"Go take a look."
At the command, the group immediately sprang into action, heading in the direction of the sound. Before long, they had quietly reached the vicinity.
Their position was perfect. A mound happened to stand between them and the battlefield. Though they were already extremely close, it seemed no one had noticed them.
They left Windchaser at the foot of the mountain, then the entire group climbed the mound. Several heads stealthily poked out from the withered grass at the summit. While secretly observing the battlefield nearby, the barbarians gradually spread out to both sides.
Having made their living hunting large beasts for years, they were highly skilled at stalking and ambushing. Their movements created almost no unnecessary noise. To their surprise, their own Lord seemed quite familiar with this as well. Bracing both elbows against the ground, he crawled swiftly while keeping his body firmly concealed within the wild grass.
Through the gaps between the blades of grass, Richard watched the foot of the mountain. Not far away was a dirt road marked by human feet and wagon wheels. It was so crude that it could barely be called a road, but compared to the half-man-high sea of grass stretching across the wilderness, it was indeed an exceptionally valuable means of transportation.
A caravan had apparently been trying to conduct trade along this road, but had unfortunately been attacked by bandits. They had been forced to arrange their wagons in a circle and use them as cover against the attack. This was also the usual method for an armed caravan to deal with robbery.
There were sixteen large, four-wheeled freight wagons, each pulled by a pair of horses. Every wagon could carry at least fifteen hundred pounds of goods. A caravan of this size would normally be accompanied by at least forty experienced, well-equipped mercenaries as guards. Ordinary native tribes would never dare provoke such an armed force, not even in their dreams.
But their current situation was dire. All the wagons had been arranged into a defensive circle, leaving them huddled inside and desperately fighting back. Even the drivers were grabbing the equipment of dead mercenaries and joining the battle wherever they could.
Their opponents were sixty or seventy nonhumans nearly two meters tall. Their arms hung past their knees, their backs were hunched, and their dark-gray skin was covered in round spots. A mane like steel needles stretched from the tops of their heads all the way to their tailbones.
They also had a pair of distinctive deep-red eyes that openly revealed their cruelty and savagery.
—They were Gnolls!
These Gnolls must have come from some powerful tribe. Every one of them actually had a reasonably decent metal weapon, while quite a few wore tattered old Lamellar Armor for additional protection. Richard had even spotted a full suit of heavy cavalry armor on one particularly massive Gnoll!
Judging from the red-and-black cross emblem on its chest, it could be confirmed that this had once been a lancer of some Augustus Family who had met an unfortunate end.
Pompeii mercenaries had always bullied the natives by relying on the overwhelming superiority of steel swords over wooden clubs. Although the Gnolls' equipment was still inferior to that of the mercenaries, the gap had narrowed to a completely acceptable level.
The human guards were all competent in Martial Arts, and their teamwork was well-organized. But against opponents who were both stronger and more numerous, it was utterly useless.
An old mercenary with one eye was performing exceptionally well. He first deftly stabbed a Gnoll through the heart with a rapier, then swung a flail and smashed another's shoulder into a mangled mess. But that Gnoll seemed incapable of feeling pain. It turned around and bit straight into his throat.
An archer wearing a black cloak stood atop the central wagon, tasked with supporting all sides. He was fairly alert, drawing, nocking, and aiming in one fluid motion. His arrow plunged deep through a Gnoll's eye socket.
This archer was one of the ruthless ones in the caravan. Richard watched him fire several arrows, and every shot bit into flesh without missing a vital spot. Unfortunately, for some unknown reason, his strength was clearly lacking. Several Gnolls shot in the head acted as though nothing had happened, continuing to fight with arrows sticking out of their skulls.
"Like some damn woman!" The Lord of High Mountain Keep, whose archery proficiency would never reach fifty, angrily slapped his thigh. If he had that kind of accuracy along with a powerful bow, everything within five hundred paces would become an impassable natural barrier to anyone.
The One-Eyed Dragon had survived, but the wound on his neck left him unable to continue fighting. The several mercenaries who had supported him earlier were far worse. They lacked the strength to stand on their own and were torn to pieces by the Gnolls' weapons in the blink of an eye.
The Gnolls chewed greedily on their opponents' blood and flesh. Crimson fluid flowed between their sickle-like fangs, making them increasingly bloodthirsty and savage.
"Boss, what do we do?" Gunther wore a hat woven from grass leaves, making him look exceptionally honest and simple-minded.
The barbarians' thoughts were very straightforward. Since their boss had said they needed to stimulate the potion's effects through battle, those big, burly Gnolls were obviously better whetstones than the chick-like Goblins.
Richard actually did not want to act too soon.
If they waited until the caravan had been wiped out and all its goods seized by the Gnolls before moving, then according to the rules governing spoils of war, all the goods would naturally belong to High Mountain Keep. The number and size of the wagons alone made it clear that this would certainly be an unimaginable fortune.
Unfortunately, he could not do that! He clicked his tongue regretfully.
Gnolls were infamous for going berserk at the sight of blood. During a fight, they would fall into a semi-mad state. This state made them stronger and more tolerant of pain, but their already limited rationality would be completely overwhelmed by bloodlust.
A Gnoll in this semi-mad state would not turn back even after crashing into a southern wall. Its ability to react to changing circumstances would drop to rock bottom. Until it killed its opponent or was killed by its opponent, it simply could not judge the situation.
The caravan guards were the ones bearing the pressure right now, and the barbarians could easily charge in and harvest heads. Once all the guards were dead, however, they would have no choice but to fight the red-eyed Gnolls head-on. Judging from their equipment, those would be tough bones to gnaw on!
Some of the mercenaries seemed to have noticed them. A sword-and-shield wielder was desperately calling for help in their direction, while the Gnolls in their semi-mad state remained completely unaware.
"They're big, but they're still just bandits." Richard did not think much of these Gnolls at all. An excellent warrior should always remain calm and restrained.
"Exactly." Gunther nodded vigorously. He thought these Gnolls were far too skinny.
"You lead everyone in the charge. Choose the timing yourself."
Richard withdrew from the top of the slope and mounted Windchaser. The beast had no saddle, and it had not had time to develop any rapport with its owner. However, with Richard's Riding skill at level six, controlling it posed no difficulty whatsoever.
He signaled toward the mountaintop, then urged Windchaser to circle around the mound and accelerate toward the battlefield.
The giant beast's weight meant that once it began running, its movements could not possibly be concealed. Most of the Gnolls' ears caught the muffled thunder of its hooves, but their minds, sunk in madness, ignored the signal.
Gunther chose the timing perfectly. Just as Richard rounded the slope and appeared in the sight of both sides, the barbarians followed him in launching a charge down the hillside.
Windchaser's full-speed sprint was slightly slower than a warhorse's, but its astonishing weight gave it unparalleled impact—something no warhorse could hope to match.
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