Thirteen Phantoms of Winterband
There were thirteen men standing squarely in the middle of the road to Binvelt. If they'd met at night, one might have mistaken them for ghosts—or at least jumped out of one's skin. Scars from slashes marred their cheeks, the backs of their hands, and the corners of their eyes as if they were commonplace. One man's face was half-melted from burns, his scalp bald and barren. Others lacked eye sockets, or had only gleaming whites where pupils should be; some were missing noses, others ears. Their armor varied wildly—from chainmail pieced together from rusted scrap, to gambesons padded with layer upon layer of cotton, to plate breastplates—but they shared one trait: utter neglect. Dented, charred black from fire, riddled with holes, or half-destroyed and lashed to their bodies with cloth strips. Their weapons were just as motley: snapped longswords, notched war axes, spears and maces, iron shields with crumpled corners.
In truth, their eerie aura stemmed from more than just their appearance. They stood without exchanging a single word, eyes fixed solely on the carriage like statues. They looked like the dead upright. The faint morning mist only amplified the effect.
"M-M-Move aside!" the coachman mustered his courage and shouted.
But they remained still as stone.
"M-M-Move! Th-This carriage carries the B-B-Baron of Binvelt!"
Somehow, the coachman held his ground and bellowed louder. At that, the man in the center stirred and took a step forward. He wore a deeply dented plate breastplate, his head shaved close.
Thud. Thud.
He approached the carriage with slow, deliberate strides. The others didn't twitch.
"S-S-Sorry!"
The coachman, having scraped together every ounce of bravery, finally bolted.
The plate-armored man stopped before the carriage door. Terrified, Enet pressed herself to the far side, while Hans gripped the hilt of the sword he'd brought along.
"Baron of Binvelt?"
His voice rasped like sandpaper on vocal cords.
"You walked all the way here?"
"Supplies were short," the man replied, nodding slowly.
"Do you know them?" Enet whispered, watching Isaac's calm demeanor.
"No. But I know they came from Winterband."
"Pardon?"
"Name's Sigbrand. An honor to serve you."
Sigbrand placed a fist over his heart and bowed. The word "honor" rang hollow in his ice-cold tone.
"The coachman fled because of me. I'll drive."
"Sorry for the hassle."
"Just following the commander's orders."
Sigbrand climbed into the driver's seat, and the carriage lurched forward. The men lining the road fell in around it, one by one, pacing alongside.
"So these are soldiers from Winterband?"
"Probably?"
"'Probably'?"
Hans glanced sidelong at the men surrounding the carriage. The only soldiers he knew were Bernsi's guards, the manor watch, and Binvelt's own troops. Compared to them, these looked like routed remnants—or bandits who'd ambushed such a force for spoils. A few scratched their foreheads or chins; some fingers were missing, others replaced by iron rods. Unwashed, their stench wafted through the windows.
"Excuse me, are you from Winterband?" Hans asked a man walking close to the carriage.
The man didn't even glance over, staring blankly ahead with empty eyes.
"Direct your questions to me," Sigbrand said, lightly flicking the whip across the horse's flank.
"Are you from Winterband?" Hans hesitated, then stuck his head out the window. His hand stayed on his sword hilt. Just being near them made his neck prickle.
"Yes."
"That's not all of you, right? More are coming?"
"We're it."
"What? Even with Binvelt's forces, we barely hit seventy."
"We won't fight. Our orders from the commander were only to protect the baron's life."
Sigbrand, from the driver's seat, spoke leisurely. Hans didn't grasp it right away.
"What does that mean? If you don't fight, why...?"
"Exactly what he said. Goethe's soldiers can't join my war."
Isaac answered for him. If Goethe intervened, all his careful groundwork would crumble. His goal was to seize Boatmer's entire casus belli and fight in Goethe's stead.
"But then... what about us?"
"What about us? I picked a fight with Boatmer. War's coming."
"Don't talk like it's someone else's problem!"
Hans's face darkened sharply. Enet, beside him, said nothing but looked on the verge of tears.
"Eh, don't worry too much. We're not marching to die."
"You have a plan, right? You wouldn't start something like this without one."
"......"
"Young master?"
"......"
Isaac flipped open the bookshelf he'd brought, silent.
"Young master!"
