Chapter 367
366. Vortex (4)
Unlike the previous advances, a rather standard siege warfare was unfolding on the outer walls of Altkais. Majestic military flags fluttered atop the high city walls of Altkais, and sporadic arrows from the defending side poured down like rain.
Our side suffered significant losses. Initially, the two thousand troops, while not a small number, were not enough to make a meaningful impact on the siege.
“Why are those guys so desperate?” Gunter asked, and his deputies looked at him with a somewhat bewildered expression.
“Why are you all looking at me like that? Isn’t it true? This country’s fate is already sealed, and if they keep struggling like this, they won’t be guaranteed their lives after the fall! Even if we fail to capture the city and just lay siege, it’s the same.”
In truth, Phaeirn’s army didn’t even need to attempt a siege. From external observations, the garrison inside Altkais numbered no more than three hundred.
Naturally, supplies would be scarce, and the fact that nearby villages had been completely plundered meant that even without considering the civilians inside, it would be difficult to stockpile military provisions. Simply maintaining the siege would slowly starve them out.
At most, a week. Gunter coldly calculated their time. That’s how long it would take for the city gates to open on their own. They had no hope. So why were they struggling so desperately?
“Do they know our situation?”
“Even if our supplies are lacking, aren’t we still better off than them?”
“Or… maybe, like the Danes, they’re holding out for honor.”
“That’s a possibility.”
Gunter nodded at his deputy’s words. Honor, a fine military spirit. He watched as soldiers desperately tried to place ladders on the gallery above the walls, and the enemy struggled to push them away.
“How long do you think it will take?”
“Half a day should be enough.”
If we accept the losses, that’s how long it would take. The walls surrounding the capital of the territory were absurdly wide for just three hundred men to defend. In fact, his soldiers were already climbing the walls in droves.
Even if there were more troops inside the inner walls, well, we could just set it on fire then. Gunter leisurely smiled as he looked at the walls.
“Ah, what a waste of time.”
His eyes burned with greed. If not for the king’s promise that all conquered lands would be under his name, he would have bypassed Altkais, but not anymore. His path of advance had to become entirely his land.
* * *
Soon, the last soldier surrendered, and the city gates opened. Gunter slowly rode his horse under the wide-open gates, looking around. It was the scene of a poor city, reeking of dry hunger.
“Report.”
“Yes, Commander. Our losses in the siege of Altkais: 220 dead, 131 wounded, and twelve horses lost!”
“Surprisingly low losses for a siege. And the enemy?”
“Out of the 291 enemy troops identified, more than half are dead. Detailed numbers are still being tallied!”
“Hmm…?”
Gunter rode his horse, looking around. His soldiers were running up and down the Avenue of the Sovereign, checking for any ambushes or hidden supplies.
Something felt off. He stroked his beard, feeling a strange unease.
“Why is the death rate so high?”
“Excuse me…?”
“If the defenders surrendered while under siege, the death rate shouldn’t be that high, right?”
This was basic arithmetic taught in military school right after commissioning. Enemy troops under siege and outnumbered usually surrender before proper combat breaks out, so the death rate shouldn’t be that high.
Even if they were fighting from within the castle, it’s the same. Once the gallery is breached and the gates are open, the defenders lose the will to continue fighting.
Soldiers aren’t dolls; it doesn’t make sense for people with emotions to fight to the death. Of course, in rural villages, they might fight to the death against monsters or beasts, where surrender means death.
But in a war between humans, especially in a territorial war where it’s just about changing lords, it’s different. Soldiers mobilized for territorial wars have very low combat morale, and the rate of deserters should be higher than the death rate.
“Why did these guys fight so desperately to defend this land?”
“Search the lord’s castle!”
“Were there any signs of ambushes or traps inside the city?”
“No…! Commander, there wasn’t even a single rat inside the city!”
“What the hell.”
