Chapter 115: Vortigern – Why Are All the Skilled Ones on the Enemy Side? 

Dark clouds loomed over the fortress, threatening to crush it beneath their weight.

Vortigern had abandoned all subterfuge, resorting to the most direct and most effective method.

Lot gazed down at the massive army below, his expression calm and composed.

But inwardly, his heart was heavy.

This was the most lopsided battle he had ever fought.

Even after last night's rout, Vortigern's forces still numbered around 26,000 to 27,000.

And Lot's side?

The knights he had brought numbered barely over 200. The garrison in the fortress added another 300 to 400. Combined, they didn't even reach 600.

Five hundred men holding off 25,000.

The difficulty was self-evident.

Reinforcements from the rear wouldn't arrive anytime soon.

Soldiers couldn't just sprint to the battlefield and immediately be combat-ready they needed time to organize.

And that would take a while.

Lot had no idea how long his wife, Morgan, and Bedivere would need to fully assemble their forces.

But for now, they couldn't help him.

Looking at his soldiers, Lot raised his voice:

"This is our final stand. We have nowhere left to retreat. So I will fight alongside you to defend this fortress. Until the enemy is crushed, I will not take a single step back."

"This place will either become the enemy's grave… or our tomb."

At times like this, the commander's composure was paramount.

Emotions were contagious.

If Lot panicked, his men would too.

Tristan glanced around, then discreetly nudged Artoria.

"If the battle truly turns against us, knock His Majesty unconscious and flee with him," he whispered.

Artoria frowned, puzzled. "But didn't His Majesty swear to defend this fortress to the death? Shouldn't we stand our ground with him?"

"For this kingdom, His Majesty's life is far more valuable than this fortress. His decisions are his own but we must fulfill our duty," Tristan replied.

Nearby, Galahad frowned slightly. "Sir Tristan, there's no need to be so pessimistic. Perhaps this will be the battlefield where we defeat the Tyrant King."

"Perhaps. But we must always prepare for the worst," Tristan countered.

Galahad didn't argue.

Both were right.

Both cared deeply for Lot.

Tristan wasn't a coward his instructions had been clear: Artoria would escape with Lot. He would stay behind to hold off the enemy.

For Galahad, the priority now was winning this battle.

Vortigern had become history before Galahad had even grown up.

He had only heard fragments of the man's infamy.

Now, facing him for the first time, Galahad felt both excitement and unease unsure just how brutal the coming fight would be.

Vortigern, too, had heard Lot's speech to his men.

He studied his nephew-in-law from afar handsome, capable, brilliant.

As for martial prowess?

Admittedly far inferior to mine… but passable, I suppose.

"Why is he Uther's son-in-law and not mine?" Vortigern sighed.

A subordinate riding beside him cautiously whispered, "Um… Your Majesty, you've never married."

Vortigern's face darkened instantly.

He raised his riding crop and pointed it at the fortress.

"You. Lead the vanguard and assault the enemy position," he commanded.

"What?!"

Realizing his life was likely forfeit, the man paled but obediently led a detachment toward the fortress.

As his troops advanced, Vortigern called out to Lot atop the walls, smug:

"You're cornered. But I'll offer you a way out come down and duel me one-on-one. If you win, you needn't fear my army."

[The gap between our strength is even greater than the gap between our armies.]

Lot wasn't stupid enough to fall for that.

Tapping his temple, he sat down lazily.

"I fight with this, not just brute strength. Surely even you understand that much, Vortigern. Tsk tsk tsk…"

He shook his head, deliberately looking down on the brute.

Vortigern chuckled. "Spoken like a true king."

He wasn't angry.

During their past conflicts, Vortigern had been humiliated by Lot's schemes, seething with rage.

But now?

That fury was gone replaced by something resembling admiration.

So much so that Vortigern resolved to capture Lot alive after breaching the fortress and force him into service.

"When I become the King of Kings, I'll start with this one."

With that thought, Vortigern bellowed:

"Then don't blame me for showing no mercy! Attack!"

At his command, the war machine of 20,000 men rumbled into motion.

This era already had siege weapons like ballistae. Vortigern had gone to great lengths to procure several from the Roman Empire massive stone-throwing engines.

As his soldiers charged, Vortigern ordered the ballistae to unleash their payloads at the fortress.

"Fire!"

"Fire!"

One after another, boulders hurtled toward the castle walls.

"Heads down!" Lot shouted.

His men ducked behind the battlements.

