Chapter 602

Aside from two younger war elephants nearly losing their footing as they stepped onto the dry riverbed, everything proceeded according to plan. Ten hundred-man units surged out from their staging area, converging from multiple angles on the Gifted Army’s small beachhead.

Their formation might have seemed chaotic from the ground, but there was a method beneath the madness. If one were to observe from above, they would see that the first wave of Golden Company soldiers, grouped tightly in units of a hundred, advanced in a gradually widening semicircle—the center moving slowest, the flanks accelerating outward. Spacing was maintained between units to mitigate potential artillery losses, yet they were never too far apart to become isolated. Each unit covered another’s flank while keeping pace with the war elephants—not obstructing the beasts’ charge, yet ensuring their own movement did not fall out of sync.

There was no need for orders to be shouted or flags to be checked. A single pre-battle briefing was enough for the soldiers to execute the commander’s intent with near perfection. Such was the discipline of the famed “strongest mercenary company.”
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BOOM... BOOM...

As expected, flashes of light flickered across the riverbank, followed by plumes of white smoke. More than a dozen of those strange black-powder weapons roared to life, spewing iron spheres toward the charging mercenaries.

Hours of bombardment had already crushed the morale of the Riverland defenders, but it had also given the Golden Company time to familiarize themselves with this new weapon. Their staggered and dispersed approach ensured that most projectiles missed their mark, embedding themselves harmlessly into the sand with dull thunks. The elephants, their ears preemptively stuffed, barely reacted to the deafening noise.

The fire, the thunderous blasts, the concussive waves—it all caused a momentary ripple of unease, but nothing that could halt the charge. If anything, it triggered the second wave.

“Advance!”

At the commander’s bellow, the drumbeat changed, and five hundred archers leapt down from the embankment, forming a battle line as they sprinted forward.

After listening to the artillery fire for hours, Strickland had deciphered their rhythm—there was always a brief lull after each volley. In those precious seconds, his second line of archers could move into prime firing range, reinforcing the first wave with long-range support.

Such a minor adjustment would barely reduce casualties, but any seasoned commander knew that battles were often won by the smallest margins—an extra sliver of morale, a slight edge in attrition. A lion gives its all even against a rabbit, and against an enemy rumored to have defeated the Others, Strickland would seize any advantage he could.

Fifteen hundred men and seven war elephants pounded across the frozen, exposed riverbed, their golden banners fluttering, their gilded armor glinting, their beasts draped in shimmering golden cloth. Two tides of gold surged forward, crashing toward the tiny, black-clad formation barely holding its ground against the river.

A second volley of cannon fire rang out—less coordinated than the first, and even less effective. Strickland scanned the battlefield and saw no reason they could lose. The numbers, the positioning, the momentum—it was all in their favor.

A part of him even felt... regret.

Should I have waited longer? Let more of them cross before launching the charge?

Even if they wiped out the enemy here, it would only amount to two hundred men lost in the first wave. That was a setback, not a catastrophe. Not the decisive victory he would have preferred.

Raising his spyglass again, he focused on the enemy’s formation, eager to observe how this so-called formidable foe handled an impossible situation.

As expected, the shield-bearers had dropped their massive tower shields into a locked wall, bracing against the charge. Behind them, the second rank of soldiers reached for the iron spheres slung around their necks, cutting the cords with their blades.

And then...

Then Strickland understood why they had brought torches in broad daylight.

Through the lens, he watched—clear as day—as the black-clad warriors pressed their iron spheres against the flames. The moment the fuses caught, they turned and hurled them forward with all their might.

Firebombs!

The realization struck in an instant, but it was already too late. The melee was upon them, and there was no time for orders, no way to warn his men. He could only hope the winter air and battlefield chaos would dull the effectiveness of the enemy’s fire tactics.

Two hundred yards. One hundred yards. Closer.

The archers on the enemy’s riverboats loosed their first volley, striking down a few dozen mercenaries. The Golden Company’s archers, now in position, returned fire, their arrows hissing over the heads of their charging comrades, embedding into shields or finding unlucky souls just stepping off the pontoon bridges.

The ten hundred-man teams of the first wave had nearly reached the enemy shield wall.

And then—without hesitation, without breaking stride—they shifted formations.

This was no move a levy or common soldier could execute. This was the precision of veterans—men who had fought and bled in dozens of battles. This was the result of officers who knew exactly what needed to be done to maximize the damage inflicted while minimizing their own losses.

The lead units slowed, subtly shifting their positions. Without orders, without breaking formation, they drew closer to the war elephants, their once-scattered line seamlessly transforming into seven wedge formations, each centered around one of the massive beasts.

Like a battering ram, they hurled themselves straight at the enemy’s shield wall.

The soldiers breathed heavy, their shouts of war echoing across the battlefield.

And then they saw the iron spheres flying toward them.

But no one panicked.

The Golden Company had seen their share of thrown weapons—rocks, javelins, even crude incendiaries. A single glance at the smoke trailing from the spheres was enough for them to make the same conclusion as their commander: firebombs.

And yet—

Something was off.

The enemy’s officers had miscalculated their throw. The spheres landed too soon.

Dozens of blackened, soot-covered balls thudded into the earth—not among the charging mercenaries, but in front of them.

None exploded. None ignited.

They just... lay there.

For a moment, there was confusion. Then, as one, the Golden Company understood.

Laughter was impossible in the midst of a charge, but spirits soared. The mistake was glaring. The enemy had missed. Whatever their intent, the bombs had landed too far ahead to do any harm.

The mercenaries roared, their pace quickening. Morale surged like wildfire.

Yet even as the charge accelerated, a few sharp-eyed officers noticed something strange.

Why aren’t they breaking apart?

If they were firebombs, shouldn’t they have shattered on impact?

The thought barely had time to form.

They were just meters from the enemy line.

The iron spheres lay at their feet.

And then—

A deafening roar.

The battlefield was swallowed by fire and thunder.