Eagle of the Valley of Ice and Fire.

Chapter 339 The Battle of Windbreak Fortress (4)

The cold wind was biting, making people's faces sting. Up close, their skin looked like bright red apples, but in reality, it was as hot as a scorching chili pepper.

The description of the face of the Golden Regiment cavalry adjutant is quite apt.

He hung his hands at his sides, his lance resting on the ground like a cane; he was utterly exhausted.

The strange ponies came from all directions, cutting off and blocking the Golden Legion's forces from the middle and the front. This caused the Eastern Continent warhorses they relied on to lose their mobility and combat effectiveness. No one expected that behind the dense forest where the chariots were stationed, in the hills and slopes that ordinary warhorses could hardly pass, there was a group of ponies that were good at climbing mountains and slopes.

He dared not lead his troops back the way they came, but instead took advantage of a smooth route and led his army away in another direction.

The adjutant looked back and saw no signs of enemy pursuit. He breathed a slight sigh of relief, bent down and reached for the water bag hanging on the side of the saddle, but missed. He was stunned for a moment, and when he reached out again, he realized that his water bag had been cut open and thrown to the ground during the fight to escape, and the water had flowed into the yellow sand.

He leaned back somewhat dejectedly, his hands slumped on the saddle, and let out a sigh. His helmet was nowhere to be seen, and only a layer of yellow sand was visible on his round, bald head.

The adjutant was bald, which was not uncommon in the Eastern Continent.

He lowered his head and squinted, wanting to rest for a moment.

"Sir! Sir! Sir!" Just as he was resting, the scout's call woke him up. The adjutant looked up in confusion, because the call was filled with joy, just like when they had conquered the city-state lord who had broken the treaty.

“There are enemies, less than ten miles to the west.”

"What enemy? Are they those ponies who took a detour to ambush us?"

"No, it's a convoy of chariots. It looks like they've taken another step closer to Storm's End," the scout replied.

"The chariot formation!" Suddenly, the adjutant's pupils contracted, and he grabbed the scout's arm guard. "Describe the chariot formation. Are they moving? Or are they in a defensive formation shaped like a crescent moon?"

The scout quickly understood his adjutant's meaning and hurriedly shook his head: "No, they are resting!"

"Where are the grain carts? Where are their grain carts?"

"They are all under the protection of the tanks!"

"Good!" The adjutant gripped his lance tightly. "A good opportunity!" He turned his head. "The chance to redeem ourselves has arrived! The enemy's supply wagons are right under our noses!"

His heart was pounding. With a command, the morale of the Golden Regiment cavalry, which had been low, was rekindled. Their weary warhorses galloped again, heading in the direction led by the scouts.

The frontier army halted deep in the hills. Count Astan Selmi's quiver slipped off his saddle, and he spat out a few mouthfuls of filth, hurling all sorts of vulgar curses. Even from a distance, you could tell from his lip movements that it was unpleasant.

Donal Sven's armor was riddled with cracks, a cluster of arrows had shattered his shoulder blade, and the slightest touch there caused excruciating pain. With the help of his attendants, he dismounted, waded through the swirling dust, and, slightly choked, walked to Count Astan Selmi's side.

"Have you seen Sir Barristan?" He wiped the yellow dust from his face and licked his lips to moisten them. Astan shook his head; his longsword had cracked and was now covered in fissures.

"This sword couldn't even withstand this charge! Damn those White Walkers! When we get back to Harvest Hall, I'll chop off the swordsmith's head!" He took a deep breath, venting his anger, and then looked at Donald. "What's wrong?" he asked, a hint of suspicion in his eyes.

Donald pointed behind him: "The Golden Company has only lost less than a third of its men. If they rally, Sir Barristan's supplies are right behind them, if..."

Astan chuckled and patted him on the shoulder: "Relax, just follow us."

Donald frowned as he looked in the direction they were heading. It wasn't the dense thicket where they had set up an ambush, nor was it the large camp gathered on the frontier. They were slowly making their way along the hills and valleys towards Windbreak Fortress.

"I do not understand."

“There are many things you don’t understand,” Astan said casually, though his hands trembled slightly and a hint of worry flashed in his eyes. But it didn’t seem like he was worried about Donald’s advice. He looked toward Storm’s End. “Gods, bless Barista.”

The soldier's fingers were clenched, and his limbs were stiff like a corpse, motionless, curled up in the narrow space.

A faint beam of light peeked through the crack, tearing the tense darkness in two, allowing him to relax slightly.

The sounds of fighting surged up from all sides of the carriage walls, like a tide spreading to the shore and overturning the rocks. However, he had hardly ever seen the sea. Although Junlin was located by the sea, the only things associated with the sea in his memory were the fishy smell of fishermen returning from afar and the occasional salty taste of sea salt lingering in his mouth.

Most of the time, he wandered the streets and alleys, acting as a subordinate of a high-ranking official in a golden robe, inspecting a rotten area that even important figures wouldn't want to bother with, the rotten area reeking of fish and stench.

Suddenly, all around him fell silent. He held his breath and heard snippets of conversation, snippets of conversation from the Eastern Continent. It wasn't the common language, nor was it any other dialect; it was the language of those people from the Eastern Continent who liked to dye their hair.

In his tension, his body became even more tense. He stared intently at the ceiling above him, which was packed so tightly that there was almost no gap, and prayed to the gods.

"Boom~" The foreign languages ​​of the Eastern Continent were still lingering, but the car started moving. He tightened his grip on the hilt of the short knife, took a deep breath, shifted his small body, and bit his lip hard. The taste of blood lingered between his teeth, and the pain kept him rational.

"Listen to the White Knight, you can't go wrong," he thought to himself. The image of the White Knight's back floated into his mind, and his confidence grew a bit stronger.

Accompanying him were dozens of teenagers aged fourteen or fifteen, who longed to receive the honor of being personally knighted by the White Knight.

The carriage moved forward slowly, the sound of horses' hooves around him becoming more even. He had imagined and envisioned the appearance of Windbreak Fortress countless times in his mind. He would see it soon, he thought to himself with encouragement.

The White Knight's voice still echoed in their ears: "Don't overthink it, lucky ones. If you can hear the sound of arrows whizzing past your ears, it means you're at least not dead." His voice was hoarse and aged, carrying a tone of earnest instruction, perfectly matching all the chivalric tales the soldiers had heard from the down-on-his-luck harmonica player in King's Landing. A great knightly elder was instructing his young squires and apprentices on how to fight the enemy.
He gripped the sword tightly; the blade was not long, just the right size for the cramped carriage he was in.

The wheels rumbled forward. He closed his eyes, his nerves on edge, repeating the White Knight's words in his mind.

(End of this chapter)