X. The Battle of Schapendorf (1)
X. The Battle of Schapendorf (1)
A territorial war was a game of strategy.
When lords declared war on one another, it meant they inevitably wanted something, and that something was usually land or rights.
Mercenaries who would do anything for money; wizards hired after spending their days as scholars at the Academia; knights who had strutted around their fiefs or their liege's castles before rushing out for a taste of blood.
Dozens, perhaps hundreds of men would clash.
Aside from the mercenaries and household troops, those men were the workforce that kept a fief running.
In an army of two hundred, roughly seventy percent would be conscripted serfs or commoners.
By that reckoning, the young able-bodied men alone numbered over a hundred. They were handed shoddy arms and sent onto the battlefield.
For the lord who ruled the fief, it was a truly bitter cost.
"Will our numbers not be insufficient?"
"We can't conscript any more. We're already short of hands..."
The knights understood just how precious the conscripts sent into territorial wars were.
They were not valued merely as human beings, but as indispensable parts that kept the fief functioning.
It was better than not valuing them at all. Keldric listened to the knights' discussion in silence.
"It seems essential that we position our camp with the Ronaun River in mind."
"Our side holds the river firmly, after all."
On the map the knights indicated, a long road stretched along the Ronaun River.
Whichever side could use the Ronaun River effectively could also make free use of the road beside it. In other words, it was a supply route.
Soldiers mattered in a territorial war, but supplies were just as important.
At this point in history, however, the concept of military logistics was somewhat vague.
Armies carried provisions, but poor transport capacity made sustained supply over long periods difficult.
To put it bluntly, pillaging a nearby village along the way counted as resupply.
Country villagers paid for it in blood and tears. The knights did not care.
That only applied in enemy territory, however.
The next battle would be fought within the Barony of Yaven.
The four knights now putting their heads together were all Baron Yaven's vassals.
If they marched out and plundered a nearby village, they would be robbing their liege's land or a fellow knight's fief.
If the situation grew desperate, they might lose their heads and plunder even their own territory, but for now such conduct was best avoided.
"The Bogenberg Trading Company is generously supplying food."
"Now that you mention it, Sir Keldric, you came with Count Bogenberg's support, did you not?"
The four knights' gazes shifted toward Keldric.
Keldric waved the praise aside.
"It is nothing. Count Bogenberg must desire justice as well."
"Besides, every soldier you brought is excellent. You may hold your head a little higher."
There was a reason the Barony of Yaven had prospered so greatly.
The previous barons of Yaven had been no fools. They had appointed loyal, respectable men as their vassal knights.
The proof sat before Keldric in the form of four composed knights.
Whatever they might be like in private, the knights were veterans of war. At least here, they took matters seriously.
They had not the slightest intention of fighting halfheartedly.
"So, Sir Lothar."
"...Y-yes?"
"Where do you propose we go?"
Sir Lothar, who had been sitting vacantly in the seat of honor, flinched.
'He was dozing off.'
Keldric suppressed a sigh. The stove that had heated the room to a swelter was to blame.
Lothar blinked as he tried to grasp the situation and finally spoke just as the other knights began looking puzzled.
"You mean the encampment site?"
"Yes. Only then can we send a letter to Lord Gofrit."
"That's true. Very well, let me see..."
Sir Lothar fixed his gaze on the unfurled map.
The knights who had been debating passionately only moments before exchanged awkward looks.
They had talked themselves hoarse narrowing the choices, but Lothar had apparently slept through all of it.
"Hmm. How about this place?"
Sir Lothar's finger indicated a spot.
Every gaze shifted to the spot, including Keldric's and Henri's.
"...Yalta?"
"Indeed. It lies close to Bellam and borders the river, so we need not worry about supply."
"Sir Lothar. Yalta is too close."
One knight objected.
True to those words, several factors made the plain before Yalta unsuitable as a battlefield.
Even setting aside everything else, it was too near Bellam.
Yalta lay roughly twelve to fourteen leagues from Bellam.
Allowing for the time marching soldiers needed to eat, sleep, and relieve themselves, the journey took a little under a day and a half.
Even if Baron Gofrit's army approached, they would be unable to breach Bellam's walls.
Yet the approach itself was the problem.
