Chapter 22
Chapter 22
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 22
Chapter Title: Bait and Anvil
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"Is this really okay?"
"Dunno."
The thirty-one-year-old Robin and the twenty-one-year-old Miska, riding in the baggage wagon, chatted idly.
"Damn it. I should've trained harder at mounted combat. Then I could've gone with Captain Stellman, right?"
"Uncle Robin, you should be grateful just that the employer took you on this time. And besides, you think riding and fighting is that easy?"
"Can't argue with that. Hey, but even if that's fine for me, what the hell have you been doing all this time, Miska? You're a six-year vet."
"It's six years, actually? Anyway, I don't have a horse, do I? You think a decent warhorse comes cheap?"
"Tch. Fair enough."
Robin, who looked at least a decade older than his actual age, scratched his head vigorously, drawing snickers from the other mercenaries following behind the wagon on foot.
"Looking at their faces, you'd think Robin here's the vet and the kid's some rookie who might not even swing a sword right."
"The old guy's barely three years in, and the rookie's got six under his belt."
Robin, thirty-one this year, had originally been a farmer plowing fields and tending sheep until monsters ruined him a few years back. That's when he belatedly discovered his talent and became a mercenary.
In contrast, Miska was an orphan who'd been doing odd jobs for the Zanstrick Mercenary Corps since childhood. The moment he passed his coming-of-age rite at fifteen, he took the formal test and got in—through and through a Zanstrick man.
The two couldn't have been more different, but ever since they learned they shared the same distant hometown by coincidence, they'd stuck together like uncle and nephew, thick as thieves.
"Anyway, what do you all think? Is it really okay splitting from the captain and taking orders from the employer to fight?"
Though a three-year vet in the Zanstrick Mercenary Corps, Robin had handled monster hunts and escorts, chasing off small-time bandits and highway robbers, but he'd only seen proper 'army versus army' combat once.
That's why he was anxious.
Especially that his first real go(?) would be not with Zanstrick's own Stellman, but with a young employer whose build and gear looked impressive but whose experience and skill were unknowns.
And failures in this kind of first experience often meant life or death.
"I think it's fine. Captain Stellman's no ordinary guy. I've never seen him so deferential to an employer."
"Yeah, he might even kiss his toes if it came to that."
"Isn't it because he paid such a massive compensation fee? Hard not to be polite after that."
"Right. If the employer gave me just half that compensation money, I'd suck more than toes."
The mercenaries burst into laughter at Miska's words.
"Even if it's a fortune worth Miska sucking dick over, our captain wouldn't kiss ass for money. And get this—I heard it straight from the young master."
Mentioning the refined noble youth always at the young employer's side, the mercenary continued.
"Our employer's apparently explored the Dragon Wastelands for years. Alone."
"Whoa!?"
"Yeah, no cap."
Miska flat-out refused to believe it, prompting an exasperated response from his fellow mercenary.
"I'm telling you, it's true. The young master said the two horses our employer rides were birthday gifts from him. But turns out..."
The mercenary eagerly spilled the tale of Sion and Piot's history, and Miska's expression gradually filled with shock.
"...So he checked with the intel guild, and yeah, the employer really spent years in the Dragon Wastelands and came back. Our employer's no ordinary fellow, I tell ya."
"Wow..."
"But even if that's true, combat's a whole other thing, right? Even the guys who went with the captain trained like hell, but none have much experience fighting actual armies."
"So you think they'll lose?"
"Never."
Miska's bored eyes sharpened in an instant.
Having spent half his twenty-one years in Zanstrick, his trust in Stellman and the corps was absolute.
"That's why I'm saying—Captain Stellman believes in him? Then we believe too. And when's the most embarrassing time for us?"
"When we don't earn our pay."
The words tumbled out in unison.
"Right? So let's earn it proper."
Recalling the iron rule that had kept the Zanstrick Mercenary Corps among Alfmarin's elite even without joining territory wars, the mercenaries stoked their battle fervor.
Just then, the wagon slowed, and they realized they'd reached their destination.
"We're here."
"All hands, dismount! Form up!"
At the shout from the senior-most mercenary, the men from the three wagons and those trailing behind rushed forward.
Sion nodded in satisfaction at their discipline—better than many regular armies could muster.
"Listen up. Park the wagons here, there, and over there. Tie the horses securely behind so they don't bolt."
Unsure of the reasoning but obedient, the mercenaries set to work.
Minutes later, the three wagons formed an enclosure around a central point, and Sion hopped atop the middle one.
"I know you're all wondering what this is about, split from Captain Stellman and all. Especially why divide our already small force into two."
A few veterans who felt called out averted their eyes guiltily.
"But! Even so, you followed orders without complaint—that's why Zanstrick gathers the finest men from the Northeast. I'm impressed."
Just like the men who'd stood under the same name and banner decades ago, the warriors before Sion now were the pinnacle of Northeast responsibility.
Shoulders squared and chests puffed at the employer's praise, Sion pressed on.
"Time's short, so to the point: you'll be the bait and the anvil here."
"...!?"
What the hell did he just say?
Two hundred coming, and he wants fewer than twenty of us as bait?
"You probably think the employer's lost his mind. But don't worry. The ones you'll lure in as bait are Jetman's cavalry."
'Isn't that the same thing?'
'No, cavalry against us? Some new suicide method?'
"You there."
"Yes? Sir!"
