"Spoken... and unspoken..." George, now socially deceased, stared blankly before finally choking out a response: "How about you ask?"
Then the interrogation began, Raventa's favorite part. The Northern Duke hoisted the downcast George by the hair, his menacing visage suddenly filling George's entire field of vision.
"How many troops does the kingdom's main army have? And where are they?"
"There are ten thousand in the vanguard I brought. The first wave of the main army totals one hundred and fifty thousand troops, along with about fifty thousand laborers. They'll reach Carnwen Stronghold in less than two days."
"The first wave?"
"Yes, according to the mobilization order issued by the capital, there will be three waves totaling six hundred thousand troops to take part in the suppression... of the allied rebellion."
"Six hundred thousand, you say..." A seriousness flashed in Raventa's eye as he looked to Arwin, who nodded, acknowledging he heard and awaited further details.
"What’s the composition of the hundred and fifty thousand?"
"I... don't know for sure. Only that it includes ten thousand Black Guard knights and thirty thousand royal guard troops from the capital. The rest are likely new recruits and private soldiers provided by the local lords along the way." George spilled everything he knew, as if his can of beans had burst open.
Such arrangements were commonplace in this world – it was an open secret that low-level soldiers under the lords could only fight when the winds were favorable. And why were the private soldiers of such low level? Naturally, because that's how one lives to fight another day.
So, allowing elite troops to lead regular soldiers into battle became the optimal way to accrue battle experience.
Hearing a familiar name, Arwin's interest piqued: "Black Guard? Young Doyle is still in our hands, and knowing the king, old Doyle won't be allowed to fight until we negotiate his release. Who’s leading them now?"
"It's... Lahore, lord of the Shadow Guard."
"Is he competent?" Raventa didn't mince words, wondering aloud, "I heard he's pretty good at remaining unseen. Hopefully, he's just as good at leading."
"The king would never let an invisible man command his army. Who’s the supreme commander of the first wave?" Arwin pressed, following a brief analysis.
George hesitated, as if speaking the answer would seal his own death; only after a lengthy struggle did he mutter: "Erwin... Milton Erwin."
Silence ensued at the manor doorway. The area descended into a hush, casting aside the noise of prisoners and wounded soldiers nearby, making it seem as if they were in another world. The beads of sweat forming on George's brow hinted at his discomfort under the iron grip that seemed about to crush his skull.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Arwin gently patted Raventa's shoulder, "We always knew this day would come..."
"I know," Raventa spoke with a trace of fatigue, "I just don't get it. Doesn't the South want vengeance?"
"It's been nearly a hundred years, Spencer, not everyone holds family as dear as we do."
"..."
"Alright, we'll face them in less than two days. Let's see what the brother of the Southern Duke is really made of," Arwin said indifferently before turning away to deal with the remainder of the affair.
---
A hundred miles away, on a series of hills shrouded in white tents, lay a makeshift camp where the final traces of the mountain range flanking Carnwen Stronghold disappeared. Beyond these hills stretched the vast plains of the King's central domain, faithfully contributing a hefty tax yield each year, whether it be grains, luxuries, or casting materials. If the Northwestern Alliance could push this far, they’d firmly hold the bargaining power with the King. However, it all hinged on besting the royal army that had just passed this site.
Within the command tent in the center of camp, a middle-aged man wore a white robe that appeared oddly out of place against the camp's rustic backdrop, seemingly indifferent to the road dust that clung to it.
The man had silver hair, and his similarly colored eyes, clear as those of a three- or four-year-old child yet resolute with ambition, blended remarkably with his mature appearance, without any sense of awkwardness.
"...and so the Goddess proclaimed, 'Calamities born of weapon and strife shall be quelled by the same. Patience and meekness are not acts of justice and light.'..."
After dinner, Mr. Milton Erwin, the full brother of the current Duke of the South and the esteemed Grand Bishop of the Temple of the Goddess of Victory in the Heracles Kingdom's Southern Realm, the chief guardian of Southern faith and a level-eighty Warpriest, began his evening prayers and recitations of scripture with a heart of unmatched tranquility.
Truth be told, the Temple of the Goddess of Victory wasn't all that strict about prayer practices. The average believer was expected to attend church once a week for either public confessions or private penance, followed by a priest or monk's recounting of the well-worn tenets or a passage from the holy scriptures – this was considered sufficient for demonstrating devout faith. However, for a fervent follower like Milton, thrice daily prayers were an uninterrupted ritual, brief though they might be, leaving him feeling truly at peace. Yet, as his devotions neared completion, Milton sensed an unwelcome ripple in his typically undisturbed composure.
As the final words of the prayer were uttered, a courier approached his tent. After being announced, the messenger recounted the latest report: "The vanguard has been defeated, the fate of George Bradlay uncertain (though likely deceased), and Carnwen Stronghold has fallen."
This timely intelligence, doubtless, was sent through the eyes of the war commissioner stationed among the main force. Whether from the war squadron's banner or the commissioner's own gaze, this shared vision magic was an original creation of Heracles the Great, a closely guarded royal family secret. Regrettably, the commissioner's last transmitted scene depicted George in a vain struggle against two renegade commanders before his head met an untimely end, abruptly concluding the shared view.
The audacity of this courier to knock on the tent of Milton Erwin could only mean one thing – he was a Shadowguard.
Milton's countenance betrayed no annoyance upon sighting this planted royal nark. With a calm mien and slight furrow of his brow, he inquired, "The walls of Carnwen Stronghold were specially fortified; their height and thickness unparalleled by ordinary strongholds. Did you see how they were breached?"
"The commissioner saw nothing of the sort," explained the Shadowguard. "During the day, allied forces provoked General Bradlay at the wall's base, but he steadfastly held his ground. His personal management of the nightly patrol – consisting of multiple defense teams and mages to keep a watchful eye over fluctuating magical energy – prevented any surprise group enchantments."
Milton's expression remained unchanged, but his tone adopted a chilling inflection, "So you're saying, you have no idea how the walls were broken?"