"Damn, you're gonna deafen me. My ears work fine."
Isaac scowled at Hans's desperate shout.
"Then answer me!"
"Wars come in all shapes. This one won't be grand. Hans, this war's on you."
Isaac clapped Hans on the shoulder.
"Huh?"
"Fight well, and it'll be yours."
Isaac grinned at Hans's baffled look.
"......"
Sigbrand drove on, his parched gaze fixed ahead. Each gust clawed at his face, carrying the gasps and groans of the dead. Hallucinations. No, just the wind. Only the wind.
I wonder what face that greenhorn young master will make next.
He knew only the bare facts: preserve the Baron of Binvelt's life. But he had ears, and he grasped the situation. Boatmer had never intended a real war with Binvelt. Whether the brat meant to or not, his antics had put Boatmer in a bind. Ignore him, and their honor stained; fight seriously, and it wasn't worth it. Sweeping Binvelt's meager forces and forcing Isaac to kneel barely broke even—nay, a loss. The cost of troops outweighed any gains.
So for Viscount Boatmer, defeat wasn't even on the table. Ignore or win, it was child's play with losses either way. If they marched on Binvelt anyway, it was to use it as a forward base against Goethe. Minimal forces, but victory assured.
The headstrong baron would taste an indelible defeat in his short life. No pity for that. Just a matter of time. Goethe was fading. Company commanders Pfeil and Randolf had vanished mysteriously without returning to the fortress. They'd been the ones who especially looked after the troops at Winterband. No one spoke of their deaths, no one knew. The supplies they'd smuggled in against orders were gone. The higher-ups droned on about normalization. Goethe had no hope. Those who would die, flee, or leave had all gone. Winterband held only cripples, fools, and ghosts like him. New blood was clueless foreign criminals and exiles. They wouldn't survive the winter.
The wind blew. Cold and dry. Sigbrand inhaled the biting air that cracked his skin. His breath scattered.
"Not grand, my ass..."
Hans muttered despairingly, peering at the scenery outside. As they neared Binvelt's camp, dozens of tents dotted the barren hills. Flags bearing swan crests fluttered high; massive bonfires blazed. Sentries stood watch, some polished armor or weapons for the coming fight. Grooms tended at least thirty warhorses.
Boatmer's encampment.
"Sigbrand, sir... h-how many is that?" Hans leaned out, face anxious.
"Around four hundred."
Sigbrand glanced over the camp casually, unmoved.
"F-Four hundred!?"
A number Hans had never seen.
"We face that many? I'd be up against ten each?"
His face paled at the odds.
"Quit panicking. You're scaring Enet."
Isaac smacked Hans's shoulder. Enet was frozen stiff, eyes darting cluelessly like Hans, too scared to show it.
"How can I not? You said we weren't dying."
"Look closely. Their state."
Isaac sighed, closing his book.
"Expressions? Morale? Singing or sparring? Lots moving? Medical tents?"
"......?"
Hans blinked, confused.
By then, the carriage had passed the camp.
"Too quiet for the numbers. No songs, no spars. Sluggish movement, crowds at medical tents. Bonfires burning herbs and bloody bandages. Corpses farther out."
"When did you see all that?"
"While you fixated on 'four hundred.'"
"I wasn't scared."
"They fought recently. Casualties, intentional or not. Outcome wasn't pretty. Good for us."
"Sigbrand, sir, is that right?"
"Can't trust your master?"
"Sigbrand, sir!"
Ignoring Isaac's jab, Hans poked his head out again.
"Couldn't hear over the wind. What'd you say?"
Sigbrand had heard Isaac, but pretended not. Annoyed by the greenhorns yapping about war. But Isaac wasn't wrong. That surprised him. Still, it changed nothing.
As the sun dipped low, the carriage neared Binvelt's camp. They'd have arrived sooner without matching the Winterband soldiers' walking pace.
"Huh? Was Binvelt always like this...?"
Hans murmured unconsciously at the distant view. Wooden palisades once built against hellhounds now surrounded tribal huts. Blue flowers bloomed, feeding on mana; smiths bustled erecting a forge. They raised wooden pillar frames, laid stone-and-mortar floors. One side piled rock and mud for walls; the other installed a massive furnace. Fine snow fell softly over the clamor.
Too peaceful for war's eve.