Chapter 283 - Fortunately, They Were Stupid

'Oh. Well, that's good.' Encrid had stood on the platform and publicly announced that he was sending assassins. Of course, he would do no such thing. More precisely, not yet. Sending them now would be an amateur's move. Krais understood that better than anyone, so he put Encrid's words to use. What would happen if they announced they were going to slit the enemy commander's throat right away? What if word reached the enemy? 'What would I do?' He would hesitate to make the first move. He would increase his bodyguards and sentries. That would make him even less likely to order an all-out attack. 'They'll be even more cautious about making a move.' Krais even made a show of secretly moving troops at night. He let hints slip so the spy bastards would report them. He made full use of Encrid's words. 'Even better.' The strategy had been built on the premise that the enemies would watch one another instead of attacking. It would have worked well enough as it was, but Encrid's remark made it work even better. 'I knew he had a good head on his shoulders.' The Captain seemed to find thinking things through a terrible bother, but his thoughts ran deep. He was quick-witted, too. And sure enough, it worked this time. The enemies, already busy watching one another, tightened their defenses instead of attacking. More torches lit up the night. Their own mounted scouts raced in every direction, working both horses and riders to the point of exhaustion. Even so, Krais could not shake his anxiety. What could he do about that? Seeing things for himself would ease it a little. What he needed now were eyes. And the eyes of a battlefield were, naturally, reconnaissance. "The scouts will decide whether we win or lose."

At Krais's words, Vengeance nodded more emphatically than ever.

"You're telling me." Afterward, he drove the scouts under his command mercilessly.

"Get moving, all of you! If you're lazy, the other soldiers all die! Pain!"

"Kills me!" The chants seemed to grow stranger now and then, but they certainly worked. The scouts moved. All the allied troops gathered, reorganized, and spent the day preparing. Then, as dawn approached, they marched out through the gates beneath a dim sky.

"All troops, forward!"

The voices of the veterans who formed the backbone of each unit rang out from every direction. Even watching that, Krais still had a bad feeling. He always did. Always uneasy, always anxious. 'It's all right.' He was telling himself that. If things went wrong, he could run. That thought gave him a little reassurance, an anchor that let his mind do its work. An anchored ship would not be easily swept away by the waves. The troops marched onto the wasteland west of Border Guard, ground unsuitable for farming. A little farther south, Krais watched the battlefield from a small hill, guarded by two squads. How would it turn out? Would things go as he intended, or would something unforeseen happen? Or would the enemy read his intentions and counterattack? 'What if they launch an all-out attack now, squeezing us from both sides?' That would be the worst possible outcome. There would be no stopping it. Even ten Encrids could not do the impossible. "I'm bored, Big-eyes."

Rem, who had come as his bodyguard, grumbled. An axe rested on one shoulder, and killing intent lurked in his lowered eyes. His posture and gaze said he wanted to go out and fight right now. Krais was not his usual self. He answered without paying it any mind.

"Wait. You'll have to fight so much you'll be begging to stop." Right now, his mind was too busy. The enemy's intentions, their commanders' thoughts, their personalities, their habitual judgments—he was cramming it all into his head and working through it. The answer could fairly be called curt, but Rem uncharacteristically fell silent. Even he could see that Krais was different from usual. 'So this bastard is good for something after all.' Rem only looked like an idiot. He knew how to use his head, too. He simply made everything fit his own way of seeing the world. Krais did not even notice that Rem was behaving himself. His mind was still racing. In the end, the key was the small elite force. How he used them would determine victory or defeat. Amid his anxiety and foreboding, Krais felt a curious thrill. 'If it goes as planned.' They might hold the enemy off well. He would not account for every variable. The troops themselves would have to resolve the small-scale ones. His mind naturally began sketching out what came next. What could he do to win more easily? What would he need? 'What if we standardized the troop types and equipment, too?' One thought led to another as he envisioned the future. Standardized equipment, and units reorganized around soldiers using the same tactics with it. Strong soldiers who moved like their commander's own limbs. An army trained to a uniform standard. He had heard that imperial soldiers fought that way. Couldn't Border Guard's standing army do the same? The small group of exceptional individuals would remain separate. But the other units would have a consistent level of strength. Uniformity across the force. 'With standardized troop types and equipment.' Even soldiers who might lose a duel... 'Could win in battles of company strength or larger.' Small elite engagements mattered, but weren't large-scale battles just as important? Uniformity was essential to winning large battles. They could lose one against one, or ten against ten, so long as they won a hundred against a hundred. That was something he had newly realized while watching their forces assemble. Krais quietly sorted out his thoughts, assigning labels such as swordsmen, spearmen, and shieldmen. He thought there would come a time when he could put this idea to use—or sell it.

