Lunch in Passio
Hiwork, chief strategist to Count Crombell, had been nursing a stubborn stomachache for days. Nerves, most likely — he'd been living off thin wheat porridge for several meals running because of it. But he couldn't afford to stop working. The war with Ahental had taken a shape far different from anything he had anticipated.
Clutching his gut, he shut himself inside his tent and refused to come out. He compiled the intelligence reports, turning over a new strategy in his mind.
Five thousand soldiers, five hundred mercenaries, four hundred fifty knights… With Ahental's wealth, they'll outnumber us, no question. But in quality, they don't stand a chance of matching us.
Even Crombell's rank-and-file were proper regulars. Unlike other nobles, the Count's house did not scrape together slaves and commoners only when a fight was already at the door. They kept dedicated camp slaves, and they organized serfs and territory folk into rotating groups so that every man received training in turn. Slaves and hired commoners were conscripted often for small-scale engagements, and the ones who survived accumulated experience with every battle they walked away from.
Veterans were treated well. Slave-soldiers who lasted were made senior instructors over the rest, and among the commoners, those of the right age and aptitude were even offered a path into the knighthood.
The knights aren't even in the same conversation. Three Ablaze on the verge of Sword Master, twenty Brillant, and over a hundred Lavish besides. How are they supposed to stand against that?
It was the proud strength of the Crombell Knights. Just thinking of it eased the ache in his stomach, a little.
But there was one thought that brought the pain roaring back.
Can we actually face a Sword Master?
Ever since word had reached him that Ahental possessed one, every line of reasoning ended in the same place. If that inhuman monster took the field, even the full might of the Crombell Knights pointed toward defeat — or a victory so pyrrhic it would amount to annihilation.
If you have no Sword Master, do not fight a Sword Master.
It was the unwritten law of this world.
There was only one hope left.
We have to bring Sir Alan Aster.
Which meant persuading his lord, Count Crombell. But the Count seemed determined to settle accounts with his younger brother once and for all, and he showed not the slightest inclination to listen.
Speak of the devil — Count Crombell chose that very moment to step into Hiwork's tent.
"Well? Do we have a plan?"
"We must summon Sir Alan Aster."
"That again? You saw him completely lose his mind with your own eyes, and you still come to me with this? He's a has-been. He's finished!"
Was what we saw that day truly madness?
Watching the man hunt for wine and women on the eve of war, Hiwork had believed the poison had finally reached his brain. That had been his first conclusion.
But in that last conversation with the Count, a flicker of vitality had shown through. It was like looking at Sir Alan from thirty years ago — the radiant light of Crombell. He had even begun to wonder, against all reason, whether the poison had been cured.
Impossible, of course. Had they not been feeding him the Adrian family's Pleasure Powder Poison in trace doses for more than thirty years? Even a priest's "miracle" would not touch it. A miracle did not restore a body to some absolute state of health — it returned the body to the healthy condition it remembered. Alan Aster had been a patient for decades. He would not even be able to tell which years had been the healthy ones.
What am I even thinking? If Sir Alan recovered, would I start entertaining other loyalties?
Hiwork was disgusted with himself. The plan that had reduced Alan Aster to that state had been his own design. That he was circling back to it now was proof enough of how desperate their position had become.
"So. You've thought of the next move, I assume? We are Crombell. If we lose a war because of one man, we ought to throw the name away. Don't you agree?"
"…I ask you to reconsider, one last time. You know this as well as I do, my lord. Even if we win, we may be left with nothing but ashes. When Sir Alan was with us, this was a war we could win. As things stand, the victory would be meaningless."
Earnest as the plea was, the Count's eyes remained cold.
"Hiwork. Whether it has meaning or not is not yours to decide. It is mine."
"…Understood."
People around him called Hiwork the Count's head, but he had never thought of himself that way. A head was a vessel for the soul. He was merely a pouch that spat out schemes.
And it was time to spit one out again.
"There is only one next move."
"I knew you'd come up with something. What is it?"
A last resort. A plan that might lose them the battle — and still win them the war.
"While they are locked in combat with the Sword Master, we strike the enemy's head."
The departure ceremony in the City of Ahental was over, and the commanders had finished their council. All forces would split into three columns and set out.
Ayres's First Army would march southeast of the Ahental Territory, toward the lands of Yorente. Ereb's Second Army would take the northeast, toward Engaldar. The Third Army, led by Viscount Roan of Ahental himself, would push due east toward Denver.
