The valiant Wolf Riders reacted first. They stuffed their fingers into their mouths and blew sharp whistles to signal one another, then charged toward the centaurs alongside their companions, curved sabers waving.
It was no exaggeration to call the Wolf Riders, who traveled in packs, the most terrifying hunters in the wilderness. Their Riding was superb, their swordsmanship was exquisite, and they could endure hunger during days-long running battles, patiently waiting for their enemies to reveal an opening before launching a pack assault that settled the matter with a fearless charge!
In the eyes of ordinary Pompeians, Wolf Riders galloping beneath the moonlight on the Full Moon Night were practically a symbol of the wilderness.
But this time, they had definitely chosen the wrong opponent.
Direwolves were extremely aggressive mounts, powerful at close quarters and ferocious in a melee. However, they had a fatal flaw in cavalry-versus-cavalry combat—their short-distance charging speed was truly mediocre, far inferior to that of warhorses.
The centaurs had no intention of clashing head-on with the Wolf Riders. Following Hert, they simply stretched out their legs and easily opened up some distance.
Then they drew arrows, nocked them, pulled the bowstrings, and turned around to pick off the reckless fools one by one with their longbows.
The werewolves' Riding could hardly be called anything but masterful, and they displayed all kinds of techniques, such as hiding themselves against their saddles. Their Martial Arts were no less practiced, either; they could even knock away arrows fired from longbows at close range with their curved sabers. But all that did was extend their lives by a few breaths.
The centaurs dealt with them very directly. If the werewolves used Direwolves as cover, they shot the Direwolves first. If they defended with curved sabers, three centaurs aimed at the same target. The bandits' only cavalry force quickly died out, almost entirely without the ability to fight back.
There were only a hundred yards left between Richard and the enemy army.
At this distance, the bandit infantry could clearly feel the oppressive sensation of a gigantic mount, three blades tall, charging straight at them—it was as if a hill were collapsing before their eyes, with rocks and earth rolling toward them, about to bury them while they remained utterly helpless.
Under Richard's deliberate control, the Iron-eating Armadillo was not moving quickly, but every time its feet struck the ground, they caused a faint tremor. The bandits felt as though their hearts were trembling along with the earth. A heavy cavalry mount like this could smash straight through a massive tree that would take two men to encircle. Could mere flesh and blood possibly stop it?
If they had the heavy steel Mountain Shields issued to Pompeii's elite legions, were well trained, and were unafraid of making sacrifices, perhaps they could have. Unfortunately, not one of those conditions applied to the bandits present.
Fifty yards...
The hand axes and javelins thrown by the bandits were as dense as raindrops, all aimed at the knight riding Windchaser. Among them were many skilled throwers with excellent aim and strength, who scraped a continuous sheet of dazzling sparks across his outer armor.
But Richard was wrapped in three full layers of armor. With ten points invested in the Iron Bone skill, his own defense was no weaker than a troll's. Such an absurdly sturdy shell was far beyond the ability of a few thrown weapons to pierce.
Ten yards...
Some clever Hobgoblins tried to brace a spear together with several others to withstand the impact. It was a standard infantry tactic for countering cavalry. But before the three-thousand-pound beast charging toward them, their attempt was weaker than stalks of wheat.
The spear shaft twisted and exploded the instant it struck Windchaser, at most knocking off a few scales. The fate of the Hobgoblins holding the spear was far more gruesome. The rebounding shaft, carrying tremendous force, slammed into their bodies and blasted their intestines out through their backs!
The final few steps vanished in an instant, and close combat finally began.
If the bandits were a slab of pork with three parts fat and two parts lean, then the charging cavalry commander was an unstoppable boning knife.
The giant beast crashed into the crowd like a mischievous child knocking over a line of dominoes, creating a massive gap in the bandits' formation. The barbarian warriors following on both sides surged in, and face-to-face collisions and slaughter began at once.
During their daily training, Richard often explained things that went beyond techniques—matters of principle, such as:
"As a commander, carrying out the strategic objective is of course more important than annihilating the enemy. But remember this: even for a worthless little grunt, achieving the tactical objective is often more valuable than killing the enemy."
Because of his supreme authority among the barbarians, with no one daring to disobey him, this combat philosophy was put into practice with maximum effect at that moment.
The wedge-shaped formation never stopped advancing. No one paused to kill the heavily wounded or dying enemies, because that would simply waste time. The heavily armored barbarians at the very front had even abandoned defense, striving to punch through the formation as quickly as possible.
No one who could survive in this lawless land was a harmless lamb. When the time came to fight for their lives, the wilderness bandits were by no means cowardly, and they fearlessly struck back at their enemies.
The bandits themselves, however, were more accustomed to chaotic melees in which everyone swarmed together. Once their blood was up, even the Hobgoblin warriors could no longer restrain them. The discipline they had barely maintained vanished in an instant.
The centaur archers soon circled back after defeating the Wolf Riders.
They took arrows from their quivers and stuck them into the muddy ground before them, ensuring that they could draw and fire as quickly as possible.
At the same time Richard drove the giant beast headlong into the crowd, all the centaurs released their bowstrings, which had been drawn taut to the limit.
These natural sharpshooters had astonishingly precise control over where their arrows landed. The arrows split into two waves, flying toward the openings created by the charging vanguard on either side. Before the bandits fighting the barbarians could react, the sharp arrowheads had already reaped their lives. Each wave of arrows that fell made the barbarians feel the pressure around them suddenly ease.
But compared with the bandits blocking the front, these men's experience was already incomparably fortunate.
Richard did not use the cavalry lance by holding it level and thrusting straight ahead. He felt that was completely inefficient. Instead, he gripped it with both hands and swung it like a long staff.
With his inhuman strength behind it, every swing of the lance shattered the air with a violent boom that could briefly drown out even the groans and screams of the dying. The bandits struck head-on by the long staff showed no particularly obvious wounds on their fronts, but a horrifying gash burst open across their backs, and their organs sprayed out in a rush mixed with blood!
Annie stood on a nearby hill and watched it all, her hands and feet icy cold. During her earlier discussion with her subordinates, she had said that the lord of High Mountain Keep would be an unstoppable meat grinder on the battlefield.
But knowing something and seeing it with one's own eyes were two entirely different things. The visual impact of that simplest and most direct kind of power was something reason could not easily comprehend.
"Franz, is this the hero from the myths?" Annie's voice was hollow.
"My lady, this is a devil from hell." The One-Eyed Dragon mercenary's voice was even hollower.
Without any unforeseen circumstances, it would be difficult for the bandits to resist the tactic of an elite squad led by such a fierce general, cutting through and dividing their formation. Being punched straight through in one attack was only a matter of time.
Unfortunately, there were no ifs on the battlefield.
Beneath the dense stench of blood, Richard suddenly caught what seemed to be the faintest whiff of sulfur drifting through the air.
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