Chapter 45: The First Tentative Assault

Immediately, over a thousand gnolls stepped forward, wielding an assortment of weapons. The tall and muscular ones brandished iron flails and chain maces—imposing and formidable arms—while the more slender among them carried wooden spiked clubs reinforced with bits of iron, and a great many simply held wooden sticks and stones.

“Attack.”

At Rogues’ command, the thousand-strong gnoll horde surged forward. Their formation was chaotic, sprawling across several kilometers as they thundered toward the castle.

At the highest point of the castle, Veylin stood with his sword planted before him, calmly watching the advancing gnolls below.

Along the inner wall, twenty triple-bow ballistae had been prepared, their crews alert and awaiting their lord’s order.

Veylin raised his right hand, gauging the distance. When the gnoll vanguard was within six hundred meters of the outer wall, he decisively lowered his hand.

Twenty robust soldiers, wielding wooden hammers, struck the triggers. With a sharp whoosh, twenty iron bolts shot forth.

A chorus of howls erupted as several massive gnolls were impaled, the bolts’ force carrying them through multiple bodies before finally coming to a stop.

Rogues watched impassively as twelve crimson paths appeared amid his assaulting ranks, his thoughts unreadable.

The scent of blood spread across the battlefield, igniting the gnolls’ frenzied bloodlust. Losing their last shred of reason, they pressed their attack with reckless abandon.

Seeing this, Baird, standing atop the outer wall, shouted loudly, “Raise shields!”

More than two hundred soldiers responded, lifting wooden shields plated with iron and gripping their spears tightly, bracing for the first assault.

The triple-bow ballistae on the inner walls continued to fire, inflicting casualties among the attackers.

Reaching the base of the wall, some gnolls hurled stones, while others began to scale the six-meter-high outer wall with their claws.

Stones pounded against the wooden shields with loud thuds; occasionally, flails and chain maces were thrown atop the walls, knocking shield-bearing soldiers flying.

There was little Baird could do about this. Some of the soldiers were newly conscripted serfs and freemen. Though they had undergone some training, without mastering the warrior’s awakening technique, they could not match true warriors in resilience and steadfastness.

Seeing some gnolls already halfway up the wall, Baird immediately ordered, “Drop stones!”

Warriors, sheltering behind their shields, hefted massive rocks—each weighing over a hundred pounds—over to the wall’s edge and hurled them down.

Many gnolls were struck, tumbling from the wall with agonized cries.

The battle raged from noon until dusk. As darkness fell, Rogues ordered his men to retreat.

A long howl signaled the withdrawal; the attacking gnolls ceased their assault, dragging their comrades’ corpses away like a receding tide.

Seeing the enemy retreat, the defenders on the outer wall collapsed onto the ground, gasping for breath and wiping sweat from their brows.

Baird flicked the blood from his knight’s sword and sheathed it, preparing to report the casualties and the defense’s outcome.

The six hundred surviving gnolls dragged corpses back to camp, where their cooks, long awaiting them, took the bodies and began to prepare fires for cooking.

During their march, they had subsisted on goblin and kobold slaves, occasionally raiding goblin tribes to replenish their food supplies.

Now, at the border of human lands, their goblins and kobolds had all been consumed. They had hoped to quickly seize a human territory and resolve their food crisis.

Things had not gone as expected. With nothing but barren land all around—not even bark to chew—they were forced to eat the flesh of their own kind.

“Commander, food.”

A large gnoll respectfully presented Rogues with a roasted wolf leg.

“It’s yours.” Rogues looked with distaste at the roasted meat, his expression cold.

“Thank you, Commander.”

The gnoll left in high spirits, clutching the wolf leg.

Rogues gazed at his kin, feasting cheerfully on their own kind, openly betraying his contempt. He had never regarded these beasts as his true brethren.

“From today’s battle, the humans used some kind of long-range crossbow. I’m not sure if it’s widely equipped or unique to this noble,” he mused. “Ordinary gnolls can’t take this fortress. We’ll need the chieftains of the lesser clans to join the fight.”

Tomorrow, Rogues planned to make another probing attack. If they could not seize the castle in one swift assault, they would bypass it and continue east.

His mission here was reconnaissance; there was no need to waste his forces in a futile struggle against the humans.

Even if their retreat was cut off, he could simply abandon these fools and escape with his trusted followers.

He did not believe the humans could completely seal off every passage back to the Ashenlight Wastes.

Inside the castle, Veylin conducted his inspection while listening to Baird’s report.

“My lord, in this afternoon’s defense, we expended a hundred and sixty iron bolts and one fifth of our stone reserves. We suffered eighty-six casualties, with twenty-three dead—most in hand-to-hand combat with the gnolls.

“In addition, under the cover of darkness, we collected one hundred sixty-seven ordinary gnoll heads and fifty-seven bronze-ranked ones; the rest of the bodies were retrieved by the enemy. By preliminary count, this battle killed over four hundred gnolls.”

Veylin halted, his voice grave: “Today was likely a probe; tomorrow is critical. All knights must be ready—the silver-ranked gnolls may enter the fray.

“Also, preserve the gnoll heads in lime. These hard-won military merits must be kept safe. They’ll serve for promotions, or can be sold to other nobles.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Once Baird departed, Veylin made a circuit of the castle before returning to his chamber.

Seated, he closed his eyes to rest, recalling all he had observed that day.

“The gnoll leader shows some intelligence. Evading villages, avoiding unknown dangers, using fodder troops to test our strength—all these tactics indicate a certain degree of acumen.”

This contradicted Veylin’s stereotype of gnolls as mindless brutes.

“If only the enemy were as brainless as I’d hoped,” he muttered, rubbing his temples in resignation.

To guard against a nocturnal assault, the castle was brightly lit throughout the night. All soldiers kept their weapons close, resting on the walls with only blankets, ready to rotate shifts or leap into battle at a moment’s notice.

Baird, the steward of Lake of the Wishing Stars, made his rounds of the outer wall every two hours, ensuring nothing was left to chance.