Chapter 194
Chapter 194
The Iron Emperor — Chapter 194
When the fighting ended, the disarmed soldiers were rounded up and bound to one side, while the corpses of the dead were tossed into the forest. There was no time to bury them, and burning the bodies might reveal their position. Even with the Gauri army handling them this way, the Roselin soldiers simply felt relief at having survived.
The single greatest factor in this battle—where five hundred troops had captured over two thousand prisoners and more than a thousand slaves—was the Whistling Arrow.
Also called a whistling arrow and known as a Signal Arrow, this weapon proved especially devastating in ambushes. The eerie piercing sounds ringing out from every direction excelled at disorienting the human mind, and the noise also caused the enemy to wildly overestimate the attacking force's numbers.
The wail of a Whistling Arrow had the same effect as shoving a blade in someone's face and shouting, 'I'm about to stab you!'—then killing them.
The perception took hold that whenever a Whistling Arrow sounded, men died. The cries echoing from all sides became nothing less than the voice of death itself. Unlike Gauri, where archery had long been highly developed, the Roselin soldiers found such weapons utterly alien, and even after the battle ended they remained in the grip of terror.
Those who sporadically resisted or tried to flee collapsed and met their end to the drawn-out shriek of a Whistling Arrow. The effect was beyond description.
"Master, how's it coming along?"
Eulji Buru approached Risel, who was off to one side drawing a teleportation circle, and asked with curious eyes. For now, the enemy soldiers were too paralyzed by fear to properly assess the situation, but if time passed and they realized the Gauri force was actually smaller than their own, the resulting trouble would be immense. That was precisely why they had instilled fear beyond what was necessary.
"Nearly done."
Risel answered with a gentle smile, and Buru's face brightened. Soon after, they urged the soldiers on and, as had become routine (?), moved the supplies first. The provisions were meant to feed and sustain a force exceeding fifty thousand, and the sheer volume was so staggering that even Risel, an Archmage, had to pour in magic power until he was dead on his feet. Even that was not enough—with over two thousand people including prisoners and Gauri wounded, the wizards who had accompanied Risel had to keep channeling magic until they collapsed from mana exhaustion before everything could be finished.
"Huff, huff... Well then, be careful."
Risel gasped for breath and left them with a final word of caution before teleporting himself and the collapsed wizards away in a single spell. Likely, Risel and the wizards would need a long period of recuperation before they could move again. But Go Jin-cheon, who had reaped considerable gains this day, would certainly be pleased.
"Are the preparations complete?"
"All finished."
Ung-sam answered with a military salute, and Buru nodded as he surveyed the surroundings. The soldiers, now stripped of every camouflaging branch and blade of grass, stood watching him with shining eyes. After a brief rest, Buru took command of the remaining four hundred or so troops and began racing not through the forest but straight across the main road.
* * *
"Do not fall back!"
"Aagh!"
Hoarse, tearing commands blended with soldiers' screams. The once-clean walls of Gaemun Mountain Fortress were now stained crimson with the blood of the dead, and before that blood could even dry, fresh red liquid was splashed over it.
"We're out of sand!"
As ash and sand rained down, Roselin soldiers below the walls stumbled about, unable to open their eyes and reeling in confusion. But far greater was the number of soldiers still swarming the walls in full vigor.
Unlike the first day's battle, from the second engagement onward the Roselin camp advanced in meticulously maintained formation, creeping steadily forward. And whereas the Roselin troops attacked in shifts, day and night without pause, the soldiers of Gaemun Mountain Fortress ate and slept atop the walls, holding out by sheer endurance.
The men who could have relieved them had already become wounded or had perished and vanished as wandering spirits. Yet the mountain fortress's position possessed heaven-sent advantages for defense, and the Gauri commanders' skill in siege defense existed on an entirely different dimension from that of the continentals.
"Hold, and victory is ours. Hold for as long as you possibly can!"
From Hailon's throat poured an unceasing stream of shouts. His lips were cracked, his voice so hoarse that it grated unpleasantly on the ears, but Hailon did not stop. This was the encouragement he could give his soldiers.