* * *

When Border Guard's standing army actually marched out, Viscount Tarnin was suddenly frightened. "To me, pain!"

"Is joy!"

"Come and get us!" At a glance, they outnumbered his own troops, and their equipment looked better, too.

"Don't be frightened. That's what they want." The speaker was Lycanos, a warrior from Black Blade. A weapon's handle jutted above his shoulder; he carried a mace diagonally across his back. Its round head stuck out beside his hip, covered in sharp spikes. The weapon looked heavy at a glance. His forearms were as thick as an average woman's thighs, and he wore leather gloves fitted with pieces of metal. One look told you crushing a man's skull would be child's play for him. In fact, he could do most of the things Tarnin imagined. Things like crushing a skull with his bare hands. In short, he was a formidable fighter even by Black Blade's standards. No one but its leader could give him orders. "What in the world are those Cultists doing?"

"Those bastards are waiting to see what happens." Lycanos was an excellent warrior and fighter. He was not, however, particularly bright. Tarnin was even less so. A noble who had been watching them warily ventured to speak.

"The rumors inside Border Guard are grim. People are lining up to flee at a moment's notice."

He was a noble who had fled the territory. Tarnin frowned at that. If things were so rotten and broken inside, what was he looking at now? "Give us pain!"

"Give us agony!"

"I want to hurt!"

"Make me hurt!" Were they simply lunatics? Had someone handed out drugs for the whole lot to gulp down? "... When I left, they couldn't even keep proper control of the army."

The noble's voice trailed off. Lycanos wanted to smash the man's skull right then, but restrained himself. It made no difference anyway.

"Just do enough to hold them off!" If they committed everything now, would the Cultists act? What about Aspen beyond the territory? He doubted it. They were all a pack of filthy bastards. If his forces were depleted here, there might not be a next time. He could not let those Cultist bastards stab him in the back. "Fucking bastards. Only smash the ones who come at us!"

He considered that an appropriate response. One of Viscount Tarnin's subordinates worked his lips. 'If we commit everything now, the Cultists and Aspen will join in. Then it'll be over.' He hesitated for a moment, then kept his mouth shut. If he said that now, they would brand him a spy devoted to the evil cult. "You! You're a spy, aren't you!"

Even now, Viscount Tarnin the Pig was slapping the noble who had come over from Border Guard. His thick palm met the reasonably lean man's cheek in a refreshingly crisp harmony. SMACK! "Agh! Ow! I'm not! I'm not! I swear I'm not! When I left, the army's morale was shit!"

The noble sprawled on the ground from the blow and protested, his face crumpling. "Don't give me that bullshit!"

Tarnin unleashed his anger on the noble, who eventually began begging for his life. Watching a man get trampled underfoot drove the subordinate's words right back down his throat. His superiors would handle it. He abandoned the idea. Lycanos did as he had said. His troops fought only enough to hold the enemy off. "We'll go once they've fought each other and spilled some blood."

The Wolf Bishop did just as Lycanos had expected. 'No need for our followers' blood to be spilled first.' The evil cult's troops lay low. The assassins had not come yesterday, but they might come today. A messenger arrived from Black Blade, spouting nonsense about helping immediately. "We must keep the Martai garrison in check and prepare for assassination attempts." A flat refusal. When Lycanos heard the news, a vein bulged in his forehead, but there was nothing he could do just then. Only Tarnin's squealing rang out. "If they get us like this, we're finished!" Lycanos was seized by the urge to slit the noisy pig's throat, but the man was both the cause and the pretext for this war. He was a pig Lycanos could not kill.

* * *

Aspen had invested resources in learning what was happening beyond the territory. It employed everything from spies and scouts to spells and magic. "Do we move?"

At his subordinate's question, a man swept back his hair. The green locks covering his forehead rose, then fell again. Feeling them slide softly back down, he answered. "It's not our turn yet."

His eyes gleamed coldly. Aspen's brilliant strategist, the man who had spent a time demoted after losing the previous war, was named Abnaire. He had clearly defined his objective for this battle. One man's head took priority over everything. Expanding their territory could come later. He had made mountains of preparations for that purpose. His heart even quickened. How long would the man hold out? He was not the sort to take pleasure in tormenting people, but as a strategist, nothing delighted him more than seeing how well his preparations worked.

* * *

"You crazy bastards! What did I tell you? My words are the words of god! They're the light! Huh? Fucking listen! I said listen!" At their Squad Leader's shout, the squad members roared as one.

