Heaven's Mandate - 5
A nomad raid is a catastrophe for any soldier. Overwhelming mobility, the one-sided advantage of looking down from horseback, and a range no ordinary archer can hope to match. Unless one is cavalry as well—no, even then—the nomads are demons few can stand against.
The Empire, still far from fully restoring its cavalry strength, had answered the threat with special forces: knights and mages. Yet even superhuman power had its limits of number and stamina. They could not be thrown into every fight. They had to husband their strength and commit only at the decisive moment.
Tactically sound. But it also meant that in the lesser, less critical clashes—where that counter did not appear—the rank and file had to face the nomads alone. The despair those men endured defied description.
Today had been another of those hopeless fights. When it ended, headless corpses lay exactly where one expected to find them. Some had been trampled by horses; even their limbs were no longer whole.
"Wilhelm."
While surveying the front after the nomads had withdrawn, Georg's voice reached him. Wilhelm turned.
"You fought on the line again."
It sounded like an accusation. Wilhelm simply nodded. There was nothing to hide, and no reason to hide it.
"Is it so strange for a commander to fight beside his men?"
"An ordinary commander may. A marshal may not."
Common sense, yes—but not something Wilhelm cared to hear from Georg. The man had worn the same rank and fought on the front in the last war. Watching him play the sensible adult now was galling.
"Zenobia told me that if I insist on fighting at the front again, I might as well just die in the North. So what am I to do? A man without a title can only obey."
Sensing the look Wilhelm was giving him, Georg cleared his throat and offered the excuse.
Zenobia had indeed fought desperately to keep Georg from campaigning. The compromise they had finally reached was that he might accompany the army, but he was not to fight with his own hands the way he once had. That was the price of having handed her not only the title but every scrap of real authority.
"You dumped the burden on your child. Being ordered around is the least you should expect."
Georg had no answer for that and fell awkwardly silent.
His retirement had been the Emperor's will, yet the fact remained: he had foisted title and duties onto his daughter. A man had to answer for his own choices.
"In any case, if you're the head of a household, look after yourself a little. Your wife already frets because father and son are both on campaign. How do you think she'll feel if she hears you've been wounded?"
The clumsy attempt to change the subject was irritating, but the words themselves were not wrong. Wilhelm merely furrowed his brow. An arrow was still lodged in his shoulder, after all.
"Wounds are everyday fare for a warrior."
"Ha. If you can say that to your wife's face, I'll concede the point."
Georg gave a short laugh. Wilhelm yanked the arrow free; blood welled and spilled.
The sensation in his arm had gone strange—perhaps a nerve had been nicked—but a wound of this degree could be mended in moments with magic or holy power. They could reattach a severed arm; a nerve was nothing.
Yes. Nothing at all. When he thought of the soldiers who had died thrashing helplessly against the nomads, a scratch like this was no price at all. Compared with a life, it was trivial.
If only we'd had proper defenses…
A sigh escaped him of its own accord. The Empire was advancing steadily, widening the front.
But the nomads had no castles or fortresses. Whenever Imperial forces seized new ground, the only fortifications available were temporary lines of stakes, stones, and sandbags. Trying to hold off a nomad assault from such positions, of course the men died.
To prevent that inevitability, he had taken the field himself. He might hold the rank of marshal, yet any competent noble could handle the command. Better to leave the command to those suited for it and use his own strength on the line to keep even one more soldier alive.
If some nobles could save lives by leading, others could save them by fighting.
"No matter how many times I see it, I never get used to the front."
Georg had already turned his gaze to the fallen soldiers and murmured the words under his breath.
"From headquarters it's all so neat: the nomads attacked, the line is holding, the enemy pressure has intensified, the counterattack succeeded—one sentence wraps up the whole situation. Listening to the reports, you'd think war was easy."
He stepped over to a soldier whose eyes still stared open and gently closed them.
"That's why I feel like I'm losing my mind. Dozens, hundreds of deaths become a minor setback up there. If that much damage was enough to drive the enemy back, they call it a fine result."
Emotional, yes, but Wilhelm understood the feeling. Even when men died in battle, from the perspective of the command that oversaw the entire war those deaths were only a small skirmish, a trivial loss. So while the front burned with intensity, headquarters remained eerily calm.
He had thought he would go mad the first time he felt that gulf. In truth, he still did. He had simply learned how to endure it.
"Even so, don't come all the way to the line like this. What if your daughter finds out?"
"Is it strange for a warrior to visit the front?"
Georg threw Wilhelm's own words back at him. Wilhelm snorted a laugh.
He said nothing more. Expecting that headstrong man to sit quietly at headquarters was like forbidding a beast to eat meat.
Besides, once the fighting was over, coming to the line did not truly break the promise to Zenobia. Wilhelm could look the other way.
"Ah—right. I came to tell you something and got sidetracked."
