Chapter 18: Ignition

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On that land mercilessly scorched by the flames of war, Ward Village had become a living hell, the entire settlement engulfed in towering infernos. The English burned the mills, granaries, orchards, haystacks, and piles of corn, smashed the barrels used for brewing to splinters, and toppled and set ablaze the villagers’ thatched cottages. They slit the throats of villagers and livestock alike, ransacked every house, then set fire to them, leaving the once fertile land utterly devastated.

Friedrich, a German knight, was struck with shock and fury at the sight. He could not help but shout, “What’s wrong with you English? These are our own kin!”

Yet the English squad’s commander, George, merely sneered with utter disregard. “Kin? This is war!” His face bore a cold, cruel smile, as if these atrocities were nothing but ordinary acts of war.

He added carelessly, “We treat the Scots the same way!”

Hearing George’s words sent a chill through Friedrich. He recalled feeling uneasy earlier when he had shortchanged a meal payment, but now, witnessing the ruthless savagery before him, he felt as if he were serving the devil himself. He thought helplessly that if King Edward III had not withheld the full payment of their commission, leaving him without a single penny, he would never stoop to “plundering” farmers’ food.

Even more baffling to him was the behavior of the Duke of Brabant. He could not fathom the duke’s motives at all. Despite the insufficient pay and the Englishmen’s demonic cruelty, the duke still participated.

Unable to endure the horrific scene any longer, fearing he might lose control but unwilling to offend the duke, Friedrich signaled his men with a glance and then said to George, “I have a pain in my chest. My men and I are returning to camp.”

Friedrich and his men departed, taking a different route and thus avoiding an encounter with Ressarit’s squad—perhaps a stroke of luck for both groups.

George spat contemptuously as he watched the German knights’ backs. “Ha! Cowardly Germans.”

“Come on, find me some women.” The surrounding English soldiers laughed uproariously, their lawless rampage continuing unabated as they unleashed their violence and evil on the defenseless villagers.

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While these heavily armed men ruthlessly vented their cruelty and destruction upon the unarmed, Ressarit charged forward heedlessly, followed by a well-equipped group of twenty or so heavy cavalry.

Carlo hesitated to join the charge, fearing an ambush. He believed they should scout ahead first. Still, the words and deeds of Luan once inspired him: “Carlo, Carlo, just give it one more try.”

Soon, the cavalry surged into Ward Village like a roaring torrent. Ressarit, mounted on a towering black warhorse and wielding a longsword, appeared as a war god descended to earth. The cavalry behind him were full of high spirits, their banners fluttering and crackling in the wind.

As the cavalry stormed into the village, the English, having had their homes burned down, had nowhere to hide. None were mounted, and some were still desecrating women.

When these armed Englishmen suddenly faced a stronger, better-equipped cavalry unit, panic overcame them. Fear and confusion were written plainly across their faces.

Ressarit led the charge, swinging his longsword with force and sending an English soldier flying. The soldier screamed miserably through the air before crashing heavily to the ground, dust billowing around him.

The heavy cavalry behind Ressarit surged forward like an iron flood, clad in sturdy armor and wielding sharp weapons, each a master of arms burning with fierce rage. They charged into the enemy ranks as if no one stood in their way, felling Englishmen wherever they went.

Carlo initially stayed at the rear, crossbow in hand, aiming at an English soldier setting fires. Calmly pulling the trigger, the crossbow bolt shot out like lightning, striking the enemy’s back. The soldier screamed and collapsed into the flames.

Quickly reloading another crossbow, Carlo aimed at another target—a soldier preparing to resist. Again, he fired decisively, the bolt piercing the man’s shoulder, forcing him to drop his weapon with a pained cry.

Carlo then set aside the crossbow, drew his longsword without hesitation, and plunged into melee combat. Though he lacked Ressarit’s strength and skill, he relied on his agility and wit to make a vital contribution on the battlefield.

He wove through the enemy ranks. When a foe swung a longsword at him with fierce intent—steel whistling through the air—Carlo deftly dodged sideways, the blade grazing his clothing by mere inches.

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Seizing the moment, Carlo struck the enemy’s leg with a swift sword blow, channeling all his strength. The blade bit deep into muscle with a dull thud. The soldier howled in pain and collapsed, writhing in agony.

Without pause, Carlo sought his next target, evading another attack before again striking an enemy’s leg, felling him.

His figure darted through the fray—no grand feats, but each strike contributing to their fight’s success.

Ressarit thundered across the battlefield, shouting, “For the innocent people of Ward Village—kill!”

His voice echoed like thunder, stirring every French soldier’s spirit.

Amidst the fierce combat, Ressarit spotted George, a savage foe who had already slain three French soldiers, emanating a terrifying aura of death.

A flicker of rage ignited in Ressarit’s eyes. Clamping his legs around his horse’s flanks, he charged at George.

George met him fiercely, eyes gleaming with malice, sword drawn and ready.

Their gazes locked, sparks seeming to fly between them, the air thickening with tension.

As Ressarit closed in, he raised his longsword high, gathering all his strength for a powerful thrust.

George swiftly dodged the strike with practiced agility and retaliated with a swift slash aimed at Ressarit’s warhorse.

Ressarit reacted instantly, kicking off with both legs and leaping from his mount.

In midair, he hurled his longsword at George.

George barely dodged, the blade grazing his cheek and leaving a faint trail of blood.