies

The White River meanders down from the southern borders of the Leslie Clan’s territory to the northern foothills of the Dark Mountain Range. Earl Peibo stands at the bow of the ”battleship,” watching as the newly built walls of Tanzan Town slowly recede from view, feeling a surge of ambition within his heart.

”Battleship” is but an imposing name; in reality, it’s nothing more than a large merchant ship sailing the inland rivers. Yet the Peibo family has always possessed the finest shipbuilding techniques in the southern borders. Any ship they build is the sturdiest among its kind, and in a place far from the sea and devoid of true battleships, Franing Peibo’s converted merchant ships are the best battleships around.

Besides, ever since the Church of Storms declined into the Sons of the Storm, humans have been completely locked on land by the magic tides of the sea. The era of great maritime navigation has come to an end. Various emerging nautical techniques and concepts of surface combat vanished before they could develop, as humans have toiled over the limited inland rivers for hundreds of years, naturally resulting in backward battleship technology.

Thus, these ”battleships,” converted from merchant and cargo vessels, are already a source of pride for Earl Peibo.

An aristocrat familiar with Franing Peibo walks up to the bow, stands beside Earl Peibo, and looks at the retreating walls of Tanzan with a sigh: ”Look at these brand-new walls; Viscount Andrew Leslie built them within a year... God knows how much money he made from all those ships loaded with ore.”

”Supported by a Cecil Clan full of gold and silver, the sickly outsider of the Leslie Clan can become wealthy simply by picking up a few scattered gold coins from his master,” Franing Peibo says with arrogance as he observes the walls of Tanzan Town. Though the walls are newly plastered, there are no signs of rolling timber or boiling oil among the parapets, only a row of old catapults that haven’t been used in ages set upon the new walls. He shakes his head, ”However, the newly rich are ultimately shallow. He obediently stepped aside, neither boasting glory nor gaining profit, exchanging at most a neutral peace through this ’collaboration.’

”I heard he initially wanted to sit on the side of the Cecil Clan, leaving the envoy you sent hanging for days,” the aristocrat next to him sighs, ”Only until Count Hosman personally wrote a letter and sent a messenger did he agree to open the river channel for the army to pass... How unwise. Had he cooperated from the beginning, it would’ve been much better.”

”If he had cooperated from the start, I’d rather worry about whether he’d throw stones into the river when the army passes,” Earl Peibo laughs. ”That Viscount Andrew has been siding with the Cecil Clan since last year. It’s normal for him to hesitate amidst the changing circumstances.”

Meanwhile, the mighty fleet of dozens of ships has already sailed through the river section before Tanzan Town, while the scattered soldiers of the Leslie Clan stand on the walls, watching as the allied army, preparing to attack the Cecil Clan, passes before them.

With the change in wind direction, the speed of the fleet begins to increase, the sails and oar power propel these sturdy and massive wooden ships like arrows toward the Cecil. The mages brought by various aristocrats activate the magic symbols set on the sides of the ships, further reducing the impact of water waves on the vessels. After sailing for about half a day, dense woods begin to appear ahead and on both sides, and the White River narrows and becomes turbulent.

Earl Peibo returns to the bow, curiously observing the river situation and discovers that, within his visible range, aside from his fleet, no other ships are in sight.

It seems very normal; those with even a little informed should’ve heard about the war, so no other ships would be navigating the river at this time.

However, he’s curious about the current position of the fleet, so he calls a Knight standing sentry nearby: ”How far are we from the Cecil?”

”Sir, we’re nearing Frost Wood Village’s logging camp!” the knight immediately salutes and answers, ”Frost Wood Village is at the most western end of the Cecil.”

”Good. We’ll first take that place down, then send half of our men ashore to attack along the riverbank,” Earl Peibo nods. As he looks at the lush forest on both banks of the river, he can’t help but laugh and raise his hand, saying, ”Look, this river is narrow, with dense forests on both sides. If those Cecil Clan people had some courage to set a combat mage using tide-like spells for ambush or assault with crossbows and catapults, there might be a chance they could cost us a ship or two...”

Within the hidden artillery positions on the south shore of the White River, Sir Byron, having climbed a tree, watches the fleet sailing through the river. As the fleet passes halfway, he laughs out loud, then casually picks a fruit from beside him and throws it to the messenger below: ”Signal them! Fire the **cannon**!”

Two seconds later, a series of dense explosions breaks the silence of the forest. Dozens of light-weight ”Persuader Mark I” magic crystal shells and several heavy ”Justice Mark I” artillery shells, wrapped in pale blue magical brilliance, burst from the cannon vents of the acceleration tracks. They escape from the vines and leaves used as camouflage, tracing arc after arc of death in the air as they fall heavily into the center of Earl Peibo’s fleet!

Boom Boom Boom!

Towering columns of water suddenly rise between the fleet, accompanied by massive explosions and the blast waves generated by them. Two battleships are unfortunately hit in the first round of salvoes. The wooden hulls seem as delicate as paper in the face of these inexplicable explosions—the first ship is blown apart at midsection, splitting into two pieces on the spot, while the second fares even worse—a single heavyweight artillery shell detonates below it, blasting the entire ship from the water, shattering it into countless pieces in the air!

One moment, the river was calm, the fleet sailing peacefully, but in the next, a sky-fire explosion descends ferociously, bringing brutal death. The knights and militia aboard barely have time to react to what’s happening, plunging immediately into utter confusion. The screams of people and the cries of dying livestock instantly resound from every ship, yet at the artillery positions on the southern shore, Sir Byron has just managed to get back up from the ground.

