Spoils of War
Gunther went through the gravely wounded enemy soldiers one by one, ending their misery. There were no medical facilities closer than Bernsi, and they'd die on the way regardless. No one would bother with that much effort for them. All he could do was spare them further suffering.
"Where the hell did all these crows come from...?"
Hans stared up at the sky with a queasy look. A massive black flock swirled overhead. Already, hundreds of crows were feasting on the scattered corpses.
Caw! Cawww!
Every time Binvelt soldiers approached to claim spoils, the crows screeched sharply and took flight. Once the soldiers passed, they returned to the stripped bodies and resumed their meal. Crows weren't the only ones eyeing human flesh—eagles and hawks circled, waiting for their chance.
"A full-grown man yields about fifty to seventy pounds of meat," Gunther said, wiping blood from his dagger's hilt with a rag. "It's a feast for the beasts. Come nightfall, wild dogs and wolf packs will show up too. Better burn 'em quick."
"...Urp."
Hans finally retched up his guts. He didn't want to know how Gunther knew such a fact. If he'd lost the duel, Hans would've ended up the same way.
"Don't worry. If you'd died, the lord would've buried you first."
Gunther said it like he'd read Hans's mind. It was no comfort at all. Holding his breath, Hans stripped the armor from a corpse.
Casualties weren't light, but not heavy either. Binvelt had lost eight dead, seven severely wounded, five lightly. Two hell wolves had died too. Boatmer's side: thirty-seven dead, twenty-three lightly wounded. No severe cases—they'd all been put down. That brought Boatmer's total dead to fifty-three.
War was a hassle. Scour for spoils, handle the wounded, bury Binvelt's fallen and the hell wolves, butcher the dead horses. Boatmer's dead got piled in one spot and burned—no burial rites. Left alone, they'd rot, draw beasts and mana creatures, maybe spread disease.
Bishop Alquin crossed himself before the roaring pyre, reciting prayers. He was the only one granted the freedom to mourn them.
"Next."
The remaining Boatmer forces—minus the routed ones—underwent screening. Weapons confiscated, backgrounds checked.
"Eckhardt von Kaltendorf. In service to Viscount Boatmer."
"Inside."
Boatmer soldiers lined up, stepping forward one by one to the table at the camp entrance. Isaac, seated there, asked their names. Nobles went inside the camp; commoners waited outside.
About a hundred fifty Boatmer prisoners. Binvelt's remaining forces numbered barely thirty. Still, the Boatmer men had no choice but to comply.
Grrr...
Hell wolves stationed everywhere saw to that. Dozens of brave elites had charged and barely killed two. Even that hadn't been easy. The massive wolves thrashed like demons from hell itself. Plate armor and helms crumpled like paper. Those two wolves had inflicted over twenty casualties even in retreat—mostly elites.
And now over a dozen such monsters lurked about. More shocking was the tribesfolk's attitude, especially the kids. They treated the hell wolves casually—climbing on backs, giggling as they grabbed tails. Some even petted muzzles or noses, or napped against a prone wolf. The beasts did nothing but snort or grumble.
That didn't change what they were. One prisoner tried to flee. He didn't get far before a hell wolf seized him. It didn't kill him on the spot. Instead, it dragged him to a spot out of sight of the kids, then returned alone—muzzle dripping blood and flesh. Then it flopped down in a corner and dozed off like nothing happened.
To the Boatmer soldiers, it was purgatory or hell—they couldn't tell.
"Finally done."
Isaac stretched. Dusk had fallen. The morning duel and battle felt like ancient history.
Of the surviving Boatmer men, fourteen were nobles including the sub-baron. The rest commoners.
Isaac stood. Despair etched the faces of the routed soldiers waiting outside, armor and weapons stripped, arms bound behind. They sat dazed, lost. In the worst case, they'd be beheaded one by one. That pyre of piled corpses could be their end. That's how most wars went for them.
Nobles with ransom value got decent prisoner treatment. The rest? Killed. Reorganizing routed rabble was trouble, and housing them cost too much. Burning was cheapest. And Baron Binvelt was a mad dog, wasn't he? This war stemmed from him executing Boatmer's servant on a whim. For common Boatmer grunts, the future was plain as day.
"Handle 'em?"
Bill asked, who'd helped screen. Binvelt soldiers gripped their weapons eagerly at the words. To them, Boatmer men were no better than the foes who'd killed their comrades.
"Let 'em go."
Isaac's unexpected reply stunned them.
"Pardon?"
"I said let 'em go."
Isaac said flatly. As Binvelt men gawked, he snatched a dagger from one and approached a prisoner. The man's face was ashen. He prayed for a quick end.
