Chapter 56: The Militia Strikes Back!

Many of the bandits on horseback had already charged to the very front of the militia’s ranks, so close that with a single swing of their blades, they could have taken a militiaman’s head. Yet their curved sabers were still slower than the short spears hurled by the militia.

More than twenty short spears, infused with terrifying force, flew through the air and instantly sent seven or eight bandits and their mounts tumbling to the ground. The spears, thrown with great strength by the militia, collided with the speeding horsemen with predictable results. The tattered fur armor offered no protection whatsoever; no matter where the spear struck, it pierced straight through. Even the fleet-footed horses met the same fate: a spear struck one horse in the neck, its tip bursting out the other side and impaling the rider’s belly as well.

A bandit who thought he had narrowly dodged the spears found a spearhead suddenly buried in his abdomen. Every jolt of his mount caused the blade to churn violently inside him. When his horse finally collapsed, his belly had already been shredded, his intestines spilling onto the ground.

Only a few bandits, sensing danger, yanked their reins and ducked low, successfully avoiding the spears and circling around the flanks of the militia.

Leo felt a measure of reassurance in his heart, deeply satisfied with the militia's performance. Only a month ago, these villagers would never have had the courage or composure to hurl their spears at horsemen charging within ten meters. Some would have shrunk back like ordinary peasants at the mere sight of bandits galloping toward them, causing the shield wall to break and scatter. Others might have simply raised their shields above their heads, cowering like turtles. Even those who did throw their spears would have missed their marks due to fear and panic.

Experience in real combat was indeed the best training. After seeing blood a few times, even those who used to panic at the sight of kobolds could now face the bandits' charge without flinching. Some veteran militiamen could ignore the bandits' howls and the flash of their blades, waiting patiently for the perfect moment to strike with deadly precision.

The heavy losses suffered by the first wave of bandits immediately caused those behind to steer clear of the militia, with only a handful of daring horsemen attempting to sweep past the shield wall, swinging their scimitars. But their attacks were calmly deflected by the militia’s shields.

The bandits, seasoned in countless raids, instantly realized that these men were no easy prey and decisively abandoned their assault on the militia, galloping instead toward the lord’s manor. They had not come for battle, but for plunder, and there was no need to get entangled with the tightly packed militia. Their primary task was to sow as much bloodshed and chaos as possible.

Leo saw all the bandits surging toward the lord’s manor and shouted, “Break ranks and advance! Maintain formation—don’t be reckless!” His stern command kept several eager militiamen from breaking out of the shield wall to chase after the bandits; they forced themselves to curb their impatience and returned to the ranks.

More and more militiamen formed into two lines, shields raised, advancing in great strides after the bandits toward the lord’s manor.

The few bandits who had rushed ahead were about to cut down some isolated villagers when a sudden twanging of bowstrings filled the air. A dense hail of crossbow bolts flew from nearby houses, the manor’s rooftop, and small windows on the second floor, instantly turning the bandits and their horses into pincushions.

It was not only the main militia—fifty reservists were also equipped with crossbows seized from the boar-men. Vicky, the militiaman appointed as the reservist instructor for his outstanding performance, even led a dozen crossbowmen onto the balcony of the manor’s second floor, firing at the advancing bandits to draw their attention.

“Where did a shabby village get so many militia?” the bandit chief cursed, glancing quickly at the shield wall closing in behind him before turning his eyes to the half-shut manor doors. Unwilling to give up, he roared, “Charge inside! Kill them all!”

Before the raid, he had actually sent scouts to sneak close and observe the village, estimating the enemy’s strength. Unfortunately, his scouts had not witnessed the spectacle of the militia and reservists’ grand drills, so he vastly underestimated their numbers. Nor did he expect them to be so well-equipped, so formidable, or to have so many crossbows!

Seeing the militia stand firm and even somewhat composed in the face of battle, he almost suspected that they were regular soldiers brought in by some decorated noble—or perhaps that the entire scene was a trap. The task force assembled by the lords to suppress banditry was rarely any better than this.

But the bandit chief had his orders and was unwilling to retreat so easily. If his men could storm the manor, seize the gate, and use the elderly and weak inside as hostages, they would regain the initiative.

One bandit, close to the manor, dismounted and scrambled up the wooden steps, trying to block the door before it could close.

In this fortress-like manor, once the main door was shut, the bandits’ short weapons would be useless against it. Suddenly, a short, stocky figure darted out from behind the gate and slammed into the bandit.

The bandit sneered, about to kick this figure aside, when it had already closed the distance and landed an uppercut on his jaw. With a crisp crack of bone, the last thing the bandit saw was a massive, fur-covered fist and a muscled arm thicker than his own leg. And a sharp bark.

This was the kobold blacksmith from the river bend, whose years at the forge had given him a body that was monstrous even among his kin. His upper body was massively muscled, both arms thicker than his legs. Never one for clothing, the sparks from the forge had long since scorched most of his fur, leaving patches of blackened skin and bald spots, lending him a truly fearsome appearance.

The bandit’s jaw was shattered by the uppercut, his skull rattled, and he was sent flying a full meter before landing, his fate uncertain.

Another bandit, witnessing this, leapt off his horse onto the wooden platform before the manor door. Before he could draw his blade, he sensed something and looked toward the door.

From the darkness, pairs of scarlet eyes emerged—seven or eight more kobold blacksmiths of similar build lunged at him. Like a pack of muscle-bound, demonic pit bulls, they dragged the man to the ground, tearing at him until blood and flesh flew. The psychological impact on the others was no less than if they’d seen someone disemboweled.

The remaining bandits jumped from their horses to help, but at close range, the reservist militia’s crossbows finally came into their own; a single hit was crippling, if not fatal. Some bandits never even made it to the manor’s platform, falling under a hail of bolts on the open ground outside.

The mounting casualties surpassed the bandit chief’s tolerance. Circling his horse in front of the manor, he shot down three crossbowmen in quick succession, then, unwilling to admit defeat, stuck his fingers in his mouth and let out a piercing whistle.

At the signal, all the bandits abandoned their attack, vaulted onto their horses, and turned to flee toward the edge of the village.