The decision to divide the army owed a great deal to the intelligence the Huang Merchant Group had laid on the table at the commanders' council.
"Supplies are gathering in Epila, Melta, and Passio — the territories that border Yorente, Denver, and Engaldar. The number of outsiders has swollen dramatically, and mercenaries are packed into every inn room. On top of that… the three Ablaze of the Crombell Knights have been sighted, one in each of those regions."
Gilbert's meaning was unmistakable. Crombell was feeding troops and materiel across the border in dribs and drabs, deliberately keeping beneath the notice of Ahental's intelligence network. The moment the Crombell envoy arrived in Ahental Territory and declared war, a three-pronged surprise invasion would begin.
Exactly as Alan Aster had said it would.
"We move swiftly to the three territories and prepare our defenses. Do not overreach in an attempt to intercept. Our purpose, first and last, is to buy time."
The strategy Viscount Roan had settled on in council was a defense-heavy delay.
For the first time, Messi pushed back.
"But… we are known to possess a Sword Master. If we take a purely defensive posture, they will surely grow suspicious."
They still had one Red Scroll left, the one obtained from Loud. Messi proposed using it to plant certainty in the enemy instead. This time, however, the Viscount could not take Messi's side. The reasons he had chosen to concentrate on defense were too clear.
First: the quality of Ahental's knights and soldiers did not match Crombell's. In a direct clash, it would be Ahental that paid the heavier price.
Second: time would starve Crombell of supplies. With the Huang Merchant Group turned against them, war materiel across Crombell's sphere of influence had either soared in price or fallen into short supply. It would not be long before their logistics began to buckle.
Third: they were waiting for Messi's scheme to bear fruit.
Alan Aster's rebellion.
If that plan truly came off, the odds of winning this war were high.
"Have you found Alan Aster?"
"My apologies. We have been unable to pinpoint his location. Since the envoy returned to the Krombell Territory, he has not shown himself even at the Count's departure. He hasn't been seen in the pleasure districts he used to frequent, either. It's as if he sank into the earth."
"I wondered if it might be another deception like last time, so we've thrown every man we have into the search. Good news will come soon enough. A pleasure-addict like that will never slip our eyes."
Gilbert's confidence brought the Viscount back to something Messi had said.
If that's true… we can win this.
The commanders' council broke, and at last it was time to march. Feeling the hard certainty of victory in his chest, the Viscount had the banner that stood for him raised unusually high. A raven with jade set in its eyes snapped and rippled in the wind.
"Third Army, advance!"
"The First follows!"
The two columns moved out at speed. They had already held a departure ceremony to reassure allied nobles, vassal houses, and the people of the territory. There was no longer any hope of concealing Ahental's war preparations from Crombell, which meant the only sensible course was to reach the expected points of contact as fast as possible.
Ereb's Second Army, however, remained standing long after the ceremony had ended.
Because of Messi.
"What if we split our forces and moved as quietly as we can?"
Ereb cocked his head at the suggestion. That was the sort of thing you did when you meant to launch a surprise attack — to keep from being spotted by enemy scouts. As commander of the column, he needed to understand the plan in detail. He could not simply wave it through the way he used to.
"Why? I thought our plan was to throw up a defensive line as fast as possible and buy time."
"That's exactly it, Young Lord."
"What is?"
Here he goes again with the riddles, Ereb thought, shooting him a look.
"The enemy is preparing a surprise attack. They'll be thinking of themselves as the ones on the offensive, which means their guard will be down."
"You're not saying—"
"We hit them first."
Ramang and Frox both clicked their tongues.
"Messi, you've got some nerve."
"Heh heh. You've got the makings of a great mage. No fear in you — you'd be a natural at experiments."
That's sarcasm, you idiot.
Ramang was the sort of man who excelled at doing exactly as he was told, and Frox's brain was pristine on every subject that wasn't magic, so their reactions made a certain sense. But Ereb?
He seemed to have caught the shape of it.
"They won't move their troops until the envoy reaches Ahental…"
In an age without developed communications, the mere fact that an envoy had delivered a declaration of war did not mean the Crombell army would know of it at once. The envoy and the forces preparing the surprise attack would have arranged it between them: the envoy would arrive in Ahental "within a set number of days" and declare war, and the army would launch its raid "once that period had elapsed," without delay.
"Just because Crombell declared war doesn't mean there's a law against us striking first."
