Chapter 11
Chapter 11
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter: 011
Chapter Title: Reconnaissance (2)
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The training grounds, now emptied of everyone, felt desolate.
Neatly arranged weapons and scattered footprints spoke of the intense training that had just taken place.
"Of all times."
Former Westguard Fortress Commander Brad Cahill gave a bitter smile.
The possibility of a Wave and its confirmation were two entirely different matters.
They were right on the northern frontier, in the midst of transforming into a proud city of 10,000 souls. Yet overlapping chaos from within and without plunged the old knight into regret.
"What was all that devotion for?"
In the midst of it all, the fortress he'd built over a lifetime was being squandered in his liege's succession struggle.
Someone's report sounded like news from a distant world.
"...We've rounded up 50 cavalry mounts and 35 off-duty men."
"Not enough. Call for volunteers."
Karl Bailyner dismissed his subordinate with a wave and glanced at his superior.
"Commander, you've done your best."
"..."
The silence ended in a deep sigh.
"So you're saying I should keep doing my best from here on out?"
"Faith in you has brought us this far."
Brad shook his head.
"Too many soldiers and natives have died. It's all so futile."
"It's regrettable."
"Yeah. Regrettable."
They had been demonstrating superiority through long years of strength and expanding exchanges through trade. He'd been certain time would resolve the rest, but tragedy struck first.
"It's just a few more orcs. Nothing's changed."
"Right. Westguard was built by subjugating orcs, after all."
"And we've prepared for the worst."
His subordinate and longtime friend Karl Bailyner pressed again.
"Didn't you always say to focus on what needs doing now?"
"Did I? Looks like your nagging just bit me back."
Senior Adjutant Karl Bailyner looked down at his superior. His tone was conflicted, but his gaze held a glint of resolve.
"Well, what does an old knight have to fear? Hilarious."
As if echoing his words, the old knight who rose again showed no hesitation.
"Go on ahead. I'll bring the follow-up forces and join you."
"A rescue?"
"Too late for that. Call it refugee relief."
"Scope?"
"All of Westguard. No matter what anyone says, the plains are ours."
"We'll requisition spare horses and wagons."
Brad shook his head.
"Use the wagons we left in Kiter Valley. Pack repair gear just in case, seal off the canyon, and turn it into a temporary base."
"Light armor again?"
"Yeah. Secure the base as fast as possible. And hold until I arrive."
"Understood."
"I'll head to the command office to report."
"We'll set up camp in Kiter Valley and wait."
"I'll join with the rear guard soon."
Brad grabbed his wooden tally and headed for the command office.
Once again, action first, report later.
His head throbbed at the thought of facing the pride-wounded royal, but with no intent to curry favor, he felt no hesitation. He simply assessed what was best.
Yet he paused before the office door.
"I'm sorry. Not a good time."
The attendant bowed apologetically.
At the same moment, a crashing sound came from inside.
Crash.
Clang. Roll roll roll.
Items from the desk were hurled to the floor. Fortunately, nothing broke. Adjutant Benjamin picked up a brass cup that had rolled to his feet and placed it back on the table.
Then he soothed his agitated lord.
"Please calm down, my lord. This won't solve anything."
"Damn it, look at this. It's telling me to die here."
Benjamin took the parchment from his lord—the one he'd just replaced.
It began with 'To my dear brother' and, unlike Arun's complaints, specified concrete schedules alongside massive supplies.
"600 gold coins, 5,000 silver, 20,000 coppers, 1,200 bushels of wheat. 50 sets of heavy plate, 200 light armor, 300 swords and spears each, 500 spears, arrows..."
At a glance, it was full support.
"This is..."
"Looks good, right? But no troop support."
It didn't take long to grasp the implication.
"Still, this should cover extra conscription without issue."
"Hah. Arm the civilians? Sure, they'll follow orders meekly."
Arun threw his arms skyward in disbelief.
Forced conscription, they called it. In this nadir of morale, starting a revolt would be the real disaster.
"This is them trying to kill me, Arun van Brennenton!"
He ground his teeth.
"A scheme to have me die fighting orcs."
"But it does promise ample supplies."
"Anyone can see it's a poisoned gift. I warned them of the Wave risk, and they send only goods—unverified at that."
"..."
After a pause, Benjamin spoke haltingly.
"We can't abandon the fortress over this, can we?"
"Hmph. For whose benefit? But if they abandon me like this, I'll abandon the house."
"M-my lord."
Arun was displaying the classic downfall of a ruined elite.
It was a tale bards often sang.
Those raised in family favoritism and fief adoration enter the academy expecting a rosy future, only to clash with geniuses who've lived lives like theirs.
From then on, they realize the world isn't theirs and fall into despair.
Whether they learn humility or drown in envy, mediocrity thrust into leadership handles crises predictably. Just like now.
That was when it happened.
Thud.
"Ah, you can't just barge in. This is rude."
"...!"
"Sir Brad."
Adjutant Benjamin brightened. The only one who could rein in his lord's rampage was Brad Cahill right now.
"Perfect timing. Take a look at this?"
"From Brennenton?"
Parchment like this could only come from the main house, not the imperial capital.
"The supplies and timelines are impeccable."