"Yes!" Every one of them was full of desperate fury. Understandably so. In a short time, they had learned absolute obedience to orders. The newer the recruit, the harder they had been harried. It had not been done out of malice. The veteran Squad Leaders and Platoon Commanders had been summoned. They were only doing as instructed. ["We'll have them fight with fire in their bellies but cool heads, so they don't get swept up in the heat of battle."]

Krais had come and yapped at them, and naturally, they had not listened to a word. Then Encrid had stepped forward. Black hair, blue eyes—the lunatic of the battlefield had spoken. ["Beat them half to death if you have to, but make them obey their commanders. And you will obey your superior officers. If you don't, you're dead. Rem and I will take turns overseeing the training and beating you."] Whatever their former station, clever or not, once they served as soldiers, simple was best. They obeyed Encrid. Bell was among them. Now a Platoon Commander, he bellowed.

"Do you all want to die?!"

"Agh!"

"Don't go out! I said don't go out!" At the very tip of the battle, Bell's shout erupted from the foremost position. Krais had spoken to Graham to arrange this deliberately: most of the troops deployed now were recruits fighting their first battle. One recruit could hear nothing around him. All he could see were the demonic-looking enemies approaching. Spears and swords, shields, hammers, maces, flails—they filled his vision. 'Ah.' Was he ready? Was his judgment sharp? Should he thrust his spear now? Should he raise his shield to block? As the questions mounted and his mind went completely white... WHACK! Someone hit him on the back of the head. The blow was so hard he saw stars. Color returned to his whitened mind, too. He began to see his surroundings. "You fucking bastard, aren't you going to repeat the order?"

The profanity pierced his ears. It was his Platoon Commander shouting. "Yes, sir!"

"First rank, thrust!"

"First rank, thrust!" They did as they were told. Most of the recruits thrust their spears forward. "Back! Back! Pull the fuck back! You, just wait till we're back! I'll kill you!"

The shouts of veterans turned Squad Leaders rang out everywhere. And so the first skirmish passed. They had set out at sunrise, and their slow march brought them into contact with the enemy at noon, after which battle began. They engaged eighty infantrymen in all, two platoons' worth. Six allied wounded. No deaths. They thrust their spears fiercely and held firm behind raised shields, then withdrew while carefully maintaining their distance. In truth, that was thanks not to the enemy, but to their own commanders. "Why'd they stop attacking halfway through?"

A mercenary serving Black Blade spoke, nonplussed. His blood had just begun to boil, and he had been ready to go wild, when the enemy pulled back. Naturally, he could not pursue them alone. Then the order to retreat came down to Black Blade's troops as well. A similar battle took place the next day. Only the faces were different. The individual soldiers had changed. In the second battle, one unlucky soldier in Black Blade's force failed to block an attack. A spearhead grazed his throat, killing him. He was a serf from Viscount Tarnin's domain. In other words, this was a hastily assembled army. Both Graham and the front-line commanders recognized the enemy's condition at a glance: Viscount Tarnin's own army was a clumsy patchwork. Even so, they did not simply charge in and fight. For the third battle, they instead opened the southern gate, marched out, and picked a fight with the evil cult.

"Are you lot a bit slow? Come at us. Did you come here to watch?"

It began with a soldier taunting the enemy in a northern dialect. Once again, the battle went much the same way. Three companies at most, two at least, took turns fighting before pulling out at the right moment. Four battles, five, six—in all, there were twelve skirmishes. The total number of dead was six. And most of the surviving soldiers now had at least a rough idea of what battle was. Above all, they were men who had endured Encrid's training. Actual combat experience quickly filled in what they lacked. It also made Border Guard's standing army look larger, just as Krais had intended. To the enemy, the way they fought was not normal. Of course it wasn't. Who would think to conduct live combat training in a crisis like this? "Fortunately, it looks like they're all idiots."

Krais sighed in relief, then looked at Sinar and Encrid.

"Now you can do what we really need you to do." Sinar turned her tranquil gaze toward Encrid.

"Seems rather excessive for a pre-ceremony event."

"What ceremony?"

"Our engagement ceremony, of course." It was the Fairy's usual pointless joke. Encrid grabbed the torch stand in the middle of the quarters. Sinar reacted, turning her left foot toward the barracks' exit. For some reason, this Fairy was sensitive to flames. "Are you all right?"

"You take your jokes too far. How mischievous."

The Fairy spoke expressionlessly, then left the barracks. Encrid returned to the barracks with a chuckle and checked his equipment.

"Uh, well. We have a mission."

At his words, everyone rose. Gathered there was a pack of beasts who had spent the past ten-odd days itching for a fight.