Chapter 18
Chapter 18
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter: 018
Chapter Title: What Must Be Done (1)
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Westguard was at peace.
The chaos from the orc invasion had been brief. As reports of victory poured in one after another, the residents breathed a collective sigh of relief.
Some had eyed the influx of refugees with unease, but that quickly faded. Smooth supply lines played a big part, as did the refugees pulling their weight with hunting or farming.
A faint aroma of tea wafted through the governor's office, standing tall at the fortress's heart.
The moment a pale, elegant hand lifted a teacup, a commotion erupted outside the door.
"Sir Rayner. One moment."
Knight Rayner Cus burst through the door. It was out of character for the ever-formal man.
"Forgive my rudeness. Victory report."
"Is that so? More good news on the heels of the last."
Clink.
Steam rose lazily from the set-down cup.
"A victory so desperately craved by some comes so easily to others. Go on."
At his lord's nod, Rayner read from the wooden tablet.
"Yes. Sir Brad's main force sealed off the Kiter outpost five days ago, then pushed south and crushed the orcs attacking the Mad Tribe."
"The Mad Tribe?"
"The large tribe that pledged submission just recently."
The strikingly handsome young man—handsome enough to be called beautiful—pursed his lips.
"Delivering on his promises with merits, just as expected. Anything else?"
"Orc Riders—some gray wolf pelts—and over four hundred orc hides."
"Nothing beats orc hides as spoils."
He shrugged.
Beyond their value as proof, the hides, tanned soft through processing, made excellent goods. Brad was sending results in droves, as if to make up for past slights.
"I'll pass them straight to the main house's merchant company."
"No."
Arun raised a finger.
"Doesn't your family run a merchant outfit too?"
"My uncle does peddling with three wagons."
"And I hear Landiv's eldest brother is an officer in a mercenary band."
"Markard? I know him, but it's just a bunch of would-be knights who gave up and turned to idling."
Arun lifted his cup again for a sip.
"Were you thinking of hiring mercenaries... Ah, could it be?"
"Why hand good business to your big brother's outfit? Luckily, my knights can now scout merchants and guards."
"Such generosity. My thanks."
"No need. I've overlooked the simple truth that my people's strength is my own strength."
He should have prepared when his merchant-house maternal family was cast out, but it was too late now. He'd considered wooing them back for survival's sake, but there was no need.
If they hated meddling, he had to be the center, not a mere patron.
"Time to set things straight. Summon the knights."
"Yes, my lord."
A luncheon meeting with the Royal Guard Knights followed soon after.
As Arun intended, the meal honored their hard work while pursuing profit.
"Sir Brad sent four hundred orc hides as spoils. I'm thinking of entrusting their handling to my knights."
Landiv, rinsing his mouth with wine, choked in surprise.
"Cough. My brother's mercenaries? This favor..."
"Honern, your father serves in the capital guard, right?"
"Y-yes."
"And next, Drain and Havent..."
Benefits were doled out according to position and role.
"Thank you."
"We pledge our utmost loyalty."
As the knights expressed repeated gratitude, one raised a hand.
"What about the retired soldiers' group that traded with Brennenton before?"
Arun glanced at Rayner, who looked equally flustered.
"Without Benjamin, it's a hassle. Do I have to teach them how to handle riffraff too? We need bodies anyway—absorb them or wipe them out, handle it yourselves. Just no backlash."
"U-understood."
"Sorry."
He clapped to draw eyes.
"Now, as you all know, opportunity knocks again."
"Glory to our lord's future! Rise from failure and grow."
"That's why I'm saying."
Arun stopped a knight from drinking, oblivious to the mood.
"Seeing Sir Brad toil alone sits wrong. Shouldn't we do something?"
"...!"
"Why so quiet?"
"We swore the knight's oath to you, my lord. However."
"However?"
"We believe your place is on the throne, not the battlefield. Leave combat to us knights and take command."
"Everyone thinks like Sir Rayner?"
"Mm."
A gulp echoed from somewhere.
"Knight Drain Hussle dares speak."
"Speak."
"A knight is but your sword, my lord. Command us—we will obey."
"Exactly."
Arun van Brennenton lit up.
"No crisis, no chance. I'll take up the sword again."
'It's come.'
Rayner Cus squeezed his eyes shut.
The Mad Tribe's vicinity bustled with evacuees.
Most were elderly, women, and children; one child clinging to his mother's side tugged at the heart.
"I'm hungry."
"Hult, what did your late father say?"
The child clutching her hem worked his mouth. He seemed to fight tears—or search for words. Then he spoke.
"He said I'm the man of the house now. I have to protect you like Dad did."
"Yes. That's right. So be strong."
Strong parents raise strong children. The mother stroked his head.
"Yes, Mom."
Children who endure great loss grow up the moment tears dry. This place teemed with them. Lines snaked behind the pair, and behind them.
Save for the hasty firepit and bubbling soup cauldron, ladles and bowls were rough wooden makeshifts from the refugees.
But the generous portions eased worries.
"Careful, it's hot."
"Thank you."
"Eat slow. More if needed. Next."
The flour-thickened soup was smooth, with veggies, meat, and precious salt just right—a balm for the weary.
Post-meal, sorting began.
