The Advance on the Reilly Family
The wedding was over. I'd imagined spending a happy day with Daniela, indulging in some sweet treats, and putting our best effort into making a child. But no, that wasn't possible—and the frustration of it gnawed at me.
Right after the ceremony ended, they wanted to talk war. Come on. I just wanted to play with Daniela! She's my bride, isn't she? Right?
"No separate report from Dorgon?"
"No, Your Grace. He only said they're about to launch the assault on the southern Reilly family."
"Is he worried I'd just get in the way if I went?"
"Given Dorgon's personality, he's likely already executing the plan. Please trust and leave it to him, Your Grace."
Still, I needed to prepare support forces. Fine. "Leor."
"Y-yes, Your Grace."
"Prepare a contingency force of about 300 troops, ready to deploy immediately."
"I-I'll do that, sir."
Of course I trusted Dorgon. No one could match his talent for grand strategy. He'd sent James because handling armies might be tricky—James wasn't as good at the big picture as Dorgon, but no one surpassed him in commanding troops.
"Report any updates on this to me first thing. Got it?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
I was worried. Really worried!
"His Grace's concerns probably stem from facing this new southern foe. What do you think, Lord James?"
"I agree. But can we really defeat them with just 1,500 troops?"
"Exactly. The plan to crush those southern fools is already underway."
Dorgon laughed confidently. James felt a twinge of unease but decided to trust him. Above all, from the little he'd heard of Dorgon's strategy, his gut told him they wouldn't lose—not even once.
The nomad forces were already rampaging through the Reilly family's rear territories.
"Darmian's army has already begun their attack."
"That guy... Handling the nomads must be tough."
"Nah, he's already earning the nickname 'Little Khan.'"
"Little Khan?"
"Yes. Our Grand Duke calls him that—Darmian the Little Khan."
"He's always been better at creating opportunities to win than at winning fights outright."
Dorgon reviewed the full letter and unrolled the map, the latest update on the Reilly family's territory. He began pulling out the enemy flags one by one. Their main force was obviously heading south, but the nomads from the Bart family were shredding the rear.
"Then we'll cross the corridor, seize one or two bridgeheads, and hold position."
"Hold?"
"We'll need to move fast."
"...I'll follow your lead, Lord Dorgon."
The nomad contingent numbered about 300, but with Bart family troops joining, it swelled to over double. Once the plan was set, they split into two prongs and struck the Reilly rear.
Leading the frontal assault was Darmian, captain of the Northern Foreign Legion.
"If we pull this off perfectly, the North might grant us titles."
His words fired up the men. The nomads burned with resolve—no more starvation, and a hunger for recognition.
"His Grace doesn't like pillaging or massacres, but I see it differently. We'll massacre twice over."
"Why?"
"To instill terror. Regrettable, but necessary."
The first target was the Gotri Pass, the gateway between Reilly and Bart territories. Sieges were poison to nomads, but a blitz made it irrelevant.
"The moment we cross Gotri Pass, we start."
"Split into two."
"Wanna bet?"
"Chakatay, what kind?"
"Who reaches the center first?"
"Hahaha! Fine. Penalty?"
"How about a knuckle rap?"
"Perfect. Too perfect."
Gotri Pass wasn't even closed—it stood wide open. The gatekeeper had never heard of a fight. He foolishly assumed southern reinforcements would come even if the North attacked.
Of course, if it had been shut, they'd find a new route.
"Don't waste energy—head straight to the next spot!"
"We'll skirt ahead! Leave a few at Gotri and move out!"
The southern Foreign Legion split and advanced on their paths. A week before the Grand Duke's wedding, Darmian had taken ten villages inside Gotri Pass. Chakatay's prong razed over ten more.
"Time to spread some deliberate rumors."
"Like what?"
"Surrender and live. Resist, and everyone in the village dies."
"Too mild?"
"Got something better?"
"Nomads love this: 'Every man taller than a wagon wheel dies.'"
"Nice. Terrifying when we heard it as enemies—comforting as allies."
"We'll do it."
The rumors from Darmian's army rocked the Reilly territories. Rear garrisons cowered. Chakatay's forces indeed razed every holdout.
"W-we surrender."
"Hasn't the deadline passed? We said before we arrive."
"It took too long to decide internally. Please, mercy just once..."
"Sorry, rules are rules."
"Th-then..."
"Kill every man taller than a wagon wheel. Leave no one."
Holdouts burned. Those who surrendered promptly survived.
"Not too late, right?"
"You met the deadline. We'll rest here—take good care of us."
"Y-yes, sir..."
Dorgon's strategy wasn't pure offense. His letter to Darmian stressed clear bias: spend Bart funds in surrendered villages. Locals welcomed the "Bart money."
"We'll rest fully today—bring everything you've got! Pay here's yours."
"G-gold coins?"
"Yep! Four per soldier—give us water and food."
Dorgon had foreseen this. Villages inclined to partial resistance wouldn't poison supplies or drag into sieges. And the more gold flowed into Reilly lands, the more Darmian's army looked like liberators. Give generously, Dorgon emphasized.
"We've wrecked nearly twenty already. This okay?"
The main force should move soon. The Reilly rear was useless now.
Blitzkrieg. Two weeks into the invasion, no Reilly army sighted.
"Tch, almost at the goal."
Darmian linked with Chakatay, merging forces—Reilly still clueless.
"Know how many villages fallen? The castle claims no food! Surrendered folk don't respond!"
The Reilly patriarch raged. Southern villages were uninhabitable. Stopping them was urgent, but Darafont mercenaries waited.
"Send our troops then."
"Can't block the Northern main force."
"Know how ruined our lands are?"
"Not our problem."
"March south—now!"
"Then the main force hits here."
No matter how the Reilly lord fumed, Targu, Darafont mercenary captain, just watched for opportunity. This sacrifice was budgeted.
But our forces were intact. Bellies full, coffers too. Ready to fight!
"Report: Northern main force descending!"
"Numbers?"
"About a thousand! Five hundred fewer than us."
"A thousand?"
Forced two-front war thinned their main. Targu's plan was simple: smash the main first, south retreats. Keep them separated. The rushed war denied North prep time.
So crush the main...
"Another report! Southern forces racing north at full speed!"
"Trying to link with main."
"The split prongs merged and keep heading north!"
"Their conquered villages?"
"All... abandoned."
Perfect! Destroy before they unite!
"March out!"
Defeat for the North!