"Save for one crucial omission."
"Troops?"
Brad curtly echoed Arun's blunt toss, and Benjamin politely warned.
"Sir Brad, mind your manners."
"I beg pardon for my lowly birth and ignorance of etiquette."
"Forgiven."
Arun waved off the clearly annoyed apology with equal irritation. An unexpected rapport.
"More importantly, your thoughts on the house's response?"
"We can now pay the conscripts properly. That loyalty will return in kind."
"Money well spent? Tempting. And?"
"Ample food will stabilize the fortress."
"Mm, true enough."
He agreed that nothing rivaled money and food for settlement. But that's not what he needed.
"Sir Brad."
Arun swept a hand over his face.
"Cards on the table. I need results now. Results to make the old fogeys in Brennenton nod."
"Understood."
Arun ignored the detached demeanor.
"You said you'd bring me victory."
"I did say that."
Arun swallowed hard.
"Brother's seized Brennenton. This fortress is all I have."
'His head's full of succession struggles.'
Brad truly felt how people don't change easily.
"Including defeats I hate recalling, my time here has been pure despair. But now there's a variable to shake things up."
"The Wave?"
"Yes, the Wave. Think you can bring victory against the orcs? Or just let them pass? Those pigs in Brennenton who abandoned us deserve a taste too, no?"
"Hm."
Adjutant Benjamin groaned beside him.
'He sees the fortress and even Brennenton as tools for himself. Impressive in a way.'
Refreshingly so, in another sense.
Gods claim the land and all upon it, doling it out as charity to secure loyalty and spur rivalry. That's nobility's essence.
But heirs leeching off ancestors' deeds without earning their own was repulsive.
"Letting orcs pass? A novel idea."
"Not praise, huh. Predicting the war's impossible, anyway."
He admitted reality forthrightly.
If palisades held against hundreds of thousands—maybe millions—and food sustained the fortress's populace that long, it could work. Those who'd thought that far sighed.
"If only we'd reinforced the palisades into proper walls sooner."
"If only we'd won over the natives faster."
Regret and lament were losers' shares, not for those facing battle. Brad growled low.
"Victory and heirs both require survival first, no?"
He held out the reconnaissance tally.
"Several native villages have been attacked."
"Ugh, already?"
"Melt, Hunset, Hulad—within 100km radius. One tribe over 3,000, two around 1,000, all burned."
"Outskirts go without saying. That's the full tally?"
Brad shook his head.
"Excluding small tribes."
"Best we can do now?"
Arun cut to the chase.
'Remove the vanity and greed, and he's fine timber.'
Brad sighed inwardly.
"Refugee relief first. I've already ordered a camp in Kiter Valley for that. Then spread word to allied native tribes to draw them in."
"...Natives."
Arun drummed the table, then countered.
"You've invested years—will they come just like that?"
"Does anything go to plan? Crisis breeds alliance."
"I agree with Sir Brad."
Benjamin's support after silence drew Arun's nod.
"Alright. Hope we're not too late."
"We're not. Every moment we're alive is opportunity."
"My lord, the knights will join the operation."
Benjamin stepped up, but Brad checked him.
"Knights' top duty is guarding the young lord."
"But..."
"Fortress stability needs you and the knights."
Brad was firm.
Heavily armored knights shone in pitched battles, not speedy, snap-judgment refugee ops. Better as showpieces in the fortress.
"Can't argue that."
"My apologies."
Benjamin yielded to Arun's assent.
"If you head to the field, who commands the fortress?"
"You do, young lord. Soldiers are battle-hardened; remind them defense protects family, and command's no issue."
"Protecting family."
"Declaring paid service helps too."
"Got it. I'll consider."
Arun nodded and waved him off.
"Time's short. Go."
"Yes. Then."
Brad saluted and left the office.
Arun smirked at Benjamin's reluctant expression.
"You have a separate task."
"Listening."
"To Aslabama."
Benjamin's eyes widened.
"The imperial capital?"
"Report the border peril to the Emperor. Let the smart ones judge if it's a Wave."
"Stirring chaos?"
"No chance otherwise. Too much invested to quit—you and I both. True or not, Wave panic's our only shot at reversal."
Even nobles' second and third sons had bleak prospects: court drudgery or knight squire. Climbing from there was a pipe dream.
Benjamin, who'd become a knight, was no exception.
"...I'll obey."
"Go. Depart as soon as ready."
"Yes, my lord."
Stern-faced Benjamin exited.
Arun lifted the brass cup, tilted it, confirmed it empty, recalled he'd thrown it earlier, and smacked his lips.
"Hey, someone—tea? No, any brandy left?"
"Yes, master."
Arun sank deep into his chair.
He had to escalate. An investigation team from the capital would bring undeniable pressure.
"I'll find opportunity in chaos."
He licked his dry lips.
Brad's steps were heavy.
The young lord's rampage, his own imprisonment, the death of a key pillar of the fortress—trials unending. Yet the Wave dwarfed them as nightmare.
'Key is how far this chastened pup will follow.'
As worries deepened, Adjutant Hal Frederick fell in beside him.
"The fortress officials request an audience."
"...!"
A spark lit Brad's eyes.