"Lanyasei Tribe. Five warriors, 123 elderly and weak."
"Women, kids, elders inside. Men get temporary camp outside the palisade. We'll check kids' heights first."
The Mad Tribe elder pointed to a stake driven nearby—about waist-high for an adult.
"Shorter than the stake stays in; taller goes outside."
"No time. Line up left to right."
Given the palisade's limits, it was fair, and evacuees complied meekly.
"Elder, Solaps Tribe arrived. Over two hundred by rough count."
"Right? Feed them first and hold. This side's full—check the south gate line while they eat."
"Yes, Elder."
The bowing warrior mounted and vanished.
Refugees, catching on, moved themselves; lines shrank.
The elder straightened with a breather.
"Whew, tough work. Lucky on food, though."
But how long could aid last? Gazing north, he saw new young recruits training.
"Step forward, shield ahead."
Clack, clatter.
Motions lagged through interpreters.
"Shield to shoulder."
"No gaps. Press tight to neighbors."
Instructors who once bellowed now dashed about correcting forms.
"Good. Hold."
One instructor, catching breath, bellowed.
"Ready—hup!"
"Throw."
At Heavy Infantry Captain Ray Schumacher's order, soldiers hurled stones and axes.
"Throw!"
Thud, boom, clang.
Random projectiles bounced off shields.
"Next, long spears forward."
Clack, clack, clack.
Warriors waiting afar slotted behind shield-bearers with spears. Unfamiliar formation, but battle-sim training aided grasp.
Training gained momentum.
Cavalry, unlike infantry, needed little drill.
Limited horses meant Mad Tribe riders—local experts—handled scouting, while Westguard cavalry checked mounts and gear for emergencies.
Suddenly, a few cavalry bolted out, soon returning with a wagon train.
"Everyone's doing well."
Brad observed the training.
Safety bought by slaughtering hundreds of orcs that devoured hundreds of humans. Peace was harmony built on such brutality.
'Will the world stabilize once orcs are repelled?'
The Winter Wave thirty years ago changed everything. Some fell; some shattered class barriers and rose. Like glory from ruins—would dawn break for Westguard?
He closed his eyes, imagining.
Wagons raced smooth roads. Drains lined paths bustling with folk, overlooked by tall buildings. Sunset silhouetted spires as bells tolled day's end.
"Like a dream."
Clop, clop.
Hooves shattered reverie.
Whinny.
"Whoa, whoa, you beast. Strut after a short run?"
"Hand it over."
Hal Frederick grumbled, passing reins to a soldier.
"He's feisty—watch it. Tsk, shoulda gelded him back then."
"Welcome."
Brad greeted without shifting from the training field.
"Saw wagons from the north. That errand?"
"Yes. Extra supplies arrived."
"How much?"
"Five hundred sacks wheat, fifteen hundred arrows, one hundred fifty spears. And, uh."
Hal glanced from his tablet, puzzled.
"Linen wagon extra, beyond request."
"Oh? Linen?"
Summer was short, but thin linen was luxury for those enduring heat in hides or leaves. Perfect for wooing native elites.
Brad shrugged, eyes off the field.
"Rewarding merit? Full support."
"Yes. The young pup handles rear aid cleanly."
"Not bad for dealing with allied tribes."
Ample aid would hasten submission. Proof lay in Westguard soldiers and native warriors breathing in sync.
Hal glanced at training warriors.
"We can muster more troops now."
"Yes. Southern security's secure."
Shared crisis forged swift bonds. Ironic.
"Glad to bring good news. Rest easy."
"All thanks to your hustle. Good work."
Brad waved him off, sinking into his chair, eyes closed.
The third son would quiet with merits granted. As orc hides piled, the main house would grasp severity; he'd minimize losses till then.
Honor, perhaps—or sacrifice.
"Someone has to do it."
He was Westguard's commander. As Brennenton knight, he'd do what he could. Accepting the end brought calm.
But things rarely go as planned. Some call that life.
Disrupting his thoughts was Karl Bailyner, face grim.
"Heh, what's wrong, friend? You look burdened."
"Planted eyes in the supply train."
Brad leaned forward.
"Cavalry—ten-odd riders—daily in and out of the fortress."
"Westguard cavalry now..."
"Royal Guard Knights and squires, minus Sir Benjamin on mission—about that number."
"Just scouting, probably."
Silence broke with Karl Bailyner's deep rumble.
"Guessing they're gearing for battle again."
"Barely two months since they barely survived defeat."
"Prime age for bravado?"
"True. But."
Victory capped the fight. Patrolling domain, mopping remnants, solidifying superiority—strategically sound. Tactically? Sacrifices inevitable.
Against feral monsters, uncertainty loomed.
Brad pinched his brow.
"Someone has to, but not the pup."
Everyone fancies themselves the hero. Warriors distinguish battle, command, rule; all know the third son's seat isn't the field.
'Nothing learned from that brutal loss? Then soldiers' deaths are dog meat.'
Brad's twisted expression stared into nothing.
"Lower shields first, then spears."
"Plant like into ground, then brace with shoulder."
"One rule: don't die. That's winning."
Instructors' shouts and ghosts of warriors' roars faded; Brad's gaze blurred unfocused. Endless silence stretched.
Midsummer haze shimmered like heat waves.