Gromkuld (5)
Leonhard the foreman had already proven his worth in ways I hadn't anticipated, even before construction had begun. Leonhard, lord of the Ivory Tower and one of the continent's premier powerhouses—a grand archmage. In my view, the gap between a grand archmage and a Sword Master wasn't so much about raw combat prowess as the tools at their disposal. Sure, the spells a grand archmage unleashes while planted in one spot are terrifying, but magic's true strength lies in its sheer versatility beyond battle. It was the epitome of multifaceted utility, dominating in terms of general applicability. A Sword Master, by contrast, lacked that breadth but functioned like a tank—overwhelming firepower that bulldozed through infantry or cavalry alike impartially.
Thanks to this versatile grand archmage, I could personally lead the reconnaissance. Flanked by rangers, with Billaine and Leonhard at my sides. If things went south, we could just teleport back.
"Hoo, the northern flora is truly fascinating. Crossing just one wall, and the climate feels utterly transformed."
"This side is practically permanent permafrost. Only at the height of summer does the surface snow melt a bit, but the frozen ground beneath never thaws."
"How do you know that?"
"Watch closely when the orcs invade in midsummer—the ground turns into a total mud pit."
The infamous rasputitsa. The surface snow melts briefly, but the underlying permafrost prevents drainage, leaving everything a soggy mess on top. Orcs are tough enough to stomp through it without issue, and it only lasts a short while in peak summer, so it wasn't quite like Russia's "General Mud." Still.
"I see. It's amazing monsters can thrive in such a barren land. And they say thousands swarm in each raid? What kind of breeding rate is that?"
"Beats me. Last year alone, we slaughtered about twenty thousand orcs in front of the wall."
"Hoo, if twenty thousand littered the wall, there must be at least ten times that inside."
"We'd be lucky if it stopped at ten times."
We rode past the edge of the tundra where the rangers were building their watchpost. Now we entered the coniferous forest zone. Maximilian warned immediately.
"Your Grace, visibility drops sharply here due to the trees—even from horseback. Orcs could be ambushing us anytime, so stay vigilant."
"I've already expanded my aura sense to maximum. They'll hit my radar before they can strike. Don't worry."
I answered while riding, committing the terrain to memory firsthand. No twenty-first-century satellite map—this was medieval cartography. What I saw with my own eyes trumped any parchment.
The coniferous zone wasn't as vast as I'd thought, but it was dense enough that the trees blocked sunlight, casting an eerie gloom even at midday. The rustle of wind through branches alone sparked suspicions of lurking orcs.
Hmm. Why should only orcs ambush here? What if we hid troops later and lured them in for a counter-ambush?
A shift in perspective later, we cleared the forest, and the snow-capped mountains loomed far grander than from the terrace view. Emerging from the wind-blocking trees, a fierce gale hit, and I cinched my cloak tighter.
"The mountain foothills aren't as rugged as expected. This is barely different from flat ground."
"We couldn't push deeper due to the orc village, but up to here, it's navigable on horseback."
Maximilian, who had been this far before, replied promptly.
"The snow isn't too deep either. Even with full plate and barding, mobility shouldn't suffer much—like our usual sorties."
"Same here. Better terrain for cavalry than I thought. Might need to expand our mounted forces."
I tilted my head, eyeing the mountainside. I'd imagined something like the Himalayas from documentaries—impassable peaks. But the visible inner ranges weren't sheer cliffs; cavalry could operate here.
Come to think of it, Joseon—70% mountainous—still poured resources into cavalry to counter Jurchens and wokou. Controversial as it was, King Sejo's pivot to palace light cavalry made sense for hit-and-run raids in rugged terrain.
Wall defense is siege warfare—infantry's domain. But for field battles or offense, boosting cavalry isn't a bad idea.
A rough plan formed. Bulk up on men-at-arms like Jang Da-reum: heavy infantry for defense, heavy cavalry for attacks. Strip away the "monster" label, and orcs were mid-tier infantry—tougher hides and strength than humans, but sluggish. Carrhae, where Crassus fell, proved heavy infantry's vulnerability to horse archers. Harass with light cavalry as horse archers, then smash with heavies and knights.
