Chapter 17
Chapter 17
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter: 017
Chapter Title: Supply Battle (3)
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Brad nodded, and Ray Schumacher bellowed loudly.
"Shields up!"
"Ha!"
"Long spears, forward."
Clack, clack, clack, clack.
The battle began with the soldiers stomping their feet in unison.
They unslung the long spears from their shoulders and angled them forward at fifteen degrees from their sides. Amid the tightly packed layers of shields, cold spear tips jutted out like thorns.
"We're entering combat now. Forward march!"
Thud, thud.
Veterans old enough to retire without a second thought marched shoulder-to-shoulder with fresh-faced recruits barely out of their teens and shaggy brutes who looked like they'd never listened to a horse in their lives. All of them were stone-faced.
"Guruk, gurruk."
"Kruk, humans. Food's coming."
"Kweek, kwiiik."
As they drew near the orc lines, the stench of unwashed bodies hit like a wall. Then came the feral howls laced with bloodlust.
"Fall back now, and you're dead. Left foot on one, right foot on two."
Thud, thud.
The soldiers' boots hammered the ground with force.
"Kruk, charge. Devour the humans."
"Kwiik, kwiiiik."
If humans had their dense shield walls, orcs had their instinct-driven charges. Soon the orcs surged forward with murderous roars.
"Shields tight. Spears forward."
"Kwiik, die."
Bam.
An elite orc's massive glaive slammed into a shield. But the layered shields held firm, repelling it with just the right mix of rigidity and spring.
"Kuik. Go, trample them and climb over."
"Kwiiiik."
The front-line orcs hunched low, and those behind leaped onto their backs. Some were skewered by the protruding spear shafts; others vaulted over them.
Thwack.
Brad's spear shattered the skull of an orc that had cleared the shields.
"Crossbow here."
"No need. The spear suits me better."
Adjutant Hal quietly set down the crossbow and handed over a spear.
"Kuaek, kuweeek."
An orc clutched the spear piercing its chest and collapsed. It took time, but orcs felt pain just like anything else—enough to render them helpless.
While the shields held, countless long spears thrust through the orcs.
"Trust your brothers and hold. Keep that shield pressed to your shoulder."
"Good, push like that. One-two, one-two."
Bam, bam, clang.
As the shields endured, arrows and javelins flew overhead.
"Kwiik, kwiiiik."
Orcs that breached the shields and those stalled in front alike fell out of the fight one by one. Yet the sheer, relentless numbers driven by feral rage overwhelmed everything.
"Time to pull back soon?"
Brad turned to spot Ray Schumacher commanding another phalanx. Things looked to be giving way amid the fierce exchange.
He bellowed.
"Now! Push on one, two steps back on two. One!"
"Waaah!"
"Two!"
Thump, thump.
Strip away the savagery, and orc stamina wasn't all that different from a human's. As the shields rippled like waves, the orcs were pushed back for a moment. Then, as they receded like the tide, the unbalanced ones staggered or were trampled by their own kind.
The spears didn't let them off easy.
"Kwaaak, kw aaaak."
"Again on one."
"Waaah. Hngh."
From behind the massive shields, spears darted out and in repeatedly. When one man beside you fell, someone filled the gap right away. The fight was turning into a test of who tired first.
"The cavalry's keeping the orc riders in check effectively. Going well."
"Well? Rowid's dead."
The seasoned squad leader—who commanded ten men and was father to two boys—had saved his subordinate and brother-in-law David before going down. As the phalanx retreated, his exposed corpse was trampled by orcs.
"One."
"Hngh."
"Two."
"Kwiiik. Kwiik."
A phalanx achieved perfection by stripping away emotion. The Westguard side used their comrades' sacrifices as footing to retreat while racking up kills. They fell back all the way to a hundred meters from the village before the palisade gates finally swung open.
It was a terrifyingly calm response.
Clop, clop.