Could they feel it?
Something desperate infused every movement of the soldiers as they hurled stones, loosed arrows, and thrust out spears. Most of them no longer noticed the stench of blood that had assaulted them at first, nor the reek of rotting corpses.
Even the nausea that had accompanied their first kills seemed gone: their spears plunged into the chests of Roselin soldiers cresting the wall without the slightest hesitation. Through several days of continuous battle, they were being reborn, before anyone realized it, into elite soldiers.
The same was true, of course, for the Roselin soldiers.
No one flinched at the bodies of dying comrades anymore. They merely used those corpses as stepping stones, struggling forward to advance even a single pace further.
Perhaps this was why war was called a living hell upon the earth.
"The... the enemy is pulling back!"
"We held them off!"
"Whoaaa!"
Watching the Roselin soldiers withdraw slowly, maintaining their guard, the Gauri troops erupted in cheers.
Once the fighting ended, the commanders gathered to plan their next moves, and Hailon posed a question.
"Hoo... What are the casualties?"
At Hailon's question, Geom Mudal spoke in a calm voice.
"Three hundred sixty dead and five hundred seventy-two wounded."
"So our remaining effectives now stand at just over three thousand."
"If we include the lightly wounded, we can exceed three thousand."
Five battles had already been fought. Excluding the first day's engagement, the three battles that followed had been closer to probing attacks meant to drain the Gauri army's strength. But today's battle had suddenly turned ferocious, crashing upon them with unrelenting intensity.
"Judging by how much fiercer the enemy's attacks have become, it seems..."
Hailon let his words trail off, and weary but subtle smiles spread across the commanders' faces.
"It appears the enemy camp's supplies have finally run low."
The news that the supply line had been severed—news that had arrived several days earlier—had become hope itself for the soldiers defending Gaemun Mountain Fortress.
* * *
Marquis Mandonel's rigid expression weighed down the command tent, already heavy with tension. In the oppressive silence, a staff officer from the nobility cautiously began reporting the day's results.
"Today's battle resulted in approximately two thousand three hundred dead and roughly four thousand two hundred wounded. Of the wounded, around two thousand can be returned to combat within a day or two, so the actual loss of manpower is similar to the first day's outcome."
"How many effectives remain?"
At Marquis Mandonel's low, resonant question, the staff officer hesitated briefly before slowly opening his mouth.
"Out of fifty thousand combat troops, the dead as of today total eight thousand six hundred, with seven thousand wounded unfit for battle. Our actual fighting strength is slightly under thirty-five thousand, but we are formulating a plan to draw replacements from the supply units in preparation."
"The supply situation?"
The short, clipped questions that kept coming gradually forced the heads of the staff officers lower. An emergency magic communication had briefly connected several days earlier and then cut off. Since then, two days had passed beyond the date when supplies were supposed to arrive.
"Weapons aside, food is the problem. We still have five days' worth of provisions prepared, but if our supply unit fails to arrive..."
No further words followed. The main army had taken over thirty days just to reach this location. The staff officer's unspoken conclusion was plain enough without hearing it.
In the worst case—if the supply unit was not merely delayed but never arrived at all—the time required for the next supply unit to come would be twenty-some days. And there was no guarantee whatsoever that a supply unit that had already been hit once would be safe the next time. Just then, the area outside the command tent began bustling with activity.
"What is all that racket outside!"
A roar erupted from Marquis Mandonel's mouth, fury surging to its peak. But soon after, the news from outside turned out to concern the long-awaited supply unit.
"The supply unit has just arrived, however..."
Embarrassment clouded the reporting messenger's face. Upon hearing the report that followed, Marquis Mandonel's expression twisted. The thing he had feared might happen had come to pass. When the messenger finished, Marquis Mandonel, his face flushed red, slowly began to speak.
"So... they came under enemy attack, every last supply was plundered, and all the commanders were killed in action. Is that what you are telling me?"
"Th-that is correct."
"And the number who survived is a mere two hundred or so?"
"That is... correct."
At Marquis Mandonel's questions, the messenger answered in a trembling voice, head bowed as though he himself had become a criminal.
