Chapter 358
Chapter 358
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 358
Chapter Title: Scouts and Plunderers (4)
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Vayemier slowly reread the name of the village marked on the map for a long time, as if savoring each letter before swallowing it. With trembling hands, he lifted his canteen and took a sip, then stared straight ahead.
Black smoke was rising from the foothills below. It trailed down the mountainside, further and further, until it reached the plains.
Smoke rose from spots all along the horizon. He tried to count each black line ascending toward the sky but soon let his hand drop limply. It was a meaningless endeavor.
The map would be accurate.
"Mad bastards..."
The words were too crude for a Round Table Knight, but Vayemier growled through his quivering beard. A mounted knight galloped up beside him.
"My lord, reconnaissance complete and returning."
"Were there any survivors?"
"...None, my lord. At least within ten leagues of this area, every village has been burned."
"Ha, 'burned.' Did they burn those settlements, or did they incinerate them?"
"..."
The returning knight bowed his head silently, agreeing with Vayemier's rage. "Burned" was far too mild a term. There were no traces of survivors being gathered for evacuation.
In this region, every settlement large enough to be marked on the map was ablaze. In wartime, one might suspect a scorched earth tactic, but this was peacetime. And in early autumn, just before harvest season. This was no tactical maneuver.
It was the work of heretics. Nothing else could explain this atrocity. No lord would burn farmsteads during harvest time.
"How many residents do you think lived in this area?"
"..."
"There was one town and five villages. Not prosperous places, being near the border and far from major trade routes... but still that many. And probably a dozen or so smaller unnamed settlements."
No farmland exists without people. Well-maintained fields always have residents nearby. By simple arithmetic, there must have been at least ten small settlements within observable distance in this vicinity.
Nameless villages. Villages that would never bear names. How many common folk had died within them?
"There's no guarantee they all died, my lord. Even if the Fairn royals are mad, they wouldn't slaughter everyone."
"And if they survived? Farmers who've tilled the same land their whole lives abandoning their fields in harvest season? Do you think those bastards would let them live and start new settlements?"
Winter is crueler to penniless wandering farmers than war. Even hunkered down at home with ample stores, deaths during winter were common. Madmen who burned entire villages wouldn't guarantee survival even if they spared the farmers.
Thus, all the farmers in this area were either dead or doomed to die. Regardless of war, famine, disaster, or plague. Simply for the amusement of their rulers.
-Creak!
His gauntlet crumpled from gripping his fist too hard. Glancing at his aching right hand, Vayemier clicked his tongue briefly. He glared sharply at the horizon beyond, then turned away.
"Withdraw. Call the knights."
"Yes, my lord!"
-Bwoooo!
Hearing the knight blow the horn, Vayemier mounted his saddle.
* * *
"Have they left?"
"Yes, Your Highness. They crossed the border two days ago."
"Haha! Good, we're almost there!"
Sigismund slapped his knee and bellowed with laughter. His ministers forced awkward smiles, trying to match their lord's mirth.
Just minutes ago, this council chamber had been littered with corpses. The ministers had cowered in terror, heads bowed.
Sigismund grinned at the still uncleared bloodstains on the floor. The one who'd called himself a loyalist to the late king had paid with his life for daring to protest the civilian massacres.
"Excluding the Danes, there are no bold souls in the east with the guts to stand against us."
"Your Highness, however, there are no few small kingdoms dissatisfied with the east. Waging a multi-front war in winter seems unwise..."
"Does winter come only to us?"
The minister who'd mustered the opinion bowed limply with a feeble "Yes."
'We're the only nation that failed to secure harvest rations!'
No one dared voice such a thought. The nonstop civilian massacres, extravagance, civil war damage, and hell-magic contamination had inflicted fatal wounds on Fairn's economy.
Most here expected the treasury to run dry before winter's end, supply shortages even in war, and half the population starving before spring's harvest.
The timing and situation were poor for war. They'd all die like dogs. But defying Sigismund meant death today rather than someday.
Ludwig stepped forward amid the bowed ministers.
"Your Highness. No small kingdom would dare challenge your reign, but if multi-front lines form, even a few border provocations would leave us without means to respond."