But Isaac didn't kill him. He cut the binding ropes.
"Go."
"...?"
The prisoner blinked around in confusion.
"I said go."
"You really mean... go?"
"Wanna stay?"
Isaac shot back. The man bolted the opposite way from the Binvelt camp.
"All prisoners here are free to go. Listen up, Boatmer soldiers! Fight if you want—I'll kill you sure as hell. But head home, and no one stops you."
Isaac called out loudly. A boy's voice, not yet broken. But no one could dismiss it. To Boatmer men, he was the monster-tamer lord. To Binvelt, the savior from hell wolves. And the warrior who'd crushed Bessimer.
One by one, freed prisoners shuffled into the dark beyond the campfires. An awkward, uneasy silence fell. Broken only by biting winds, trudging footsteps, and the pyre's crackle.
Isaac had already clocked Rutger's forces' movements. The moment hotheaded Rutger chose the Black Forest for a swift march, the outcome was sealed. Sensory links with the hell wolves let him track their every move.
The Black Forest was a dense, creepy conifer thicket—the wolves' home and playground. Utterly in their favor. If he'd wanted, he could've mauled Rutger's men near annihilation. But that would've cost the wolves too. Just raiding the rear supply lines had lost three.
Isaac's goal wasn't massacre. It was securing advantage for the coming war. No night raids, no assassinations via magic on Rutger or officers. He waited for Rutger's blunder, for Boatmer to lose moral ground.
Thanks to the Wolf King's legacy, Isaac's hearing pierced gale-swept plains to voices a hundred paces out. Rutger had spilled his own scheme unwittingly. Isaac just countered.
End it fast enough, numbers didn't matter. Boatmer hadn't just lost—they'd lost honor. Proposed duel, then broke sacred rules for all-out war when odds turned. Crushed despite overwhelming numbers. By Goethe's mad dog, no less.
Supplies seized wholesale. Fourteen nobles captured, including Boatmer's second son and the bishop. Fine spoils.
"Not eating today either?"
Isaac tore into bread and asked.
"..."
Bishop Alquin and Rutger stared blankly at the table's food. Same setup as yesterday's lunch, venue shifted to Binvelt HQ tent. But positions reversed entirely.
"Bishop, when's that letter done?"
"By tomorrow."
The bishop answered reluctantly.
"Who can it summon? Papal envoy? Ambassador? At least a diocesan bishop, right?"
"...Hard to say. The war wasn't huge, so high clergy might be... difficult."
"Really? Should've killed more. Mistake letting prisoners go."
Isaac muttered loud enough to hear. He'd just ordered the bishop to testify to the Church that Boatmer violated duel rites. The letter would bring investigators; Rutger's dishonor official.
"Anyway, you two. Not hungry? I've skipped meals dueling, warring, cleaning up—stomach's a bottomless pit. Growth spurt maybe."
Isaac innocently slurped soup.
"We might be stuck here awhile. Gotta eat."
"I'd rather die."
Rutger bit his lip till it bled.
"Valuable prisoners. Can't die. Eat up. Life has its ups sometimes. For real."
Isaac pushed a soup bowl Rutger's way. Sincere, in his way—but zero persuasion. Isaac was barely twelve; Rutger long past twenty.
"Eh, starve or suicide, your call. Just tanks Boatmer's rep more."
"You little...!"
Rutger's eyes bloodshot. No more honorifics. In a day, he looked years older, haggard.
"You knew from the start I'd go all-out?"
"Arming every last soul? Had to."
"The Black Forest ambush... your hell wolves too?"
"What do you think?"
Isaac popped an almond. Light as Rutger's glare was heavy.
"Odd, yeah. Supply corpses mangled but not eaten."
"Oh?"
"Mana beasts are smart—don't hit armies easy. Unless starving."
"You know your mana beasts."
"Gotta. Winterband'll be Boatmer's someday. Kingdom's new shield needs to work."
"Big dreams."
Isaac laughed at Rutger's venom.
"Black Forest raid sowed fear in the ranks."
"Not wrong."
Isaac swigged tepid beer.
"How'd you tame those monsters?"
"Mana beasts are just big animals. Meaner, smarter. Feed 'em good, they follow."
"Dozens of hell wolves like that? You're joking."
Rutger snapped irritably.
"Humans get tamed by the hundreds, thousands same way. Nothing new. Don't believe it? Fine."
"...Planned from the start? Killing Emil?"
"Maybe. Maybe not."
"Emil served me since childhood. Swore revenge."
"Tough break."
"You're no mad dog."
"Depends who you ask. Planning proper mad dog shit for your house from now on."
Isaac's smile darkened.