"Damn, they've got range."

Watching the hail of stones, Lot cursed inwardly.

With his forces pinned down, Vortigern's army closed in.

Leading the charge was the very subordinate who'd called Vortigern a "single old man."

His expression was far from happy.

Meanwhile, the aura of death from the Land of Shadows seeped into the surrounding earth.

The messenger knight's face was ashen.

Even this faint presence made him feel half-dead already.

Through the miasma strode its queen clad in a form-fitting bodysuit, her presence overwhelming.

The knight dared not meet her gaze.

Despite her alluring attire, he felt nothing.

Who could possibly lust after someone radiating pure death?

"So… Vortigern called me an old hag?" Scáthach asked, amused.

"Y-yes."

Morgan had carefully omitted the truth to avoid exposure.

Scáthach smiled.

"Next time, have your queen deliver such messages herself."

With that, she grasped her spear and strode forward.

"I'll assist this time but the Tyrant King is your responsibility. I'll hold the line, not finish him."

"And remember when I fulfill your request, you will repay the favor. Fail, and I'll collect myself."

"At that point, I'll take whatever I please. Perhaps I'll even drag those two back to the Land of Shadows as company…"

Deceiving others might work but fooling her was nearly impossible.

Yet Scáthach didn't seem particularly angry.

"Ah well. Regardless of who said it, I'll just take it out on Vortigern."

Her steps seemed unhurried

Yet the knight blinked, and she was gone.

"Bloody hell, that's terrifying."

He shuddered, deciding then and there:

If Queen Morgan ever sends me on another suicide mission, I'm deserting the Round Table.

Though the ballistae battered Lot's forces, Vortigern's assault wasn't going smoothly.

The reason was simple:

The fortress's massive moat left only a narrow passage for attackers forcing them into a chokepoint Lot's men could easily defend.

Real moats weren't like those in films shallow ditches barely waist-deep.

In the East, they spanned dozens of meters wide. Lot's, while slightly smaller, still stretched 20-30 meters across and was even deeper than Eastern counterparts.

Filling it was impossible.

The Romans might have bridging technology, but Vortigern did not.

(The garrison's earlier surrender had stemmed partly from mistaking his forces for Romans.)

Now, his troops had to funnel through the sole passage.

Shields raised, they advanced while Lot's archers returned fire.

The fortress walls had dedicated arrow slits, protecting his men from both ballistae and enemy arrows.

Though outnumbered, many of Lot's troops were knights strong, skilled, and lethal at close range.

Even shielded, Vortigern's men fell in droves.

Especially under the fire of Artoria and Galahad.

Each of their arrows often felled multiple enemies.

They weren't master archers but against tightly packed formations, accuracy hardly mattered.

Tristan, however, held his fire.

He had a different mission.

Before the battle, Lot had signaled his true target:

The ballistae.

Drawing his bow, Tristan loosed two shots.

Twang!

The first severed a ballista's taut leather strap.

Twang!

The second shattered another's mechanism.

Ballistae were powerful but intricate and painfully hard to repair.

Vortigern's were imported from Rome, not homemade.

The first malfunction seemed coincidental.

The second confirmed an expert was at work.

"Who the hell shoots that well?" Vortigern muttered.

King Mark coughed awkwardly.

"That… would be my nephew."

"…"

"Keep attacking," Vortigern growled.

The ballistae were useless now no point wasting more against Tristan's precision.

"Bring every last archer we have! Bury their counterfire under arrows!"

At this stage, casualties didn't matter.

Take the fortress, and nothing else would.

Numbers were his sole advantage now.

Watching the arrow storm darken the sky, Lot sighed.

He'd expected this but facing it was another matter.

As Vortigern's troops reached the walls, Lot barked orders:

"Pitch and boiling oil now!"

He'd considered using "golden juice" (1) but the stench was unbearable.

Thankfully, the stores held ample pitch.

When the enemy reached the base, Lot's men poured the scalding liquids down.

Screams erupted instantly.

But Vortigern had too many men.

Cauldrons couldn't be refilled fast enough.

Some attackers already scaled the walls.

Yet Lot's group was ready.

He, Artoria, and others cut down the climbers.

The wall's narrow crest limited numbers allowing Lot's elite few to hold the line.

Watching this, Vortigern smirked.

"Seems I must join the fray."

He turned to King Mark.

"Come. We ascend together."

"What?!"

King Mark gaped.

Since when was I part of the climbing party?!