Miska, staring at Sion like he'd gone mad just like the others, flinched when pointed out and responded.
"Go to the front of the wagons. Run."
"Yes, sir."
Cursing inwardly, Miska dashed smartly to the spot enclosed by the three wagons.
"Huh?"
But upon arrival, he scowled and tested his footing, unable to move freely.
"How is it? Easy to maneuver?"
"Uh... not easy, but with some effort, it's manageable."
"Thought so. What if you had to fight there?"
"A bit awkward, but I could make it work. Same conditions for the enemy."
"What if tired horses were in the mix?"
"Horses? They'd be similar too... Huh?"
Sion turned from Miska, who'd caught on, to scan the mercenaries who'd done the same.
"Jetman's cavalry numbers fewer than twenty. Without them, the rest are no match for your captain and comrades. What, two hundred? Does it matter if it's ragtag scavengers and local thugs like Jetman's crew—two hundred or three?"
"No, sir!"
"Not even village strays—they've probably just been sniffing up skirts!"
Laughter rippled through as Sion smirked and continued.
"I bet they couldn't even do that right. Lucky if they didn't get thrashed. Hell, some might've already had their balls busted."
Uahaha! Bursting into guffaws at the royal's crude joke, the mercenaries roared.
As laughter died, Sion leaped down, mounted his beloved steed, and shouted.
"The cavalry? Me and this guy'll lure 'em! The rest is on you. Oh, rig some ropes or obstacles on that entry path. It'll trip the first few."
"Yes, sir!"
"Good. I trust you won't fail even against riders who can't charge or gallop properly."
With that, Sion wheeled back the way he and Piot had come.
"Lances! Everyone, get your lances out!"
"String some rope over there. Cut grass to cover it—no one'll see."
"There might be knights, so maces over swords!"
Shouts of battle prep echoed behind Sion as he galloped off.
* * *
"Sir Ervin, our boys are beat. Can't we rest a bit?"
"Ours too. Let's take a break."
"Three hours straight without rest? This is too much."
Leading a trio of hefty mercenary captains were middling small-group leaders—over ten mercenaries in all—confronting Jetman territory's knight, Sir Ervin.
'Filthy mercenary scum...'
Ervin loathed even speaking to them.
But these were mercs hired for the territory war, now roped into an unplanned chase of Zanstrick, so he had to placate them.
"Just a bit longer. A few more kilos and we'll catch 'em."
"But the boys are exhausted! Even if we catch 'em, we can't fight right now."
"You really think we need all these men to nab them?"
"Pardon?"
"Fewer than fifty, right? And they split to shake us—first batch we catch is maybe thirty tops. You need our full force for that?"
"Well..."
"No..."
As the captains fell silent and glanced around, Sir Ervin drove the wedge home.
"One thousand diens per man. First thirty."
"...?"
"The first thirty to fight Zanstrick alongside me and our cavalry get an extra thousand diens each. Loot split halfsies after, of course."
Zanstrick had plenty of warhorses and Alfmarin's best gear.
Half the spoils alone would match a merc band's yearly take.
"...!"
Eyes bulging briefly, the captains and leaders soon spat and shouted, greed-glazed.
"I'll take it!"
"What? If we're doing it, we all mount up and charge for impact! My boys and I are one with our horses..."
"I'll go!"
Shoving ensued in a frenzy for spots.
'Cheap bastards, money talks.'
Ervin sneered inwardly.
But that's why it worked so smoothly.
'If it was their full contracted force from back then, maybe. But now? A tiger without teeth or claws.'
Why had so many mercs joined the Zanstrick chase?
Zanstrick disbanded half its strength, making them beatable.
Ervin figured the same.
'Thirty cavalry? We win for sure. Stellman Zanstrick? I'll kill that arrogant prick myself.'
The oafish merc captain strutting about contracts irked him—this was perfect.
As he took applications, the scout sent 500-600 meters ahead rounded the hill, galloping back hard.
"Sir Ervin! They're here! Two riders spotted me and bolted—Zanstrick scouts!"
"Good! All mounted men, follow me! Rest of you with stamina and greed, come on!"
Ervin's bold roar rang clear.
Thududududu! Uwaaaah!
Jetman knights, mounted soldiers, and greed-mad mercs surged after him like fiends.
Minutes later, two horses entered Ervin's view.
Pacing like a brisk trot.
'They didn't think we'd chase right away. Idiots!'
Ervin's mouth stretched in a savage grin.
Cowards who'd skipped the territory war.
Thugs and monster-slayers clueless to real war.
Obvious from the scouts' panic.
"Keep chasing! Main body's just ahead! No prep—they're done! Charge straight in!"
Uwah! Yeehaw!
Knights and mounted mercs bellowed in response.
Impatients already drew lance and blade.
Soon, three wagons parked as if for rest came into view, with Zanstrick mercs milling casually between.
Spotting them, the flustered mercs flailed—Ervin laughed triumphantly.
"Uahaha! Just like I said!? Kill 'em all! Charge!"
Speed on horseback narrows vision.
Add pre-battle hype and bloodlust, and the pursued scouts vanished from notice.
Ervin and his forces inevitably fixated solely on the enemies ahead.
So they missed it: thirty meters out, where they charged, awkward grass strewn oddly.
A fatal mistake.
One they wouldn't have made without blind gallop at full tilt, or if they'd glanced around.
And the cost was steep.
(To be continued next time)