Georg, already half-turned to leave, spoke as though the thought had only just returned.
"The Barandiga tribe appeared on the front this time. An inspector is coming to negotiate with them."
"…Is that so."
At the news that the inspector—Karl—was coming to the front, Wilhelm managed a nod.
Fortunately the visit was for talks, not battle, but a front was still a front. He would rather the boy stay far from any place that held even a little danger.
"I understand a father worrying over his son, but you're overdoing it. Honestly, even if you and I attacked him together, we couldn't beat that child."
"Who said I was worried?"
"You did. You think I'd say it?"
Wilhelm turned away without answering the dry retort.
When he returned to the council, he would have to inform Zenobia exactly how often this man had been prowling around the front lines.
Word arrived that the Barandiga tribe had shown itself on the Sarei Frontline.
Of all places, Sarei.
The name was far too familiar; he flinched. The tribe Tala had led had been the Sarei.
In the last war it had been the domain of one of Kagan's Eight Steeds, a place the Empire had never managed to take for a long time. Now it was Imperial-held ground, a front line they maintained. The feeling was strange.
"The Sarei Frontline saw the fiercest nomad assaults, yet the continuous fighting has finally broken their momentum. They say more tribes are simply watching now. An inspector should be able to go in person without issue."
Karl nodded at the Duke of Victory's words. Holding negotiations on a front where battle could erupt at any moment was awkward, but if the offensive had settled into a lull, it was possible. All the more so when the tribes weighing desertion outnumbered those still pressing the attack.
"If the Barandiga surrender, the other neutral tribes will lean toward the Empire as well. The inspector's role will be vital."
"Yes, Your Grace. I will keep that in mind."
As Karl bowed, the Duke of Victory patted his shoulder and continued.
"That said, countless tribes have already shown willingness to submit. There is no need to force anything. Safe return is your highest priority."
"Yes. I will do so."
Unlike the talks with the Kaitana, these negotiations would take place on an active front; the Duke of Victory was clearly uneasy. In the worst case, if nearby tribes suddenly charged the meeting site mid-talks, things would turn very ugly indeed.
Of course the tribes currently on the front were either prospective defectors or neutrals, so that was unlikely—but still.
Once again under the escort of the Mukgwangdae, Karl set out for the Barandiga encampment. He had half a mind to greet the family head while he was in the Sarei area, but he was on official business. Greetings could wait until the negotiations were finished.
And saying "I'm heading into the middle of the enemy to negotiate" would only cause worry. "I've finished and returned" was the better greeting—at least it would spare the family head anxiety.
Negotiations, though…
That was the problem he still could not solve. He had no clear sense of how to steer talks with the Barandiga.
Frankly, the Kaitana "negotiations" had barely deserved the name. The tribe had already been overflowing with the desire to surrender; the moment he produced the gift of a countship they had flipped into eager informants and volunteered every scrap of intelligence. Calling that a negotiation was pure shamelessness.
The Barandiga, by contrast, had shown no will to yield and given no hint of what they wanted. They were simply an ambiguous priest-tribe whose faith had been trampled, clinging to neutrality rather than the main fight, and a chief who had inherited the priestly seat yet somehow failed to perform its duties.
…He is the priest officially, at least.
Wondering whether treating the Barandiga as a religious focal point was a mistaken premise from the start, Karl had gathered information through every channel available.
Fortunately, the Barandiga chieftain had indeed succeeded to the priesthood three years earlier. Other tribes knew it as well; it was public knowledge.
And yet he cannot fulfill the role.
Outwardly, of course, he would act the part of a priest. He performed the minimum, which was why the other tribes still called him by the title.
But the Eternal Blue Sky herself had said the priest was failing in his duties. When a god who received the faith said so, it was certain.
He holds the name, but none of the substance…
Without thinking, Karl glanced at the sword hanging at his waist.
Then he brushed the old scar where Kagan's blade had once cut him.
Hmmm.
Are you there?
- Hmm? Did you call me?
The moment he called to her inwardly, the Eternal Blue Sky answered almost at once.
Good that the reply was quick. There would still be time to talk before the negotiations.
I have something to ask you.
This would benefit her as much as him. A little cooperation would be appreciated.
Word came that a party carrying white flags was approaching from afar. The Empire's envoys, no doubt.
This is driving me mad.
The impulse to simply withdraw the army rose hard and sharp. He was not ready to make contact with the Empire. Meeting an envoy in his present state would never yield the best possible terms. Yet refusing the visit outright would be just as disastrous.
While he stood paralyzed between the two choices, the Imperial envoys reached the encampment itself—
"One who bears the stigma of the Eternal Blue Sky and holds a sacred relic has come! Let the priest receive him as an honored guest!"
—announced by the most bizarre declaration imaginable.
What.
What in the world was that supposed to mean?