"Oh, Lord Wolfs thal. What then should we do?"
"We must move first before Dane forms alliances. We cannot afford to be isolated."
"Finally, a brain at court! Excellent, Lord Wolfs thal!"
Sigismund laughed heartily and stood, tossing a scroll from his bosom. It rolled spinning to a minister's feet.
"My father was assassinated by my brother at the Beitasser Church's behest, to extend secular influence over the royal house. They schemed to puppet the Fairn bloodline and meddle in governance. We attacked their stronghold for justice, but they detonated filthy hell relics, contaminating our lands."
All lies. No one in the room believed Sigismund—not even himself. But as an official document, it changed everything. Facts would then be settled by the sword.
Fairn's northeast was indeed contaminated. And Fairn remained the east's paramount power. Small kingdoms had only extremes left.
Fight a venomous Fairn army, backed by the Pantheon Church, right on their doorstep.
Or stay silent to avoid battle.
"The Pantheon hypocrites use Dane's dogkeepers to oppress us. How outrageous. I, Sigismund Royce von Blamburg, last blood of Fairn's royals, proclaim vengeance and freedom. No one's rights shall be trampled by religion—not my personal grudge, but for all our liberty. No one has the right to mock another's life as a plaything."
Dane would mobilize. Having burned border fiefs and fields to provoke them, they couldn't ignore it.
And knowing it, Dane's knights would march. Honor mattered more than justification or gain.
None are easier to read than those who believe they fight for justice. Sigismund smirked.
"Now answer, Lord Wolfs thal. If this missive reaches all neighboring petty kingdoms, what will they do?"
"Probably stay silent, Your Highness."
They wouldn't actively aid Fairn. None would join attacking the Church lightly. Between Dane and Fairn, small kingdoms would observe before picking sides.
Dane dominates, Fairn isolates. Fairn prevails, Dane isolates. The first clash ends it. Momentum snowballs from there.
"Yes, silence. Not endorsement, but vultures awaiting weakness. With two powers clashing, small kingdoms just wait for scraps."
"But Your Highness, Dane has never lost a pitched battle. Under King Vicente, they even triumphed over the Empire."
Before La Mertion, no easterner dreamed of imperial war. Yet Vicente led only his personal knights, advanced, and seized a margraviate.
Merely because 'vampires exploit the people'! Even now, with Dane's prestige tarnished, small kingdoms dared not covet their lands.
Mad dogs—fiercely strong, united mad dogs. That was the outer view of Dane.
"Lord Wolfs thal. Think the Griffin Knights will lose in pitched battle?"
"...It will be a prolonged war. And that..."
"Yes, a stalemate brings Dane allies. Bad for us."
No quick rout, but no assured victory. Vicente's Round Table Knights rivaled Dane's king reborn in prestige.
But prolonged war bankrupts Fairn. Current stores won't last winter campaigns. As Fairn crumbles slowly, wolfish small kingdoms offer hands to Dane for scraps.
Multi-front war inevitable. Ludwig's eyes said as much. Sigismund licked his lips and grinned.
"We'll abandon the capital."
"...Pardon?"
Even the composed ministers reeled. Sigismund nodded.
"Leave minimal garrison, yield the capital. Fiefs seal gates, fortify as bastions, burn all farmlands."
"Scorched earth? But Your Highness, that's for endurance in worst cases. It's no different from opening borders to their assault!"
"Exactly. Wait for kingdom-wide famine. Never lost a battle? Fine. Avoid battles altogether."
"...Your Highness, reconsider. Fairn's Griffin Knights won't yield to them. We can't concede before fighting!"
"Who's conceding? I said avoid pitched battles. Lure their army to our capital, strike theirs directly."
Ludwig's face twisted. Counterattack? Failure means siege in enemy heart, abandoning all bases. No chance.
"Flanking their advance route might work, but not in time. By the time we hit Altvert, they've razed Fairn and wheeled back!"
"Not overland."
Sigismund tilted his wine goblet.
"Fairn's a maritime power, no?"
Dane's recent sea trade notwithstanding, they're landlocked. No navy, no proper naval bases. Infermer's their largest port, but elven times aside, Dane struggles to maintain it.
