Chapter 20
Chapter 20
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter: 020
Chapter Title: Scars
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Lush green grasslands stretched out endlessly, and dust rose on the horizon.
Thud thud thud thud.
Horse hooves pounded the earth. The cavalry that appeared like the wind gradually slowed, surrounding a single house atop a low hill.
Neigh, whinny.
"Whoa, whoa. Easy now."
Brad calmed his steed and dismounted. Karl and Nil followed suit.
"We'll rest here for an hour. Take care of your own horses."
"One hour rest. Pass it on."
"There's a well here. Fill up your canteens."
As the saying went, a cavalryman's rest was time spent tending to his horse—a long line formed at the well as riders watered their mounts.
Brad removed his gauntlets, brushed off the dust, and headed toward the building.
"It's been a while."
"Sure has."
The faded sign reading 'Food and Drink' told the story of this place's past.
Creeeak.
Without human hands to maintain it, a house ages quickly. The door swung open to reveal an empty interior.
"Anyone heard news of Terman?"
"Ray said he saw him evacuate to the fortress."
Adjutant Hal pursed his lips at Karl Bailyner's reply.
"No need to worry about that guy. He even brought a few orc hides with him amid all that."
"His son was pretty cute."
"Healthy wife, kid... guy's got it all. Makes you jealous."
Nil grumbled as he rummaged behind the counter.
"Heard he stashed some brandy somewhere... Ah, found it."
Glug glug.
Nil filled glasses for Brad, Hal, and Karl, topped off his own to the brim, and downed it in one go.
"Tch, watered down. Anyway, shouldn't we pick up the pace? At this rate, it'll take over a week to link up."
"Is that so? Good thing our rations are just a week's worth."
"You aren't dragging this out on purpose, are you?"
They'd covered a full day's march on foot in half a day on horseback.
"What good are we if we arrive exhausted? I don't think the young lord, who's risen from the ashes of failure, will crumble after just a week."
"Well, thanks to that, we've saved quite a few refugees."
Orcs appeared in bands ranging from small groups of thirty or forty to hordes of hundreds—numbers no frontier outpost could handle. The north was now crawling with refugees desperately seeking a way to survive.
"Side benefit: we're clearing out the smaller settlements too."
"Yeah. Just this morning, we moved over fifty refugees."
"Tch."
A sigh hung in the air, followed by silence.
The native cavalry scouts who'd gone ahead roused the lounging men from their reverie.
"They rescued some refugees being chased, an hour out. About eighty of them—mix of outsiders and natives."
"Again?"
"What's our current force status?"
Karl answered as if he'd been waiting for the question.
"Fifty native cavalry scattered an hour out. One squad's escorting this morning's refugees to the tribal alliance. Squads two and three are resting."
"Squad two takes over and escorts them to the alliance."
"Yes, sir."
"Let's get moving too."
The door opened to reveal the late afternoon草原 spread out once more.
Clop clop, clop clop.
"Tch, what a mess this greenhorn's stirred up."
Nil, still groggy from his nap, hunched over on his horse.
"To reiterate, the third young lord's sortie is doctrinally sound. Refrain from undue disparagement."
"Fine, fine. Just don't expect me to lay down my life for him."
Brad couldn't bring himself to speak of loyalty.
Continental history preached survival: betray your lord, stab your comrades in the back, seize land—that's how today's nobility had carved out their domains.
"How immoral is a world built by traitors who lived? How shameless for their thriving descendants to prattle on about honor and dignity."
"...?"
"Just mumbling to myself. Hya."
Whinny.
Brad spurred his horse forward.
The sun hung on the horizon, painting the world in crimson sunset.
"Hya, let's move!"
Squeak, rattle rattle.
A long line of refugees stretched toward the setting sun.
Tired-looking soldiers were mixed in, but no one urged them on. Carts, horses, and people simply shuffled along in disarray.
A man beckoned to a child lagging behind.
"Joseph, get on the cart already."
"I'm fine, Father. I can keep walking."
Children see much and grow from it. Leaning against the cart were his grandmother, still as death, cradling his newborn sibling; neighbors in similar straits; and friends now vanished from sight.
'The donkey's exhausted. No more fodder.'
The boy had judged the situation and made his best choice.
"Joseph!"
Suddenly, his father yanked the walking boy to his side.
Clop clop, clop clop.
Whinny, neigh.
A massive warhorse thundered past, snorting steam. The rider, blankly hunching in the saddle, was unmistakably a knight.
His armor, patched with worn leather, was little more than rags. What had once been blond hair was matted with dried blood. That ragged appearance also bespoke fierce battle scars.
Knight Camel Neir licked his lips.
'I'm fading.'
Pulling his tongue from cracked lips brought a metallic tang. The foul taste snapped his blurring consciousness awake.
He straightened his unconsciously listing body.
His eyes took in the sinking sun, the blood-red earth, and the weary procession.
'Should've stopped at the right time. But I couldn't.'
Everyone has their shining moment—or had one.
Finishing squirehood and apprentice knighthood to become a full knight; diligently serving as steward until promoted to head steward. Or even a lucky gamble. Everyone has their peak.
'But that's only after enduring.'
The greatest moments come after long trials.
His own pinnacle was academy admission. He'd graduated with middling grades, but his origins limited him to freelancing between noble houses.
Not bad, really.
Pay was good, squire tuition fees added up, enough to buy a small house on the capital's outskirts. He could've eventually bought a manor in the provinces for retirement.
'Greed was the problem.'
More bravado than greed, really.
'Head north. The dream of lordship is open to all.'
That childish slogan, the romance of the frontier, set young men's blood boiling. He was one of them.
