The enemy was elite.
When Captain Old Lame saw the enemy swiftly fix bayonets after firing two volleys, then bunch together with their bayonets pointing outward, he felt both humiliated and furious.
Those country bumpkins really were all equipped with flintlocks!
They even knew how to defend themselves with a bayonet formation. Apparently, they were not the rabble he had imagined.
His horse was galloping at full speed, leaving Captain Old Lame little time or room to think. With the enemy only a few dozen paces away, close enough for him to see their tense faces, the captain swiftly drew his flintlock.
The dragoons charging behind him in loose order did the same... This was standard Minisian Dragoons doctrine: when enemy infantry bunched together into a formation, hit them with gunfire first.
The reports of flintlocks merged into a rolling thunder from fifty paces away, screams mingling with the shrieks of lead bullets tearing through the air.
The Minisian Dragoons were accurate marksmen. Even at a full gallop, the fifty-meter range meant most of their lead bullets struck within the musketeers' square.
Among the riflemen standing along the outside of the square, two pitched forward without a sound after the shots rang out, while several others clutched their hands or thighs and howled where they stood.
The riflemen's breastplates proved dependable. Only two unlucky men were killed outright.
Having fired their guns, the dragoons reached the square.
Captain Old Lame, riding at the head, guided his horse into a sharp turn just before the front rank of bayonets, which resembled a field of steel wheat. He swept past along the flank, his saber flashing through the air, its tip barely brushing the outermost bayonets with a ringing clatter.
The other twenty-odd dragoons followed suit, sweeping past the enemy's flank like