Gunter frowned, looking around. From the Avenue of the Sovereign to the city area, the only sounds he heard were the noisy laughter and footsteps of his soldiers.
It wasn’t the kind of sound you’d expect from a city that had just been captured. There should have been the screams of women, the cries of children. The kind of noise filled with despair.
Only then did he realize what this strange silence and uneasy feeling were.
“They were a suicide squad.”
“…Excuse me?”
“They were buying time. They never intended to survive! Where are the prisoners?”
“They’re being interrogated on the gallery… Watch out!!”
As the deputy shouted, Gunter was already gripping his sword hilt, looking at the walls. As expected, they had no intention of living. The prisoners, seeing Gunter listening to the report, all threw themselves off the walls and charged at him.
They were poorly armed and barely trained, mere conscripted militiamen. But in their eyes, there was still a fighting spirit, or as he put it, ‘military spirit.’
-Scang!
Gunter’s blade struck the militiaman’s sword and cut through his neck. Only about three reached him. The remaining prisoners were quickly subdued and forced to kneel before him.
“Impressive. A truly honorable act.”
Gunter looked down at the surviving prisoners. Those who had suffered fatal wounds during the suppression were slowly dying, each letting out shallow groans.
“Ptui!”
One of the prisoners suddenly spat on Gunter’s cheek. Gunter shook his head and raised his hand. There was no need for answers or interrogations.
“Kill them all.”
He turned and walked away, lost in thought. His deputy approached and cautiously asked.
“Commander, are you alright?”
“They were militiamen.”
“…Excuse me?”
“Before the war, they were just farmers. They probably barely learned how to swing a sword, let alone military training.”
In this city, the civilians…
There was no one. No, even including the lower villages, they didn’t encounter a single civilian in the entire territory.
The meaning was obvious. They were bait. Bait to tie down the enemy’s advance for even half a day. They were nothing more than literal bait, destined to be annihilated. Bait who had given up their lives for just half a day.
They were men who had sacrificed themselves for half a day of their parents, their children, their families, and their neighbors. Interrogation or confrontation meant nothing to them. What kind of conditions could you offer to persuade those who fought to die?
Gunter’s expression grew complicated. He was a field commander who had completed Phaeirn’s advanced military education course. Naturally, this meant he was well-versed in the purpose and basics of tactics.
‘What on earth are they hoping for?’
Every tactic has a goal. Survival, breakthrough, destruction, annihilation, encirclement. Whatever it is, there is always a best ‘hope.’ So, what did they have? What hope did they have that they threw their lives away like grass and held out for half a day?
“Commander, the scouts have arrived.”
“Did they find any refugees?”
“They found traces of what seems to be a refugee column. The destination is…”
“Obvious, isn’t it?”
Altberth. The city of steel, an impregnable fortress. The capital of this nation, with its historic walls that have withstood invasions from giants, demons, and the Zombie Legion.
But…
“Did they really think there was hope there?”
At this point, with Dane’s main force heading to Phaeirn, what hope could they have gathered in that city, now empty within Dane’s borders? Gunter smiled bitterly and headed to the command post.
* * *
Fernandez was holding a map in a familiar posture on his horse. With Diemonica’s sense of balance, it wasn’t particularly surprising. He calmly looked down at the map on the swaying horse’s back and spoke.
“Freya, retreat E-31.”
-Pop!
A small bud on the wooden brooch hanging from his collar burst open. It meant ‘understood.’ Kirhas watched the scene and quietly said, “I don’t even understand what you’re doing anymore.”
“It’s not much different from commanding on a ship.”
“But this isn’t a ship! Lady Freya is still back there. She didn’t even make the map for you, and now you’re just commanding based on a paper map?”
“What I’ve seen so far is enough.”
Fernandez shrugged as he answered. If he had grasped the enemy’s landing points, numbers, troop formations, and surrounding geography, calculating their advance direction and speed wasn’t difficult.