Fifty-odd native cavalry joined them. Then arrows and stones rained from the palisade, targeting the orc rear. The modest attack yielded unexpectedly huge results.
"Kruk, don't bunch up. Scatter and charge."
"Kwiik, kwiiiik."
Scattered orcs posed no threat. They flew into the spears like moths to flame, skewered one by one.
"Grrr. This is getting tricky."
The elite orc directing the battle growled low.
"Pull back for now. Gather more warriors and come again."
"Kruk, Georgrg's command. Withdraw."
"Kuruk, weaklings. Leave 'em."
"Kwiik, kwiiik."
The beastly ones obeyed the strong one's order and fell back in an instant. Finally, the orc riders trading blows with the cavalry peeled off while covering their retreat.
"Orcs are retreating. Don't pursue. Hold position, hold steady."
"Hold formation."
Chasing a retreating foe to claim glory didn't apply here. One Westguard soldier was worth ten orcs, and above all, their stamina was spent.
Only the native cavalry struck the orc rear for minor gains.
"We won."
"Waaah."
Soldiers banged shields or stomped in cheer.
"Where's my sword?"
"Huff, huff. Here."
"Tend to casualties first."
"Yes, sir. I'll handle the cleanup."
Karl Bailyner jerked his chin toward the palisade.
"Looks like the chief over there. Giving us a welcome, maybe."
"Tch, now?"
Brad snorted dismissively and beckoned his adjutant.
"Set up camp outside the village for now. Stand by for further orders."
"Yes, Commander."
Alone at last, he began stripping off his gear. As the blue blood-soaked armor piled at his feet, a familiar native tongue rang out.
"Thanks for the help. How can I ever repay this debt?"
"Nonsense. We just beat a common foe as allies."
"Hohoho, I'll show my sincerity to match your trust— whoa there."
Suddenly, something barreled into Brad without a hint of killing intent, wrapping him up. What pressed against his face was a softness that stirred faint memories.
"It's me, Paulina. Remember?"
"I... remember. Mind letting go?"
"Oh. Hehe."
Paulina released the hug, clasped her hands behind her back, and stepped away.
"Huhu."
Under countless watching eyes, he tried to keep up appearances with his scandalous counterpart from before. But her sweat-streaked smile left him defenseless.
"You girl. Fetch herbs and fresh water quick. Get food ready too."
"Yes, Grandfather."
Paulina gave a half-hearted reply but shot Brad a meaningful glance before turning away. Even in their free-spirited culture, a grandfather's heart toward his granddaughter was different.
"Ahem, well. Embarrassing."
"If anything, I'm the one."
Intended or not, Paulina's interruption loosened the mood.
"Well, you know how kids are—they don't always bend to your will."
"Couldn't agree more. But Paulina's a sharp one."
Praise for his granddaughter drew a stubborn laugh from the old chief.
"Hohoho, true—not just 'cause she's mine, but that girl's as clever as they come. If she were a boy, I'd have named her heir ages ago."
'Whatever.'
Brad had no real retort and busied himself cleaning his gear. The chief, peeking sidelong, added,
"Well, opportunity might come later. Say, a great-grandkid."
"...!"
Brad froze and turned. The chief looked away innocently.
In this era, neither imperial nor native society held men accountable for a consensual night. Bastards were solely a matter of the father's honor.
'Still, I've got a family.'
A romance with a young girl was pointless. One trade wagon would set a man up for life—he'd shown plenty of goodwill already.
Scrape, scrape.
He wiped the blue blood from his gear again and again.
Mad Tribe Chief Sarmanni Mad stood awkwardly beside him long enough to feel guilty.
Clop, clop. Trot, trot.
Ihihihin.
"Whoa, whoa. Good work."
The warrior chief patted his warhorse briefly before approaching with a report.
"Cut down about a hundred orcs. No injuries on our side."
"Well done. Help with the wounded and make sure the hospitality's up to snuff."
"Yes, Chief."
The warrior chief bowed silently to Brad as well.