Ereb's face turned doubtful.
"There's a problem, Messi. How are we supposed to hit them first when we don't even know when the envoy will arrive? If we raid them before the declaration, we lose our justification."
"I have a way. We use beacons."
"Beacons?"
"From the moment we start moving, we station small groups of soldiers at regular intervals, ready to light fires. The instant the envoy declares war, each post lights up, and the smoke carries the signal all the way to us."
"Oh, that's not bad. The envoy's not going to arrive at night, so reading the smoke shouldn't be a problem."
If it worked, the moment the envoy arrived and war was formally declared, the beacons would bloom and the word would travel all the way to Engaldar's lands.
Ereb put both of Messi's proposals into motion at once: a dispersed march, and the beacons.
To keep Crombell's eyes off them, he broke the Second Army into small fragments and placed each under a knight. The mercenaries didn't even need a knight in charge. He simply threatened to withhold the remainder of their pay if they failed to reach the destination within the allotted time, and they moved out on their own as if to say, don't worry about us.
Ereb set off with Messi, Frox, Ramang, and a portion of the troops. And of course, he did not forget to plant a simple beacon at every interval along the way.
Four days later, in the mountains near the Engaldar territory, the Second Army of Ahental assembled in full.
Two thousand soldiers and two hundred fifty knights was a considerable force, and yet the fragmented columns had found their way back together under the guidance of their squad-leading knights. Even the three hundred mercenaries arrived at the designated place without incident, save for twelve who had lost the road along the way.
"Give the horses and the men as much rest as you can, and stay quietly hidden. I don't want us spotted by Crombell's intelligence."
"Yes, Young Lord."
Ereb gave the order and turned his gaze to the western sky. When five columns of smoke rose from that direction, it would be time to move.
No signal appeared through the end of the evening meal. Darkness came on quickly, and Ereb's face tightened with disappointment. Messi came over and worked a Sacred Heal on him.
"You're worrying too much, aren't you? You're secretly high-strung, you know that?"
"Shut up. This is my first command. It has to succeed."
"Don't push yourself."
"It's your damn fault I'm pushing it."
A surprise attack, of all things, for his first outing. Few tactics leaned so heavily on a commander's judgment. Move the army fast, slip in at the perfect moment, land a decisive blow, and then withdraw as if you'd never been there. The thought that he was the one who had to do all of that left Ereb taut with nerves.
But after Messi's Heal, a measure of calm settled over him. And with this guy here… it'll work out somehow.
Ereb glanced at Messi, then decided to turn in early. The envoy might arrive in the morning.
He was right.
The next day, they had barely started on a light breakfast when five columns of smoke began to rise in the far western sky.
"All right, we move! From this moment, the Second Army advances at speed! Our target is the Passio Baron Territory, adjacent to Engaldar!"
Baron Engaldar was drowning in the anxiety of knowing his lands were about to become a battlefield. He had opposed the war with everything he had, but Viscount Roan's decision had left him no choice but to take part.
To keep the damage down, he had scraped together every subject and every scrap of supplies he could and packed them into the castle. A barony's little fortress had its limits, though, so he had already ordered evacuations into neighboring territories as well.
It isn't entirely hopeless. Young Lord Ereb is bringing the Ahental Knights. Holding the walls shouldn't be a problem.
The enemy's excited looting and arson would leave the territory a wasteland, no doubt — but if they won, Ahental would send ample compensation. Holding this castle so the enemy could not simply march through: that, he believed, was the task that he and Ereb shared.
Then a shout came from the walls.
"My lord! Young Lord Ereb's force is approaching!"
"Is it? Excellent. Let's go out and meet them!"
Baron Engaldar threw the gates wide with a glad heart and waited for Ereb to arrive. In the distance, an army was coming on, kicking up a haze of dust.
"They look rather like men being chased."
As his adjutant said, the infantry were pressing after the cavalry at an unusually hard clip. The Baron thought nothing of it. With the Young Lord's temperament, he probably just drove them to get inside the walls and rest…
Ereb came into clear view. The Baron spread his arms in welcome.
"You are most welcome, Young Lord!"
But the column Ereb led did not slow. It was as if they meant to go straight past the castle.
The adjutant made a strangled sound.
"Eh? Ehh?"
They're actually going past?
He tried to go after Ereb, but the Young Lord ignored him completely and was already well beyond the gates. From far ahead, Ereb's shout carried back on the wind.
"Wh-what?"