”Blew me clean off my feet!” The knight, who once worked as a mercenary, rarely restrains his attitude even before the leader, let alone showing knightly grace to those under him. He shakes the dirt off himself and shouts loudly, ”Get your aim right before firing! All those shots, and you only hit two—are you proud of yourselves? ’Persuader’ battery, target the closer ones first—don’t get in the way of the heavy artillery!”

The camouflage over each rail cannon station is removed, and continuous bombardments begin to echo across the entire area. Meanwhile, in the center of the White River, the recently mighty fleet of the allied army is now in a state of terror and catastrophic chaos. Despite insufficient artillery training, immature tactics with the new weapons, and difficulty in targeting moving targets on the river, most shells continue to fall into the water, the gigantic water columns in the river and the warships disintegrating amidst explosions regularly, instilling dread in those still living aboard. Yet what truly brings the knights and mages aboard despair is their total lack of means for a counterattack, even a chance for safety!

The people on these battleships are merely staying on the ships; ninety percent of them have no concept of fighting on water, and these so-called ”battleships” almost have no capability for engaging the enemy at sea. The heavy crossbows and small catapults set on the decks are useless at this moment—the operators can’t even see where the enemy is!

In the end, the ships for this Allied Army are just tools for transportation. Their real vision of battle was for the ships to land so that knights and soldiers could fight onshore—just like every ”war” in the past. To be fair, aristocratic warfare should be like this. The Cecil Clan should even proactively clear a section of the riverbank so the Allied Army soldiers could disembark and organize their formations, followed by honorable knight duels and military engagements... This is the rule of warfare between nobles!

But now... what on earth is this?!

What exactly are the Cecil Clan doing? Is this the work of the Cecil Clan?

Franing Peibo stood bewildered at the wavering bow of the ship, watching the ships his family accumulated over the years shatter into pieces one after another and sink into the water, the blood of the fallen soldiers staining a striking red among the still-floating wreckage. Knights in heavy plate armor and mages in thick robes struggled amidst the blood, debris, and corpses, being swallowed one by one by the rushing waters of the White River. He even watched Viscount Loxwal, a noble famed for elegance, steadiness, and wisdom, clutching a broken wooden plank before sinking, while the Viscount’s family banner still floated not far on the water...

”What... happened?” Count Peibo dazedly watched, the drastic shift in reality exceeded his comprehension, suddenly feeling as though this scene was a bizarre and absurd drama, and he was standing on this incomprehensible dramatic stage. He forcefully closed his eyes, covered his ears, blocking all senses, while recalling the comfort of the velvet bed in his castle. Seconds later, he opened his eyes and uncovered his ears—only to see Baron Krandorf’s corpse, eyes wide open in death, sink in front of him, where Viscount Loxwal had sunk.

”It’s over, it’s all over...”

No matter where this disaster came from, it’s all over now.

At this point, out of the corner of his eye, Franing Peibo suddenly saw what was happening in the distance—

He saw soldiers who fell into the water desperately swimming towards the riverbank, where a large number of warriors wearing strange armor and wielding unusual equipment had appeared. These warriors pointed strange devices mounted on their arms at the Allied Army soldiers struggling to land and bundled them up one by one.

It was the Cecil Clan—they had destroyed the entire Allied fleet in an inconceivable way.

”My Lord—My Lord!”

The loud cries of the personal knight awakened Franing Peibo from his daze. This knight was injured by the blast’s aftershock, his face was bloodied; he grabbed Count Peibo’s hand, shaking it urgently: ”My Lord! Go quickly! Take the small boat and go!”

Count Peibo finally reacted; no matter the shock, fear, or tension, they were all replaced by the desire to survive. He immediately followed the knight towards the direction of the escape boat, running while loudly asking: ”Where is Viscount Copani?!”

”Viscount Copani is dead—I don’t know how he died; there are no wounds, but his internal organs were shattered!” the knight shouted loudly, ”Many of the people who stood with Viscount Copani are dead, they were probably killed by a curse!”

Count Peibo felt a fine layer of cold sweat break out, and his already portly body erupted with astonishing speed, sprinting to the place where the lifeboats were kept in a few strides. He and the knight jumped aboard while calling to the nearby soldiers, ”Row the boat! Row the boat quickly!”

The lifeboat detached from the big ship, the rowers frantically wielding their oars, causing the small boat to desperately flee amidst the endless exploding water columns. Soon, they escaped the densest part of the exploding fleet, and Count Peibo saw the big ships towards the end of the fleet desperately trying to turn around—they were clumsy and sluggish. Even with the aid of magic symbols and the effort of the oarsmen, it seemed difficult to escape the incoming explosions.

Only a few large ships and a dozen small boats made it out of that dreadful hell. Count Peibo himself didn’t even know how he managed to escape. He felt himself swaying on the small boat for a long time, only after the nightmare-like explosions and the sharp shrieking through the air disappeared from his mind did he finally see the familiar city walls of Tanzan Town, allowing the terrified count to breathe slightly easier.

After confirming no pursuers behind, Franing Peibo’s terrified expression eased somewhat. He looked at the towering walls of Tanzan Town before him, speaking half in relief and half in self-comfort: ”Fortunately, this is no longer Cecil Clan land, otherwise if an enemy ambush were on those walls, my life would be over...”

While speaking, a rapid whistling suddenly sounded from the walls of Tanzan Town, followed by the emergence of one after another peculiar devices with some kind of metal rail between the crenels.

Accompanied by the sudden magical glow between the metal rails, the nightmare-like booms and howls enveloped everything...