Their cavalry razes Fairn? Let them. Nothing left to burn. Meanwhile, Fairn troops seize unguarded Dane, plunder away.
"Severe famine this winter? Precisely! Dane's dogkeepers march eagerly into empty lands, gaining naught but ruins and refugees. Meanwhile, we hit their rear—"
"Cut supplies, Your Highness."
"Yes. Cut supplies—what then?"
"Withdraw, no?"
"Normal legions, yes. But their cause is 'justice.' Saving this land's tragedy, rescuing folk. Starving masses will swarm them begging food, praising as liberators, cursing our royal depravity."
Could Round Table fools reject that and turn? No minister answered Sigismund's mad eyes.
Vicente would know it's a trap but couldn't evade. His war justification was 'restoring justice'; abandoning starving folk lets Fairn spin diplomatic villainy.
"Dane falls, small kingdoms can't resist. Devour them one by one. Yes. The Eastern League becomes Fairn Empire. Levineir's proud phantoms still lick wounds from last war."
Before winter ends, the east unites truly.
"By the time Pantheon and imperial emperor notice, too late. Only heavenly vicars can stop us."
And gods never answer. The continent falls to him; hell lords promise the highest seat. The world is his.
Sigismund bared white teeth in great laughter.
* * *
[...he says. My lord.]
"Tell Piel hardships always find her, but she's been a great help."
Fernandez spoke gazing at the murky green fire in the cabin corner. Partak grinned eerily within the flames.
[That wench won't last long. Powers beyond her body's limits.]
"...Yes. So it seems."
Fernandez tilted his teacup bitterly, quietly. Prophecy devours lifespan—spirit, precisely. Piel's mind held firm only by Robert's care.
Fortunate. She must live until all ends.
"By the way, how's Ana? Show me. I want to see her face."
[Yes, my lord. One moment. Miss, greet the lord.]
[Bba!!]
An irrepressible smile lit Fernandez's lips. He beamed, nodding vigorously.
"Yes! Daddy's here! Haha, this one. Growing cleverer by the day... What think you, Partak? In your eyes."
[...Resembles you, my lord—sharp as can be.]
"Yes, born mere months ago, yet remembers her father. Commendable, isn't it?"
[Indeed, my lord.]
Partak averted his gaze, replying curtly. Fernandez, eyes fixed on babbling Ana, missed it.
Partak cleared his throat a few times.
"Then, my lord, your plans? Reclaim Infermer, strike their rear?"
"No. Need we bother?"
[...Pardon?]
"No need for us in Dane-Fairn war. Chasing fleeing Fairn legions wastes time; Dane won't lose pitched battles without us."
[But my lord, weren't we marching to aid Dane's young knight-king?]
"Must aid mean troops?"
Fernandez smiled at flustered Partak.
"Fairn and Dane preempted small kingdoms' intervention. Thus, war's fate hinges not on their clash."
Be it Fairn or Dane, worst is small kingdoms swayed to one side. So both kingdoms stake all on high-risk gambit for grueling war.
Thus, outcome rests on small kingdoms' participation.
[Gather the small kingdoms? But that's...]
"Time-consuming, low odds. Negotiating one by one, we'd miss the moment."
[I don't follow, my lord.]
"Rulers are oblivious and indecisive in opportunity, keenest in crisis. War-profiteers lurk, but sudden peril differs."
Meet each petty king and great lord for Dane alliance? Impossible in time. Joining war already late.
Before Fernandez's resurrection, Fairn made countless moves. Like chess yielding first ten turns. Normal paths lose time race.
Thus, unorthodox stratagem again. Swifter, surer, fiercer than alliances.
"Raid every small kingdom's fiefs simultaneously."
Harvest autumn. No kingdom ignores such horror. Eyes snap inward from abroad; foreign war unthinkable.
Northern warriors deliver vast spoils home. Starving north gains winter rations, sends more troops in return.
Fairn and Dane wage prolonged war sans outside aid. Starving winter descends amid confusion where friend and foe blur.
Chaos is black mage's domain. Fernandez sipped tea, smiling. Finally, home.