Chapter 20: Battle in the Rain

The English supply convoy approached slowly through the rain, as fine, misty curtains of precipitation veiled the landscape.

Their figures gradually sharpened against the rain-streaked backdrop; carts laden with grain groaned as they struggled along the muddy track. The wheels churned through the mire, emitting dull, rhythmic thuds.

Roberto frowned slightly, leaning toward Carlo to whisper, "Carlo, look at these Englishmen. They are truly arrogant. This is French soil, yet they march with such reckless disregard."

Carlo nodded slightly, his response cool and measured. "Indeed, but their current state works in our favor. Look at them—they are utterly exhausted. This is our golden opportunity."

A flash of urgency sparked in Roberto's eyes. "Should we strike now?"

Carlo spoke in a low, decisive tone: "Patience. Let them draw a little closer. Have the men ready, and make sure everyone follows my command precisely."

The squad tightened their grips on their weapons. Over a hundred crossbows were already spanned, waiting in the silence for the moment of attack. As the convoy neared the dense woods, Carlo’s heart quickened, his gaze betraying a mixture of tension and excitement.

Once the convoy reached the optimal range for the crossbows, Carlo took a deep breath, raised his hand abruptly, and shouted, "Prepare to fire! Aim for the cavalry and heavy infantry at the front!"

The men swiftly adjusted their positions, leveling their crossbows at the targets. Carlo roared again, "Loose!"

The strike team unleashed a volley, immediately discarding their spent crossbows to snatch up pre-loaded ones for a follow-up. In the blink of an eye, nearly a hundred bolts flew from the woods like a dark swarm, whistling sharply as they tore through the rain toward the convoy.

The Englishmen were caught completely off guard by the sudden assault.

"Argh!" Cries of pain erupted one after another. Many knights and heavy infantrymen were struck before they could even react, toppling from their horses or collapsing to the ground.

Thomas screamed in terror, "Ambush! Take cover!"

But in the ensuing panic, they found it impossible to organize an effective defense.

The remaining Englishmen scrambled behind the grain carts, attempting to use them as shields against the barrage. Thomas, trapped in the midst of the chaos, desperately and helplessly urged his panicked soldiers to return fire.

"Fight back! Use your longbows!"

However, the rain had slackened the bowstrings, drastically sapping the arrows of their power. Combined with the obscured visibility, their shots posed almost no threat to Carlo and his men in the woods.

Seeing the futility of the English counter-attack, a smug smile touched Carlo's lips. He had planned this meticulously. Since they were prepared for an ambush, their crossbow strings were in much better condition. They only needed to maintain this short, intense burst of fire to achieve their objective.

He knew that while crossbows might eventually rust and fail after prolonged use in the rain, English longbows were rendered almost entirely useless the moment they were exposed to such weather. Furthermore, all equipment and supplies were provided by the Count, who, in appreciation of Lethalrid’s courage, would surely replace any losses after the battle.

"Keep firing! Don’t give them a moment to breathe!"

The men reloaded with practiced speed, unleashing another volley. The rhythmic "click-clack" of crossbow mechanisms filled the air as bolts flew relentlessly toward the enemy.

Ahead of the supply train, a scene of carnage unfolded. Over thirty armored cavalrymen and soldiers lay scattered in the mud, a gruesome sight. Some had already breathed their last, lying still in pools of blood, while others wailed in agony, unable to move from their grievous wounds. Their hands clawed aimlessly at the blood-soaked earth, struggling helplessly amidst the wreckage.

Thomas’s frantic shouting was the most audible sound in the disorder, yet his end proved to be the most miserable. His panicked, hysterical behavior drew Carlo’s undivided attention.

Targeted specifically by Carlo, Thomas was struck by a dozen bolts in quick succession, which pierced his body without mercy. His frame shuddered violently under the impact as blood sprayed from his wounds, painting the surrounding soil crimson. Finally, he perished, becoming just another cold corpse on the battlefield.

Carlo wore a calm smile as he whispered, "Very well, follow Plan A. The first squad will continue to fire at a measured pace. The rest of you, ensure all crossbows are reloaded and prepare your shields and swords."

Roberto immediately relayed the command: "Everyone, execute Plan A!"

The men moved in unison. The first squad adjusted their positions, maintaining a steady, methodical rhythm of fire. Their movements were skilled and relaxed; every bolt flew with lethal intent. The rest of the team reloaded with haste.

By now, Richard was the only knight left in the convoy. Being pathologically cowardly, he remained curled tightly beneath a grain cart, not daring to lift his head even an inch. His comrades, once brave, were now either dead or incapacitated, their bodies strewn across the area.

The remaining Englishmen were mostly longbowmen or conscripts. They might have managed to fight in favorable conditions, but without their commander, holding their ground was already a testament to their stubbornness.

They were in a desperate plight. With no one to lead them, unable to advance or retreat, they were reduced to passive targets, "picked off" one by one by the now-slowing rate of crossbow fire. Moments later, another scream of a dying man echoed through the air, chilling to the bone.

A veteran soldier with a twisted mouth, clearly experienced, looked anxious and shouted, "Lord Richard, we cannot just sit here and be slaughtered! Everyone will be wiped out!"

Richard kept his head hidden. "Then you go! Ha! I shall cheer for you from here!"

As he spoke, he shrank further into his shell, still cowering beneath the cart. He gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, his palms slick with sweat, yet he feigned composure, occasionally peeking out to observe the situation.

The veteran gritted his teeth. "My Lord, listen to the sound of their crossbows. It is nowhere near as dense as it was at the start. I have been counting with my ears—I suspect there are at most ten of them! They must have just prepared many pre-loaded crossbows in advance!"

Richard’s eyes widened in sudden realization. A flash of excitement crossed his face as he barked an order: "The enemy only had many pre-loaded weapons at the start; there are at most ten of them! Listen to me, everyone! Take your shields, charge together, and hack them to death!"

With that, he gave the veteran a vicious kick and urged him on with a ferocious scowl: "You go first! Don’t dally!"