Friend or Foe - 2
Until they were bound under His name, the nomads had lived scattered. Scattered by tribe—or, when it was worse, by clan—across the vast steppes, they could never have united no matter how hard they tried. You couldn't become one if you never even saw each other's faces.
Now and then men of grand ambition raised the banner of unification and swelled their ranks, but regrettably no such ambitious soul ever succeeded. They were merely ambitious men—not the heroes who could subdue the warriors who had survived the Empire's oppression, the wolves racing beyond the horizon.
And so the nomads never became one, and the Empire thoroughly oppressed them, physically purging them at regular intervals. Even though sweeping the desolate steppes and scouring the nomads brought little gain, the Empire steadily raised its armies.
And the reason the Empire conducted those periodic purges was simple.
"Show the southern serfs the fury of the steppes!"
"Praise the heavens with their blood and our spirits!"
Chieftains roaring to steel their warriors; warriors answering with war cries of their own. The existence of those warriors was precisely why the Empire remained wary of the nomads—a living despair.
A few tribes, the Empire could easily subjugate. But once those tribes began to gather, the situation changed.
Threatening with numbers isn't a method only the Empire uses.
When nomads who lived and died with their horses gathered not in the thousands but in the tens of thousands, they could deal the Empire a mortal wound. Could those walking Empire folk, whose horsemanship was shoddy at best, stop us?
Of course if the Empire answered with numbers of its own we would lose in the end—
—■■■■■■■■──!!!
What of it? The thunder of hooves shaking the earth, the war cries ringing through the sky, would remain forever in their memories.
"Khan."
At the call of Dashan, the Keshik riding just behind him, he glanced back.
"We will soon reach the territory of the Sarei tribe."
"A perfect place for a greeting."
At the words that it was none other than Sarei land, a smile rose unbidden.
Tala's tribe, which had fought so brilliantly as the vanguard in the last war. To clash with the Empire on the very ground where that tribe had lived—quite a delightful affair.
"Since it's our first greeting, keep it brief. But don't make it light. Our guests would be disappointed."
"Yes, Khan. I will keep that in mind."
After his short reply, Dashan began shouting something toward the rear. Probably delivering the order to strike hard and pull out fast. Being at the very front, it was hard to catch what was said behind him.
They'll handle it well enough.
After watching Dashan, he turned his gaze forward again. The survivors who had made it this far would not question an order not to make the greeting light.
Striking Imperial-occupied territory was no light matter. Though the Empire's forces were scattered across many holdings, they were not fools—they would have anticipated a large-scale offensive like this. They would be holding distances that allowed rapid reinforcement the moment one front came under attack.
That meant the longer we operated, the worse it became for us. If we were ever surrounded, we would lose our mobility and find ourselves isolated.
As expected, war is about numbers.
A smirk tugged at his mouth. Right now the forces he led were the entirety of the offensive power, but in the past multiple units of ten thousand each had struck the front lines at once. Then the Empire had nearly died of joy. As a host, he was sorry he could not entertain the guests more enthusiastically.
Still, since he was going personally, he hoped they would be satisfied.
The noisy welcome began. From far off came a fierce pressure of mana and killing intent.
"Marshal!"
Not long after, a knight who entered the tent saluted with trembling hands and went on at once.
"A large force is advancing south! Scale is approximately fourteen thousand!"
At the near-scream of a report, the commanders and staff gathered in the tent stiffened. On a front that had barely settled into a lull, the fog of war gathered again—and with numbers far exceeding any force they had faced before.
There was only one man who could lead such a host.
"Judging by the inclusion of the Gaar tribe's banner, Dorgon appears to be at the head!"
"Is that so."
As expected. The only nomads who could radiate this kind of presence were around the level of the Eight Steeds.
"Inform the Grand Marshal and each front. If we can establish an encirclement quickly, we may be able to kill the rebel."
He said the words, but he did not particularly expect it. Udesr Dorgon, who styled himself Khan, was also famous for his tenacious grip on life. Knowing he was in danger if the fight dragged on, he would withdraw his forces before reinforcements arrived.
"Commit all knights and mages. This is not a level the rank and file can stop."
"Yes, sir!"
As the commanders who received the order left the tent, he drew his sword and checked the condition of the blade.
Fortunately it was fine. Ready to swing at once without issue.
If we just buy time, the offensive will withdraw on its own.
But there was no guaranteeing how many soldiers would lose their lives in that time, or how many precious special assets would fall.
So he would join the fight as well. Among the warriors at this Sarei Frontline, he was the strongest.