I'll refine this back home. Every aspiring son of Korea dreams of barded chargers, ironclad in lamellar, thundering across Manchuria like the armored cavalry. No dream? Disqualified.
As admiration for Gwanggaeto the Great—crushing foes on three fronts without collapse, unlike Hitler—welled up afresh, Leonhard gazed toward the orc village at the mountain base.
"Incredible. Truly astonishing."
"What's so surprising?"
"That village over there. They've built a proper civilization—more than I expected."
Leonhard stroked his chin, pointing.
"Crude and primitive, but structures like those prove intelligence."
Maximilian added, "It's got a palisade now—unlike last time."
"Hmm."
Huts straight out of a history textbook's first chapter. Crude log walls too.
"How do they sustain those numbers here? Or breed to grow them? Baffling."
"No farming possible. Pure hunter-gatherers?"
"Probably."
Stone Age vibes. Humans at least hit Neolithic farming early.
As I turned my horse that way for a closer look, the orcs noticed us. Shouts rose; dark green heads popped over the palisade.
Billaine sniffed, scowling. "Your Grace, combat imminent. Prepare."
Based on his experience, but the watching orcs held back. Hostile glares, yes.
Kruluk.Chwi?Krua?
They exchanged glances, muttering in orcish. Pointing spears at our horses.
Krr...Kerruk, chwi. Chwi-chwi.
Then, babbling unintelligibly, they grabbed crude spears and weapons, surging out en masse. Primitive bows and bone-tipped arrows glinted in the sun.
Seeing them form ranks swiftly before us...
"Well, I'll be."
A chuckle escaped me.
A phalanx. Spears lowered against a cavalry charge, with javelin- and bowmen behind, eyes blazing defiantly—come at us if you dare.
These orcs had formed a phalanx, bracing for our mounted assault. In their hostile, flickering eyes gleamed faint fear.
"They've learned already?"
"Hoo, impressive. Phalanx at the sight of cavalry?"
Leonhard smirked, amused.
"Your Grace, your orders? Attack?"
"Hmm."
What to do with these cute orcs?
As I pondered, one stepped forward from their center. Broken imperial common tongue tumbled from its maw.
"Chwi, we... prepared. Go back. Attack... not survive."
"Oh."
Gromkuld. He'd hung a plank on a javelin with perfect imperial script last time—a greeting.
Stuttered with orcish chwi-chwi snorts, but intelligible. Had Gromkuld taught them?
I dismounted nimbly. "I am Estiang Berg—the humans' 'chief' you call me, Grand Duke of Berg."
"..."
They glared silently.
No matter.
"Where is Gromkuld?"
"Chwi, Gromkuld... Great Chieftain say no fight for now. Chwi, attack... we counter. Follow Great Chieftain. Go back."
"Gromkuld said no fighting?"
The orc who'd spoken, meeting my eyes, flinched. Unconscious aura and presence radiating naturally. Its spear hand trembled under the pressure.
A phalanx of mere dozens. I could cleave them solo in a few swings. Impressive they even crouched low—for orcs.
A brilliant idea struck.
An orc who spoke the tongue. My troops behind me—fear at my sight. This might be easier than expected.
Approaching casually, bows and spears quivered. Sword sheathed at my waist, I showed empty hands—no intent to fight.
"Your Great Chieftain said no fighting, and if you lack the will, neither do I."
"Chwi, really...?"
"Why did Gromkuld say no fighting? Last time my men came here, you attacked on sight."
My quicker speech furrowed its brow. Struggling to parse and form unfamiliar words.
"Great Chieftain chwi, said stay quiet for now. Chwi, draw too much eyes... dangerous. We follow Great Chieftain."
"Stay quiet? Too much attention is dangerous?"
"Great Chieftain... said that. Chwi, anyway go back. We no fight."
And right on cue. It spilled internals freely.
Gromkuld might be clever, but not all orcs were.
"Why?"
"Chwi, Great Chieftain just said that. Don't know details. Haste makes waste. He said, chwi."
Perfect—exploiting orcish intellect gaps. No intel beats an insider leak.
My lips curled upward.
Haste makes waste, huh? Plotting something?
Haha. Adorable little bastard.