Wolf and Dog - 3
Dorgon's Beltu incident wrapped up without a hitch. Some had felt genuine terror when the enemy tore the sky open, but because we answered it on the spot, that terror flipped straight into cheers. So the enemy has a powerhouse who can slash the sky? Fine—as long as we have one of our own, it isn't a problem.
The Duke of Victory seemed satisfied enough that the morale which had been freefalling had rocketed back up; he actually smiled. In private he might be different, but when leading the army the man was strict to a fault. If even he was willing to smile at the garrison, he must have been in an exceptionally good mood.
Hard to blame him for being pleased.
Given what the Duke of Victory had endured in the last war, a standing ovation would not have been strange—never mind a smile.
These days I can manage Sky Slash myself, so the counterstrike landed immediately. In the early stages of the Great Subjugation War, however, only Kagan had been able to cut the sky. When he did, there had been no way to stop allied morale from collapsing.
The memory of commanding troops through that nightmare must still be burned into the Duke's mind. That was why this counterattack would feel like a warm balm on an old wound.
"There was a minor clash in Hitra tribal territory."
Having prevented the chaos, the Duke of Victory began seizing the surrounding regions the moment the garrison was established. The 4th Section Chief, assigned as my escort, relayed every scrap of intelligence as it arrived.
"Is that so? Was there actually a tribe living there?"
"Closer to a clan than a proper tribe in scale. And the fleeing nomads only loosed a few arrows, so they say it's almost embarrassing to call it a clash."
Not a nomad raid—just the work of driving out the locals. At that point it was too thin even to label a clash. The Imperial army had been focused on occupation rather than pursuit anyway.
Thanks to that, nothing that could honestly be called a battle had occurred yet. Soon enough, though, the clashes would come thick and fast, and we would look back on this quiet with longing.
"If they've come all the way down to the ruins of a fallen tribe, other tribes must be packed in nearby as well."
The 4th Section Chief nodded. In the vast North, deliberately settling on the ruins of a destroyed tribe—and right next to the Empire at that—meant there was no free space left around them. Stronger tribes had probably already locked the better ground down tight; there had been nowhere else to squeeze in.
That meant friction was inevitable between an Empire intent on expanding its holdings and tribes determined to keep theirs. Or a neighboring tribe might simply strike first.
Either way, blood would flow.
"From tomorrow, stay with me at headquarters. Better to hear things firsthand than secondhand."
"Yes, Master."
At the crisp reply I opened my mouth, closed it, opened it again, then shut it for good. Calling me Master when we were alone was one thing; doing it in front of others was a problem.
For one, Ministry of Special Affairs personnel regarding anyone other than the Emperor as their master was already awkward. On top of that, the word "Master" trading back and forth between lovers was every bit as dangerous. If anyone overheard, the whispers would shift from "Audit Department Chief" to "Pervert Chief" in a heartbeat.
...She's not the type to slip up.
I kept silent because I trusted her. The 4th Section Chief would never put me in that position; she would not call me Master in front of anyone else.
I chose to believe that.
The moment every zone the Duke of Victory had designated was fully occupied, simultaneous fighting erupted across the board.
It had not yet reached the scale of ten-thousand-man clashes, yet the pattern was clear: morning reveille sounded to the tune of nomad raids, midday saw Imperial columns pushing into neighboring tribal lands, and by evening both sides would scuffle for a while, then mutually withdraw with a casual "we've had our fun—see you tomorrow." With that sort of fighting flaring up everywhere, the high command was kept constantly in motion.
"Approximately eight hundred nomads have appeared on the Bakiria front. Hutus Bagia, who vanished with Dorgon years ago, is in command."
"We have taken the southern reaches of Larkin tribal territory, but resistance is fierce and we are currently stalemated. The field is requesting the mage corps."
"Reports from the Suti o front of Keshik banners. No large-scale offensive yet, so it appears only a portion of the Keshik have arrived as officers."
They truly were moving at a frantic pace.
So this is headquarters.
Back when I was merely a team leader, I could set foot in headquarters only when the Duke of Victory summoned me. Now I haunted the place like a resident spirit and took in every scrap of intelligence raw.
It was a distinctly different experience. Information that hundreds or even thousands of troops were on the move flooded in within moments; the countermeasures to meet them were issued just as casually. A single sentence decided the fates of hundreds, of thousands.
Looking back, the higher ranks of the military had always contained more stiff, cold men than hot-blooded ones. I had never really thought about why. Now I understood.
Anyone with a soft heart wouldn't last.
One gesture, one word, and countless lives were ground to paste. Soft-hearted? Your own mind would shatter first. Especially for field commanders who still looked their soldiers in the eye every day.
...Or were field commanders more often among the ones being ground down rather than the ones giving the orders? I wasn't sure.
"Your Excellency! The Kaitana tribe is advancing south toward the Hitra front! Strength: three thousand!"
While I half-listened to the staff reports, one officer's urgent shout snapped the Duke of Victory's gaze around.
Three thousand?
My eyes followed his to the officer.