Soon his officers arrived with reports.
"Squad Leader Rowid, Nelman, Blair, and Jordi fell. Vice Commander Karl's tending the other fourteen wounded."
"Ngh."
Inevitable as it was, no battle came without sacrifice. Brad groaned low.
"Give them proper rites and cremate them. Prepare accordingly."
"My deepest condolences. We'll provide dry firewood."
"Thank you."
Hardened northerners exchanged words to steady the mood. The courtesy continued.
"Ray, supply wagons intact?"
"Yes, all twelve."
"Hand them all to the Mad Tribe."
"All? You mean every last one... of the twelve?"
Brad nodded and raised a finger.
"Forgot? This is Westguard territory now. Fetch the inventory tablet."
"Yes, Commander."
"Swords: one hundred. Spears: two hundred. Arrows: two thousand. Shields: one hundred..."
Brad read off the tablet. Paulina, who'd rushed over, jotted down the numbers.
"You're giving all this to us?"
The chief's jaw dropped.
For a native tribe that had endured harsh lands so long, this haul of iron gear was worth beyond reckoning.
"Per the treaty, the Mad Tribe's part of Westguard now. Standard support."
"...!"
"Wow."
The speechless chief stood beside Paulina, who let out an admiring gasp.
"That's enough to rearm us fully."
"Khm."
The chief shot his granddaughter an uneasy glance before speaking.
"This'll restore our strength without issue. We'll have losses, but we can draw from vassal tribes."
"I'll leave that to you, Chief."
Not his concern, whatever the process. In times that might spell humanity's end, bolstering numbers was sincerely welcome.
"To the village. We'll hold a feast to welcome our brothers."
"The fallen's rites come first."
Sarmanni Mad halted at Brad's polite refusal. Then, as if just remembering, he nodded slowly.
"Right you are. This old fool forgot."
"Forgetting is humanity's blessing and curse alike."
"Sigh."
The sigh trailed into long silence. The afternoon sun still blazed overhead.
Soon, pyres towered on the battlefield.
Westguard dead and unprocessed Mad Tribe fallen were laid atop them.
Soldiers and gathered natives joined the funeral.
"We now send off the brothers who fought beside us."
Brad's eulogy was translated for Chief Sarmanni Mad, who recited the same.
"Rowid, Jordi, Nelman, Blair. Friends who trusted each other's backs have gone to rest first. But we know grief comes too soon. As always, the living duty is to survive for those who've gone."
The brief words touched on longing and responsibility for comrades.
"We'll keep fighting to protect families and care for our brothers' children. So one day, when we meet again, we can clap backs and say we're glad—and we never forgot a day."
"... ."
As Brad stepped back, the chief—who'd finished reciting—stood beside him.
"Here."
They took torches and lit the pyres. Animal fat flared instantly, but the flames spread slowly across the whole.
Crackle, crackle.
The fire flickered softly at first.
"It'll burn through the night at least? Let's eat."
"Can't starve the men."
"A little drink for the weary warriors..."
Brad nodded to the probing chief.
"Appreciated. A bit for the dead too."
"Allies don't 'ask.' One moment."
Sarmanni Mad vanished with surprising agility for his age. Soon folk streamed from the palisade with tables and chairs. Under Paulina's lead, a meal was prepared.
People mourned the dead over food and drink.
"Farewell, Nelman. Too hot to get closer."
"Goodbye, Rowid."
They raised cups to comrades, downed their drinks. The scene repeated.
Smoke tinged with sunset glow as natives hauled endless firewood. The flames slowly consumed the bodies. The grim battlefield became a grand funeral.
As night fell, drinkers toppled one by one.
To lifelong fighters, the summer meadow was a bed of grass. Close your eyes, and it was home.
One man stood apart from the scene, stone-cold sober.
"With food and weapons supplied, what's your max troop strength?"
"Assuming half our vassals survived? Around five hundred."
"Hm."
Brad's worries deepened.