The people of Bellam would be terrified, and an encampment at Yalta would effectively cut every village farther north off from the city.
Keldric's own Carlton Village, for example, would slowly wither without merchants coming from Bellam.
If Baron Gofrit won again, it was plain that he would surround Bellam and ravage the domain at will.
"Sir Lothar. I beg you, reconsider."
A knight with especially thick eyebrows stepped forward with an earnest expression.
Was that Sir Rutger of House Hohenkrone? Keldric made a mental note of the name.
"Yalta is the lifeline of every road leading north. If we fight there, we will struggle to defend the northern villages."
"Then we need only win, don't we?"
"Sir Lothar..."
He was stubborn and inexperienced.
That was the sort of man Sir Lothar was.
"I chose Yalta for one reason: supply. Well-fed, well-equipped soldiers fight better."
"Sir Lothar, the difference is two days at most. A supply delay of that length will not matter."
"Then, Sir Rutger, how do you intend to prepare for the snowstorm that will arrive before long?"
"That..."
The problem was that the more Keldric listened, the more plausible Lothar's argument sounded.
Even Keldric was briefly swayed by Sir Lothar's reasoning.
Yes, the snowstorm. Once it arrived, it could strand them for anywhere from three days to a week.
If they moved farther away out of fear that Bellam might be encircled, could they maintain their supplies through the storm?
But it was still early for a snowstorm.
The weather did grow rough around this time, but not to an unbearable degree.
Besides, if that came to pass, Baron Gofrit's army would be equally immobilized.
"Sir Lothar, may I say something?"
Lothar turned his stiffened face toward Keldric.
"Speak."
"Rather than Yalta, let us encamp south of Schaffendorf."
Keldric indicated the most promising place among those the knights had suggested a moment ago.
In truth, Keldric did not know a damn thing about strategy or tactics. He was only applying common sense.
"Why there?"
"A branch of the river also runs near Schaffendorf, and the surrounding area has many sheep pastures."
Schaffendorf's principal products were wool and mutton.
Wool would help them withstand the cold snowstorms and foul weather, while the mutton and grain kept for the sheep would provide food.
It would amount to requisitioning supplies, but there was no problem as long as they did so in moderation.
Furthermore, this placed the essential strongpoint of Yalta in the rear, so even if they suffered a rout, they could withdraw to Yalta and reform their lines.
It also lay a reasonable distance from the Ronaun River, leaving their line of retreat open.
Having heard Keldric's words, Sir Henri and the other knights readily nodded.
Lothar fell silent with a faintly sulky expression.
He seemed displeased that his opinion, as Baron Yaven's acting representative, had been pushed aside.
"...Very well."
Yet this was no child's game.
Lothar had dangerous tendencies, but he did at least know how to yield a little.
"I will send a letter to Lord Gofrit and propose that we fight near Schaffendorf."
"A wise decision."
"Well... if Sir Keldric is so confident, we are certain to win this battle, aren't we?"
"That's—"
"I have high expectations. I hope you will not disappoint me."
With that, Lothar stood and left the room.
The meeting was over.
As the awkward knights dispersed, Keldric stared uneasily at the door through which Lothar had left.
Dealing with a spoiled young noble was no easy matter.
Still, Lothar did not always insist on having his own way.
He had ideas of his own, and they were not entirely unreasonable.
But he had to recognize his own inexperience and learn to listen to others for himself.
Keldric had learned that early.
Nothing compared to the experience of bearing responsibility as an adult.
Sooner or later, the time would likely come for Sir Lothar too to shoulder that heavy weight of responsibility.
As a noble, as Baron Yaven's heir, and as a knight.
And Keldric knew a way to hasten that time along a little more.
'Should I knock some sense into him?'
A beating was the best medicine for a dog that would not listen. People were not much different.
But Keldric could not simply beat him outright unless he had lost his mind. He did not truly want that either.
So, it was better to watch a while longer for now.
* * * * *
They marshaled the soldiers and mercenaries and left Bellam's gates at the same predawn hour they had departed Bogenberg.
Keldric shuddered atop Boreas.
It was not as cold as a midwinter northern cold snap, but the dawn air was still nothing to take lightly.
It was the magical hour when even the dew froze solid.
