Chapter 107: War (Part Two)
The Earl of Notte, Matthew Nott, spoke with a clear, commanding voice: "Regarding the order of attack, how do you intend to deploy your forces?"
His words sent a ripple of silence through the command tent. This was precisely the question every noble lord and minor baron had been dying to ask.
After all, in the feudal system of the Northern Regions, their armies were the very foundation of their power. No one was so selfless as to willingly sacrifice their own troops for victory. Many of these nobles had been coerced into joining this war—though the Lakanman Family had offered benefits impossible to refuse.
Robert, his gloved hands gently pressing downward, spoke calmly:
"Patience, my lords. I will not send your men to die needlessly."
"This time, the Lord Duke conscripted ten thousand civilian laborers to form the 'Honor Legion.' These brave men will serve as our vanguard—testing the strength of the Dragon's Claws before we commit our forces."
Relief washed over the room. No one dared speak again. Ah, so we have pawns to lead the charge after all.
But Andrae, ever the earnest, narrowed his brow and spoke up once more:
"How can we send civilians to be cannon fodder? This goes against the noble virtues of courage and compassion!"
A wave of laughter erupted from the others—warm, easy, almost mocking.
The young "lion" was still green. These were nobles of the Northern Regions, raised among war and blood. Who among them cared for the so-called "gray cattle"? They were peasants—disposable, nameless, unworthy of respect.
Still, seeing Andrae’s serious expression, Robert suppressed a chuckle and explained:
"Ah, but they volunteered. If they fall bravely in battle, the state will provide a generous War Widow’s Compensation to their families."
He paused, then added silently in his mind: Whether they even have families… and whether the compensation will ever reach their hands… that’s another matter entirely.
Before the war, the Honor Legion had been farmers—peasants with no military training, no armor, only the crudest of weapons. Their true role had always been to feed warhorses and transport supplies. Now, they were being used as cannon fodder for the elite forces.
Most of them were tenant farmers or laborers under gentry landlords—people without personal liberty, without the right to claim spoils of war. Any merit earned in battle would be credited to their masters.
These were the ones the nobles of the Northern Regions treated like dirt.
Andrae felt the weight of amused glances from around him. He lowered his head, silent.
Robert pointed to the map, continuing his tactical deployment.
The Lakanman Family’s own force—the "Eagle’s Claw," numbering over eight thousand—would hold the central command. Once the civilian scouts had tested the enemy’s strength, they would launch the main assault.
The Bosk Family’s "Lionheart Legion," three thousand strong, and the five thousand reinforcements from the Nott Family would be positioned on the flanks, guarding the allied forces’ wings after they crossed Storm Ridge.
The personal armies of the various lesser lords—four thousand in total—would be interwoven throughout the formation, under the command of the generals. Though Robert didn’t expect much obedience from them.
The reason for scattering them was simple: he didn’t want them fighting each other before the battle even began.
Meanwhile, the three hundred Northwind Eagle Guards hovered high in the air, observing the battlefield from above, ready to strike at critical moments with aerial assaults.
But one troubling matter remained: the sixth Northwind Eagle Guard sent on reconnaissance had not returned. Something had gone wrong. The absence gnawed at Robert’s mind.
A baron from the Duchy of Lakanman whispered nervously:
"Lord, what about... that dragon? I’ve heard it’s a terrifying beast."
His fief lay close to Storm Ridge. Rumors of the dreaded "Flameflare Dragon" had long echoed through the north.
In the ballads, it was portrayed as Tiamat’s favored child—a fiend of infernal flame, master of endless fire, the destined destroyer of the Northern Kingdom, capable of burning all things to ash.
Robert let out a cold laugh.
"Hah. The so-called 'Flameflare Dragon'?"
"Do not be fooled by the nonsense of minstrels. Both the Northwind Eagle Guard’s intelligence reports and my own divination spells confirm it—this is merely a young Red Dragon with a slightly unusual breath. Smaller even than a typical youth."
A voice rasped from the corner.
"Indeed. This is Slaud, the Chief Archmage of the realm. His mastery of magic, I believe, surpasses all of you here."
Robert nodded.
"Correct. Those ballads? They’re likely just the vain, arrogant dragon’s own propaganda."
He gestured toward the entrance.
"Come. Let me show you."
Not satisfied with words alone, Robert strode out of the tent. The nobles followed closely behind.
They arrived at an open area piled high with logistical supplies.
Their eyes were instantly drawn to a massive object, shrouded in thick cloth, towering over two men in height. Transporting a single unit required twelve horses and over a hundred laborers. And here, three such machines stood side by side.
They had all noticed them before—fascinated, curious, and deeply intrigued.
"Behold," Robert said, signaling to the guards.
The men stepped forward and pulled away the heavy cloth.
Revealed was a colossal, heavy mechanical weapon—crafted from rough black wood and deep gray metal. Its frame was massive and sturdy, with a solid iron base and multiple iron wheels allowing it to move slowly across the ground.
At the top, a conical crossbow bolt chamber was encased in iron plates, riveted all over, with long, curved bow arms fixed to either side.
A single bolt, thick as a man’s arm and over two meters long, lay resting on the carriage. The iron tip gleamed with a cold, deadly sheen—streaked with dried, dark stains.
A true ballista. A weapon of war.
"Whoa—"
A collective gasp rose from the nobles. They stared in awe at the sheer, terrifying power of the machine.
Robert, clearly pleased with their reactions, spoke with quiet pride:
"This is the Dragon-Slaying Trebuchet. Its bolts are soaked in dragon blood—capable of piercing even the toughest dragon scales."
"One hundred and forty years ago, General Tanner Lakanman used it to slay the Old White Dragon—Icewing, who once terrorized the Northern Regions."
He raised a single finger, slowly wagging it.
"One arrow. One shot. He pierced the heart of that evil dragon."
"And back then, the great General Tanner had only one such weapon."
"Now? Our Duchy of Lakanman spent tens of thousands of gold coins to recover these three Dragon-Slaying Trebuchets. We used over a hundred horses and thousands of laborers to bring them here."
He paused, letting the weight of it sink in.
"You can see the effort we’ve made. And you can see my confidence."
"If that dragon dares to show itself, these three Trebuchets will bring it down."
His voice was unwavering.
"Flameflare Dragon?"
A cold smirk curled at the corner of his lips.
"I’ll make it a fallen dragon."
(End of Chapter)
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