Three thousand was no number to dismiss. A coalition force might field that many without comment, but for a single tribe it was substantial. Even in the last war, only the named tribes of real weight had been able to muster such strength.
Kaitana...
A name I had never heard. The fact that the staff officer knew it suggested recent scouting reports. That made them one of the third-camp tribes that had sat out the last war in neutrality.
It was enough to make one grind one's teeth. Even when Kagan had united the anti-Empire tribes I had wondered, sick with dread, where he had scraped together a hundred thousand men—yet here were still more tribes capable of fielding thousands. Had they joined Kagan as well, the war would have gone completely off the rails.
And now that tribe was marching south.
Damn it.
Not welcome news. If Dorgon had even a few more tribes like this under his banner, the force he had gathered was more likely seventy thousand than the low-end estimate of sixty.
"Relay this to the mage corps at Hitra. The moment the Kaitana tribe enters range, open fire with everything."
"Yes, Your Excellency!"
The order was simple: the enemy was large, so drive a spear straight into its solar plexus. The staff officer snatched up a communication orb at once.
Three thousand alone was bad enough. If they linked with the nomads already prowling the Hitra front, the number became truly dangerous. And if other tribes besides the Kaitana were also drifting south, ten thousand was not out of the question.
Ten thousand on open plains.
The thought raised gooseflesh. Hitra territory was not especially large; the garrison was correspondingly light and fortification work had barely begun.
Of course, ten thousand gathering was the absolute worst case. The high command was not stupid enough to sit and watch the enemy concentrate. Even now Imperial columns were thrashing through the North, deliberately severing every tribal link. Unless Dorgon himself launched a full-scale offensive, ten thousand would not simply appear overnight.
Still, three thousand nomads were no joke. The hope was simply to drive them off with as little blood as possible.
At least there had been no casualties.
"No clash at all?"
And no results either.
"Yes, Your Excellency. They circled the perimeter as if making a show of force, but that was all. They never even attempted reconnaissance probes—simply kept their distance."
The Duke of Victory's questioning tone drew repeated nods from the staff officer.
The other staff and commanders gathered in headquarters found the report equally odd; chins were stroked, low murmurs rose.
"Perhaps they came simply to pin the Hitra garrison in place? With several thousand nomads nearby, no one is eager to move first."
"There's logic to that, but why Hitra specifically? It would be far more efficient to throw a little extra weight at the Bakiria front and lock that down instead."
They had marched south in grand style with their largest force, only to settle into a pure standoff without a single clash. No one could offer a clean explanation for the strangeness.
Standoff itself was nothing unusual. War was not a Pokémon battle; if two armies leapt at each other the instant eyes met, they were simply lunatics. Waiting for the right moment was standard craft.
But a complete absence of even the smallest probe went beyond ordinary caution. Nomads lived by constant, jabbing mobility; they peppered the enemy with arrows the way schoolboys stuffed love letters into shoe lockers. Armed harassment was as natural to them as breathing.
"I cannot make sense of it."
The Duke of Victory muttered the thought for everyone. Leaving the expeditionary force untouched at the border had already been peculiar; now, in the middle of open war, another anomaly had appeared.
Quiet from the enemy should have been good news for our side. Yet the bone-deep conviction that those dog-like nomads could never stay quiet had thrown the entire command into confusion. Were they doing it on purpose? If so, it was almost impressive.
"...As long as the Kaitana tribe remains where it is, the Hitra garrison is effectively sealed. We cannot risk a preemptive strike with those numbers alone, nor can we simply abandon the position."
One staff officer spoke with visible unease. The Duke of Victory nodded.
As another officer had said, specifically pinning Hitra made little strategic sense—but intention aside, the result was the same: Hitra was locked down. Perhaps the other fronts had simply been assigned to other tribes.
Thus it was decided that Hitra, currently playing host to the Kaitana tribe's grand "I have descended" performance, would remain on pure defense. There was no better option.
The next day:
"Still no clash."
The day after that:
"Same as yesterday."
And the day after that:
"Five or six nomads rode out and circled near our lines, but they loosed only a few arrows and turned back."
"Casualties?"
"None. They were never even in range."
Yet another day later:
"The Kaitana shamans performed a wide-area rite—but again they cast from well outside range. No effect on our forces."
"……."
Five consecutive days without a single incident left the Duke of Victory speechless.
Had the other fronts also gone quiet, one might have guessed the nomads were simply feeling each other out. But every other front was locked in bloody fighting.
What the hell are these bastards doing?
Seriously—what? Did the nomads have a daily quest for "participate in war"? Were they just marking attendance?
It made no sense. A grand entrance followed by nothing of substance. Pure showmanship—
...
Showmanship?
I pulled the intelligence on the Kaitana tribe back into focus. Unlike the anti-Empire tribes that had thrown themselves at Kagan's feet, they had remained carefully neutral—a third-camp tribe. A hikikomori people that had only finally shown themselves after Dorgon claimed the title of Khan.
Yet they had dragged that ponderous bulk all the way down to the front, then deliberately flaunted their numbers in front of an Imperial army that was certain to be watching.
This bastard.
They're looking for a line.