The army of Baron Yaven, absent its baron, shuffled forward through the cold: soldiers, conscripts, and mercenaries alike.
Keldric looked over the soldiers gathering on the dim road.
The rout they had suffered earlier had left their morale low.
The mercenaries did not hide their unease either. They had no desire to stand on the losing side.
If they lost, their pay might be delayed. That was all.
Keldric now understood what Lothar had meant by defeatism.
Keldric sighed with mixed feelings.
His warm breath met the cold and left a white trail in the air.
'A territorial war...'
He did not fear battle.
But he was worried, and he felt responsible for the forty soldiers he had brought from Bogenberg.
He wanted to bring them all back alive.
Other knights might not think so, but at least Keldric did.
Forty elite soldiers were no small force.
Count Bogenberg had sent them expecting losses, but he would still be bitter if every one of them returned shattered—or failed to return at all.
"Nngh..."
Suddenly, a faint groan reached him. Keldric looked over at Alisa, who was riding beside him.
Alisa, wrapped tightly in her robe, shivered from time to time.
As if waking early were not enough, she had to endure this cold from before dawn.
Once the sun rose, things would improve. Keldric draped his cloak over Alisa's shoulders.
When the shaggy wolfskin cloak settled over her, Alisa's eyes widened and she stared at Keldric.
Feeling awkward for no reason, Keldric smiled sheepishly.
"Your magic is important."
"Th-thank you."
"It's nothing. Tell me if you get too cold."
The soldiers were mostly northerners accustomed to the cold, but several mercenaries shivered like Alisa.
'We should stop later and boil some hot water.'
Alisa lowered her head and pulled the large cloak tightly closed with her small gloved hands.
The skin visible through the gaps in her gloves had turned red, probably from the cold.
As time passed, dawn began to break beyond the snowy horizon.
Keldric looked over the road where the troops had gathered.
The conscripted serfs marched at the very front, with mercenaries and regular soldiers mixed behind them.
There was no formation to speak of, but even this was better than nothing.
As Keldric scanned the troops, his eyes widened at the sight of a familiar face.
'Jorgen?'
Jorgen, captain of the Ram Mercenary Company.
He shivered in the cold while gnawing on dried meat.
Keldric rode Boreas toward him. A familiar face was always welcome after a long absence.
☩ ☩ ☩ ☩ ☩ ☩ ☩
'What god-awful luck.'
Jorgen, his beard grown shaggy, gnawed at the tough meat to soothe his aching stomach.
When Baron Yaven's army had been routed, Jorgen's Ram Mercenary Company had lost eight men.
"Ah, fuck. Captain. I'm tellin' ya, those bastards really did pick the fight first."
"Shut your damn mouth, Toben. You wanna get hit some more?"
Only ten mercenaries remained with Jorgen, including Anton and Toben.
Anton had survived like the veteran he was, but Toben had never shaken the habits of his drifter days and remained an immature fool.
It was enough to drive Jorgen mad. Experienced mercenaries were difficult to find.
After this battle, Jorgen would have to recruit inexperienced greenhorns.
Of course, only if he survived this battle.
But the situation was none too good.
The previous rout had set uneasy rumors circulating among the mercenaries.
The main question was whether Baron Yaven was going to lose the war.
Forget losing; they would be lucky if their pay arrived on time. Even Jorgen scoffed at such mercenary thinking.
After fighting their guts out and watching so many men die, another defeat would be unforgivable.
"I'd rather die than suffer through it."
Jorgen spat thick saliva onto the road. Snow, dirt, and spit mixed into a foul clump.
"Jorgen."
And over it, a great shadow fell.
Only then did Jorgen realize that everyone around him had gone quiet.
Swallowing dryly, Jorgen lifted his head.
A warhorse's powerful, muscular legs slowly entered his field of view, somehow familiar.
"Uh..."
Sir Keldric of House Bellaf. Mounted upon his warhorse, he was looking down at Jorgen.
"S-Sir Keldric of the honorable House Bellaf...!"
"Oh. Do you remember me?"
"Of course I do! What brings you to a place like this?"
"What would a knight come someplace like this to do?"
Keldric chuckled and tapped the longsword at his hip.
"I came to fight."
That was, in a word, a reason befitting a knight.