Then, simultaneously, understanding the positions of enemies moving from different directions across the entire map and pulling out soldiers from their path—that didn’t require any particularly remarkable skill.
“Is that even possible…?! Calculating the timing of enemies advancing from at least seven directions while simultaneously moving over twenty raiding parties?”
“Do I look like a mage to you?”
“I’ll never learn magic in my life.”
“Good. Don’t. It’s a very tedious subject.”
Fernandez chuckled and patted her head. They chatted as they crossed the winding mountain path.
Predicting the enemy’s advance route itself wasn’t difficult. Directing the movement of friendly forces afterward was somewhat complicated but still manageable.
However, the battlefield always creates unpredictable variables. There’s a limit to controlling such variables on a table. That’s one reason Fernandez had to jump into the battlefield himself.
“Do you know what happened when King Vicente first ascended the throne, and Phaeirn tried to invade the Dane Kingdom?”
“Ah, yes… Wasn’t that the operation objective? To prevent the conflict between Phaeirn and Dane.”
“Right. After Vicente ascended, Phaeirn sent an envoy. To check on Dane, weakened by turmoil. Do you know what the Round Table Council said then?”
“No… I wasn’t there at the time.”
Fernandez looked down at the horizon as they crossed the winding hill. In the distance, camps were clustered together.
“If Phaeirn steps into Dane’s territory, they’ll find out who the strongest knight order in the east is.”
The Royal Griffin Knights and the Knights of the Round Table. Wouldn’t this be an opportunity to see who is superior? Recalling Baimeer’s words at the time, Fernandez smiled faintly.
In front of the small camp spread out below the mountain, a large military flag fluttered. It bore the image of a griffin roaring at the sky.
The Phaeirn Royal Griffin Knights. A force always mentioned among the strongest in the east. One of the few variables in this war.
“Are you saying the two of us will take that on…?”
“Of course not.”
Fernandez laughed as he looked down at the map. When moving beyond tactical units into the realm of strategy, the commonalities between magic and strategy become clear.
The most important factor in magical combat is first understanding the opponent’s magic, then preparing a counter-spell or driving a magical wedge to neutralize it.
The focus of strategy is the same. Understanding the enemy’s strategy, biting at its weaknesses, or launching preemptive strikes between enemy garrisons to neutralize their forces.
Ignoring the enemy’s largest forces and slowly chipping away at them by swallowing up fragmented, minimal forces one by one. That was the most ideal tactic in Fernandez’s eyes.
Like driving a magical wedge, scattering the enemy’s forces one by one—
Cutting off the enemy’s core magical hub first and distorting their magical flow.
That’s the essence of a counter-spell.
“Kirhas, blow the horn.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
-Whoooooosh!!
The horn echoed, resonating from the camp below, the deep forest beyond, and the distant mountains… Even the nearby canyons and valleys.
-Whoooooosh!!
The horn’s sound began to echo as if answering from afar. Fernandez waved his hand to stop Kirhas and slowly looked down. Knights from the camp began pouring out, armed and alert.
“With the strongest of the north and the Knights of the Round Table here, let’s see what the east’s strongest can do.”
Out of the six thousand northern forces scattered across this region, four thousand five hundred. Each one a warrior worthy of being called the elite of their clan.
They emerged from the woods, canyons, deep forests, and mountains, gathering one by one, forming ranks and advancing.
“When…? When did you gather them all here? They were scattered across the region when we left the command post…!”
“Didn’t I tell you? Like a whirlpool.”
A whirlpool, moving with the flow, will inevitably converge at a single point. Fernandez watched the northern warriors growing in number and said, “As perhaps the only Knight of the Round Table left in this nation, it’s fortunate I can still play host.”
The knights in the camp were noisily drawing their weapons and mounting their horses. Horns and warning calls echoed from each camp.
And finally, the northern warriors, gathered in one place, opened their mouths and shouted in unison. A single cry, the only and final cry their ancestors had ever uttered.
[Valhalla—!]
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