"I shall go out and see for myself."
Marquis Mandonel strode out of the tent with a furious expression, his staff officers scrambling after him.
The soldiers watching the group who were absorbed in eating had pity and worry written in their eyes. No matter how ignorant a common soldier might be, everyone understood perfectly well that war was impossible without food. Perhaps from their long, hard ride, every suit of armor was caked in dirt and dust.
"Burp! I'm stuffed!"
"Hoo!"
Voices full of satisfaction rang out from all around. Over two hundred soldiers set down their mess kits one by one, wearing pleased smiles. Then a commotion arose from one side.
"His Excellency Marquis Mandonel is coming!"
Though it was late at night, the soldiers moving about hastily bowed their heads and saluted Marquis Mandonel.
"Looks like the supply situation really is urgent."
"Well, it worked out, didn't it?"
But two of the soldiers who had just eaten were glancing at each other and conversing in low voices. Another soldier who saw this approached and quietly scolded them.
"What are you doing? Hurry and bow! Huh?"
The scolding Roselin soldier stopped mid-sentence, his eyes flying wide. Then, in a voice full of incomprehension, he asked a question.
"Are you from the Northern Mercenaries?"
The night was dark, but under the torchlight he caught a glimpse of black eyes, and between the gaps of their helmets, wisps of hair were visible—caked with dirt, but unmistakably black.
"Heh."
Instead of an answer, they gave him an odd smile, and the Roselin soldier who had asked the question was seized by unease.
"Could it be..."
Thud!
"Hurk."
A short blade buried itself in the abdomen of the Roselin soldier as he recoiled in alarm. The instant the blade entered his body, the soldier felt as though he had been seared by hot fire; a brutish hand clamped over his mouth, and unable to scream properly, his body folded up like a shrimp.
It had happened so instantaneously that it looked exactly as if he had simply bent low in a hurry to pay respects to the Marquis.
"My friend. Knowing too much is poison."
The man holding his body as if supporting him shook his head and murmured in a pitying voice. The Roselin soldier let the fraying thread of his consciousness snap, and slowly closed his eyes.
When Marquis Mandonel personally met the soldiers and questioned them, their answers differed little from what the messenger had said. No—the soldiers rambled and dithered so badly that Marquis Mandonel reached the point of giving up on questioning them altogether.
What was certain was that all of this was true, and that before the remaining supplies ran out, they must either capture the fortress and plunder its stores to stretch things until the next supplies arrived, or withdraw as they were.
But if they withdrew from here, it was obvious that not only would it be a national disgrace, but the status and reputation Marquis Mandonel had built within the Kingdom of Roselin would crumble in an instant. In the end, unable to reach any decisive conclusion, he issued orders to integrate the defeated stragglers into their respective units and retired to his tent to sleep.
FWEEEE!
"Mm."
A sound that disturbed the ears of the sleeping Marquis Mandonel came from outside. A noise much like a pipe or whistle rang out, and at the same moment he sensed the uproar outside growing. The unease he felt made Marquis Mandonel bolt upright from his bed, and a knight bursting into his tent occurred almost simultaneously.
"What!"
"Your Excellency!"
"What is this commotion!"
When the Marquis hurled another question at the knight who had rushed in, the man opened his mouth with an expression of calamity.
"It is a night raid!"
"What!"
Screams began mingling with the whistling sound reaching their ears. Marquis Mandonel swiftly rose, began donning his gear, and pressed the knight.
"Report the precise situation!"
"We cannot ascertain their numbers, but I estimate a force of less than a thousand has launched a surprise attack. The enemy is firing arrows that produce whistling sounds as they assault us."
"Arrows that whistle?"
At the knight's answer, Marquis Mandonel emerged from the tent wearing an expression of disbelief—and flames surging upward filled his eyes.
"Th-that place is—!"
From Marquis Mandonel's wide-open mouth burst a voice insisting this must not be. Following the lead of those flames, fires erupted one after another across the main camp. Every single direction pointed toward where the supply stores were kept.
"Protect the supplies!"
The Marquis's desperate cry rang out across the dark night sky.