This budding Warlord, who clearly lacked the intelligence of a true Great Warlord, was momentarily frozen in place.
He may have hesitated, but Horten did not.
Forty arrows from forty hunting bows flew from the Peasant Bowmen, all converging on the unlucky Greenskin Warlord. His green skin was instantly perforated, and blood gushed from the wounds.
In that instant, the furious Warlord forgot that the correct choice was to flee back to his camp. Instead, he charged forward, intent on slaughtering his way into the ranks of the Peasant Bowmen.
The Orc's tiny brain had evidently failed to consider a simple question: if the bowmen were here, where were the infantry?
Eighty men carrying longspears, the two Spearmen units, emerged from the dense forest undergrowth. Their round-top helms, thick leather armor over cloth robes, and bare feet all testified to their peasant origins. But the cold glint of their spearheads was proof that a peasant was not weak and possessed the spirit to fight back.
A large Orc could often take on five men at once, but the sight of dozens of spears appearing before him was enough to cool his bloodlust by half.
Startled and caught off guard, the Greenskin glanced back. His subordinates were dozens of meters away. As he turned, another volley of arrows slammed into him, studding his back with shafts. Horten couldn't help but clench his fist. Victory!
A Greenskin tribe with a warlord and one without were two completely different things. Without a warlord to command them, Greenskins would just fight amongst themselves and pose no major threat.
"A fine strategy."
Having seen through the monk's plan, Joan 'the Flash' couldn't hide her surprise. "Since when are the bookworms from the abbeys capable of waging war?"
In the Middle Ages, an abbey was a combination of an academy, a technology workshop, and a medical center—a bastion of civilization in a backward region. Nobles and rulers especially relied on the abbeys for minting currency and keeping accounts.
But no one had ever heard of a cleric who could fight.
The Household Knights had also considered a decapitation strike against the Greenskin Warlord, but they weren't willing to risk their precious Countess as bait. Naturally, without the right lure, the enemy wouldn't bite, and the plan had failed.
Who would have thought that Horten would actually succeed in drawing him out?
The Countess, hearing the assessment, had a shimmering light dancing in her emerald eyes, her thoughts a mystery.
"Kill him! After him, press the attack!"
Seeing the Warlord collapse to the ground, riddled with arrows like a porcupine and bleeding profusely, Horten grabbed the reins of his returned donkey, picked up a spear, and ordered his militia to charge.
But as he drew near the Greenskin, the Orc, who had been cunningly playing dead, suddenly sprang up for a last-ditch counterattack!
Horten was shocked, not having anticipated this twist.
On the hill, the knights shot to their feet in alarm. Was this glimmer of hope for their survival about to be extinguished?
Of course not!
Horten had hidden himself away for eight long years waiting for an opportunity like this. How could he possibly let it slip through his fingers?
Knowing his own martial skills were lacking, Horten gritted his teeth, reversed his grip on the spear, and thrust it at the Orc. The sharp point sank into flesh and stuck against bone. The great Orc, ignoring the wound, grabbed the spear shaft and tried to drag Horten from his donkey.
Seeing this, Horten ruthlessly kicked the donkey's flank, sending it into a frenzy. It galloped away, dragging the impaled Greenskin Warlord with it, slamming him left and right against the winding, hilly terrain.
The Greenskin Warlord, weakened from excessive blood loss, was actually dragged along.
Spotting a massive boulder ahead, Horten vaulted off the donkey's back, letting the animal and the Warlord smash headlong into the stone.
The donkey died on impact. The force of the crash drove the spear deeper into the Greenskin Warlord's chest. A fountain of blood erupted, staining the great stone red.
The budding Greenskin Warlord was dead.
[Level Up! Skill Points Available: 1]
[Greenskin Warlord Slain. Trait Gained: Greenskin Slayer. Plunder Income +15%, Morale vs. Greenskins +1]
Though he had lost his mount, Horten stared at the dead Warlord and could not stop himself from letting out a great roar, venting the ecstatic joy in his heart.
He had been trapped for eight whole years. He had grown from naive to mature, from reckless to patient. To finally break through the clouds in a single day—how could he not be delirious with joy?
When he turned back, the militiamen, who had been terrified of the Greenskins' ferocity, were now completely won over by their leader's might. Many of the cowards who had wanted to flee at the first sight of an Orc now found the courage to charge the massive Greenskin camp. Even though they were summoned soldiers, they were based on the template of ordinary people from this world. They had their own thoughts and were not mindless machines that only followed orders.
Having lost the Warlord who held them together, the Greenskin tribe instantly dissolved into chaos.
The two tribes that had been driven aside earlier immediately fled. The large tribe, now leaderless, descended into infighting and desertion. Several large Orcs gathered small bands of Goblins and broke off, forming their own factions, terrified of being absorbed by the others.
Now, when Horten led his 120 militiamen into the fray, it was like a hot knife through butter. They scattered the disorganized Greenskins with ease, killing several of the big ones in the process.
As dusk fell, the gloomy clouds dispersed. The Greenskins fled into the forest in disarray. The Household Knights of Göttingen, in a rare display, formed up to welcome their savior.
An ordinary monk.
The proud, noble knights quickly recognized Horten.
"That Bovenden boy, well done!"
"Come hunt on my lands anytime. I won't charge you a tax."
"Come on, give your uncle a hug!"
A large crowd swarmed him, practically crushing him in their enthusiasm. Seeing their leader treated with such respect, the militiamen behind him puffed out their chests, swelling with vicarious pride.
"Ahem."
Suddenly, a woman's voice cut through the familiar chatter of the knightly families.
Horten peeked his head out from the crowd. He saw a female knight with sharp, black, short-cropped hair and a valiant bearing. Her healthy, wheat-colored face was illuminated by two bright, black eyes that shone with confidence. Her tall, slender body stood as straight as a pine tree, the very picture of a knight.
This was the famed 'Flash' Knight of Göttingen, Joan.
Joan looked at Horten with a complex expression, biting her tightly closed red lips. "My Lady wishes to see you, son of Bovenden."
It seemed Joan was lamenting her failure to protect Countess Canossa.
Horten, remembering his father who could be defeated in battle at any moment, followed her discreetly, walking towards the half-ruined carriage on the hill.
The moment he stepped inside, Horten's expression froze.
There, sitting before a dressing table, was the lady with the goddess-like figure. A soft, magnificent silk gown draped over her long, fair legs. A light gauze veiled her pearlescent skin. Her plump hips rested on the chair, and her waist, narrow enough to be encircled by a single hand, seemed to beckon Horten to wrap his arms around it at once.
It was the pearl of the Duchy of Lotharingia, the woman who drove countless men mad with desire, Canossa von Nossenbarg.
She turned her head, and her emerald eyes met Horten's from a face as delicate as frost and snow.
Without a doubt, Canossa was startled. It wasn't just his tall stature and handsome features, but more so the air of confidence and unyielding spirit he projected.
"Sir Horten, thank you for your timely aid," Canossa sighed softly. She was about to say more, but Horten's next words shocked her into silence.
Horten took two steps closer and spoke with grave sincerity.
"My Lady, if you don't pull yourself together, in three or four days, you and I will both be slaves in exile."