'Once you pick up the sword, you can never go back'—that described his life of gambling with death. Yet he couldn't stop.
The day he sold his capital house, gathered investments from in-laws and merchants, and watched his palisade burn... that's when he lost the gamble.
Realization always comes late, regret its constant companion.
Knight Camel Neir hunched habitually on his horse.
"Where do we go from here?"
The procession's direction was answer enough: Westguard Fortress, built by the prestigious Brennenton family of the north.
Whinny, neigh.
"Whoa, whoa. Easy now."
He soothed his snorting mount.
But the beast's instincts sensed something else.
"Orcs sighted."
"Master, a pack from the northwest. Roughly a hundred to a hundred fifty."
'This is it, then.'
Despair gripped him inwardly, but he showed none outwardly.
A life run headlong now ended on the草原, leaving a cold void in his chest.
"Wagon defense formation."
"Yes, sir. Wagons halt."
"Defense formation. Connect the wagons quick."
Squires bustled to form up.
Men pushed carts as exhausted soldiers gripped weapons and stood. Camel Neir's impassive gaze from horseback steadied them.
'If I could turn back time, would I succeed?'
He shook his head inwardly. Orcs would invade regardless; he couldn't stop a force this size.
Dismounting, he walked the line.
"Orcs ahead, families behind. Think this is the end? No. As long as you live, it's never over. Arm yourselves."
Even at despair's edge, his words spoke hope.
"Don't fear. Monsters are nothing."
Only at life's end did he become the leader of his dreams. Perhaps it wasn't about skill, but what death demands.
"Armed men to the wagons' front. Rest, gather stones."
"Master commands it. Move, quick!"
Emboldened squires led the men.
"Bring stones to fill the gaps."
"No, just throw 'em. Bound to hit something."
"Waaaaah."
Proper command and labor swiftly built the wagon wall. Then the orcs charged.
"Krrk, dinner's there. Kill!"
"Grrk, grrrk. Die."
The orc horde slammed into the line.
Bam, boom.
"Kweek, kweeeek. Food. Die."
"Fear no mere monsters. Respond coldly."
Knight Camel Neir mustered his last strength to shout.
"Waaaaah."
"Grrk, grrrk. Die, humans."
"Stay calm. Rage achieves nothing. Keep the spears... up."
But his command didn't last. Pausing for breath, he looked down to see a rusty red axe buried through his worn armor into his chest.
"Kuhuhu."
Neither rage nor reason availed him now.
A winded, feeble laugh escaped as his body collapsed. The ground rushed up in his dimming vision, followed by a dull thud.
"Master!"
"Damn, shields! Anyone got a shield?"
Clashing steel, shouts, screams faded into distance.
"Sorry to the people. It was all my fault..."
His blurring sight caught the horizon. Dust rose from approaching shapes. His pupils stilled, and Knight Camel Neir's career ended.
"Master, how can you go like this? Uhuhuuk."
"No time to grieve. Battle's not over."
Someone shouted then.
"Cavalry from the west. Hitting the orcs' flank."
"Reinforcements. We're saved."
Senior surviving squire Donern tilted his head.
"Let's confirm."
They gripped swords anew and rejoined the defense. Soon, dust from the cavalry entered their view.
"From Westguard direction. Then...?"
"We're really saved."
"Westguard reinforcements. Hold on just a bit."
Those who'd glimpsed hope from despair summoned their last strength.
"Waaaaah."
That hope closed the distance in moments.
Thud thud thud thud.
"My lord, stay behind us. It's dangerous."
"No safe spots on a battlefield."
Arun van Brennenton spurred forward relentlessly.
"Haa, haa."
An orc rider abruptly wheeled to face them head-on. Its instantaneous maneuverability lived up to its reputation.
'Momentum wins fights.'
Arun leaned low, hugging his horse.
Neiiigh.
Sensing his intent, the steed roared and accelerated.
Just then, an arrow whistled from behind, grazing the gray wolf's neck. The orc rider flinched, slowing. Arun sheathed his sword and drew his mace.
In the instant before collision, the gray wolf dipped its jaws to strike low. Arun's mount leaped high.
Thud.
The orc rider's helm caved in as it tumbled to the ground.
Thud thud thud thud.
"Good."
A thrill ran through him from the mace's heavy impact.
Neiiigh. Whinny.
His clever steed charged toward the next target.
"Haa, haa."
Next in Arun's grip was a blunt lance—no, a massive club shaped like one. It smashed orc skulls, shredding their line.
"Orc riders... all... eliminated..."
"No casualties."
"Huff, huff. Cavalry withdraw. Infantry encircle."
Amid battle clamor, reports came as screams; Arun screamed commands too.
"Open retreat north."
"Yes, my lord."
Timely infantry pressure made the rest a rout. Orcs trapped between wagon walls and Arun's forces were herded north.
Here, slaughter peaked. Disrupted ranks left the ferocious orcs dying helplessly.
"Waaaaah, we won!"
"Westguard is mighty."
"Arun! Arun! Arun!"
Knights frowned at the soldiers' cheers. Drain Hussle beckoned his squire.
"Daring to shout my lord's name so casually. Seton, shut them up."
"Enough."
Arun stroked his still-excited mount, stopping Drain.
"What's wrong with chanting the commander's name in victory's thrill? Can't tell battlefield from ballroom, Drain?"
"Ah, my apologies, my lord."
"Tch."
Arun, looking like he had more to say, turned his horse.
Clop clop, clop clop.
"Looks like about a hundred."
"Mostly women and kids. Maybe a dozen men left alive."
Arun rode toward the wagon wall.
"My lord, danger."
"From? Exhausted refugees?"
Arun chuckled and urged his horse on.