He won't be able to ignore me.
Moreover, he was Karl's father. From Dorgon's—that rebel's—perspective, he was prey that could never be let go, so rather than attacking other allies, he would—
"Wilhelm!"
"Georg?"
Suddenly the tent flap was thrown open and Georg burst in.
Wait—why did this man, who was supposedly commanding another front, keep showing up so often? Of course he had requested support for each front, but that request had just been made. He could not already be here.
"How are you already here?"
"I came by teleport, of course! Are the mages just decoration?"
At those words he could not help frowning. Teleport was useful, but it was a magic with many restrictions. The number of people who could be moved at once was limited, and the mana consumption itself was extreme. That was why teleport had to be avoided as much as possible in wartime.
"When even a single special asset is precious, teleporting? Are you in your right mind?"
It was a valid point, but Georg snorted as if to ask what nonsense that was.
"If the Marshal might die and one mage can save him, that's a profit."
Saying so, Georg strode over and seized the wrist of the hand holding his sword. The sudden action nearly made him drop it.
"Have you already forgotten what happened a few years ago? When one of the Eight Steeds appears on the front, you never engage alone—wasn't that an order the Duke of Victory himself issued?"
"He hasn't issued such an order this time. And we have the knight orders and mage corps as well."
"How much help do you think ordinary knights or mages are against one of the Eight Steeds!"
Unable to refute that, he turned his head slightly.
In the previous war as well, only a handful of strong fighters could face the Eight Steeds. There had been cases of knights, mages, and soldiers being committed to subjugate them, but always with strong fighters who could actually establish a fight against the Eight Steeds present first. Ambiguous numbers only increased allied casualties.
The one saving grace was that he himself was classified as a force capable of facing the Eight Steeds. Barely scraping by, but he met the minimum conditions at least. Enough of a reason to fight.
"From your expression, it seems you have no intention of listening."
Georg sighed and released his wrist.
"Keep the others' mouths shut properly."
Speaking as if irritated, Georg took the spear he had been carrying on his back into his hand.
"If the two of us jump him, we won't die. Our limbs might be at risk, but as long as we're still breathing, that's enough."
"...Thank you."
"Can't even manage a proper word of thanks."
Looking at Georg roughly sweeping his hair back, he allowed a slight curl of his lips.
He would refrain from reporting to Zenobia that this man had been hanging around the front lines.
When a staff officer with a rigidly set expression whispered something to the Duke of Victory, the Duke gently closed his eyes.
"Udesr Dorgon has appeared at the Sarei Frontline. Forces under his command approximately fourteen thousand."
But soon composing his expression, the Duke of Victory calmly shared the information. That what had been small-scale battles until now had become a full-fledged fight.
...Sarei?
And hearing the place where Dorgon had appeared, his body stiffened of its own accord. The Sarei Frontline was where the family head was stationed.
Of all the many fronts, that the family head was there—that the place where Dorgon, quiet until now, first showed himself was Sarei—was enough to make him resentful. Could that bastard Dorgon know and be doing this on purpose?
Damn it.
Unfortunately it was a rather plausible possibility. Just as he had put Dorgon's father Kagan on a one-way train to the afterlife, that bastard might be trying to take out the family head under the name of revenge.
"Currently Marshal Hiden has moved to the Sarei Frontline with several knights. He said he would face Dorgon together with the Marshal of Tailglehen."
That was at least positive news. If fighters of the level of the family head and the former Count of Horfelt joined forces, they could buy time against Dorgon. And with various special forces and soldiers there as well, they should at least survive until reinforcements arrived or Dorgon withdrew.
But strangely he could not feel at ease. Objectively it was not the worst situation, yet he was terribly anxious.
"You have already fulfilled your devotion and duty more than enough. No one can demand any further sacrifice from you."
Perhaps it was because the family head in his heart was no longer merely a family head, but family. Ever since the day the family head had shown him his heart, his own heart seemed to have changed.
So the anxiety was natural. Who could be at ease when family faced a formidable enemy?
"Your Grace."
After deliberation, he opened his mouth toward the Duke of Victory.
"The enemy's ringleader has appeared on the front. The Marshal of Tailglehen and Marshal Hiden are both strong warriors, but the two of them alone cannot kill Dorgon."
At those words the Duke of Victory's expression twisted briefly. It was not that he did not know the two were not enough.
"I will move to the front as well. Together with the two Marshals, I will subjugate Dorgon."
He must have guessed what I was going to say.