Translator: CinderTL
Derrick's cavalry squad had linked up with the Royal Army from Crystal Glare. They were now tasked with guiding the Crystal Glare Army to meet the main force of the Northwest Legion.
After marching for another half-day, the soldiers were exhausted, both men and horses. Harrison ordered a brief rest.
Derrick noticed several ornate tents being erected, with servants busily hauling wine barrels inside. He narrowed his eyes, suppressing the rising tide of resentment in his chest.
"General, with all due respect," Derrick said quietly to Harrison, who was walking beside him, "our soldiers at the front are risking their lives to buy us time, while some here seem to treat this like a picnic."
Harrison forced a bitter smile, unable to deny the truth. As a scion of a noble family himself, he was all too familiar with the behavior of these aristocratic youths. However, the intricate power dynamics within the royal family forced him to exercise restraint.
"We will resume our advance shortly, regardless of whether they've rested enough or had time to pack up," Harrison declared firmly.
Derrick nodded, knowing this was the most the general could promise.
Through casual conversation during their journey, he had learned that the leader of the Protectorate Knights was none other than Prince Yuriko Rodney, the current king's younger brother.
The brief rest ended. Harrison Abbott stood before the assembled soldiers of the New Royal Army, his gaze sweeping over them with grim determination.
Harrison raised his arm, his booming voice carrying across the entire army: "Attention! Royal Army! March immediately! Advance at full speed!"
The order was swiftly relayed. Soldiers quickly formed ranks, supply wagons creaked, warhorses neighed, and the massive army began to move slowly forward.
But just then, a servant in a lavish uniform rushed forward and blocked Harrison's path.
"General! Please wait!" the servant gasped, breathless. "Prince Yuriko and Lord Wilde's tents haven't been packed yet, and the Knight Order's equipment needs to be reloaded. Please wait another hour!"
Harrison's gaze turned icy. He might have tolerated such delays before, but with Derrick watching, he couldn't afford to appear weak and subservient to the privileged.
He stared at the servant, his voice low and sharp: "The front lines are in dire need of reinforcements. The Northwest Legion is waiting for our support. We have no time to waste."
The servant looked distressed. "But His Highness said—"
"Tell your master," Harrison interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument, "the Royal Army will not delay its mission for a few tents. If they pack quickly enough, they can catch up. If they can't keep pace—" he cleared his throat heavily, "then they can follow at their own speed, but they shouldn't expect us to wait."
After speaking, Harrison ignored the attendant, mounted his horse, and said to his adjutant, "Let's go!"
The Crystal Glare Army began to accelerate its advance. Soldiers marched in perfect formation, their horses kicking up dust. Supply wagons creaked and groaned, the entire column resembling an iron flood surging resolutely northward.
Far behind, Yuriko's tent was just beginning to be dismantled. Members of the Knight Order scrambled to pack away wine goblets and cushions, clearly unprepared for Harrison's sternness.
Regimental Commander Ed Chambers rode up to Harrison and whispered, "General, won't this offend His Highness?"
Harrison looked at him, his voice calm. "Do you know that while you were shedding blood in the south alongside Giles, Yuriko requested His Majesty the King to replace one of you and become a new regimental commander?"
"What?" Chambers exclaimed in disbelief. That fellow who couldn't even march in proper formation, despite being a prince?
Harrison continued, "If he truly wants to be a general, he should learn what military orders mean."
Chambers fell silent, merely nodding in agreement. The column pressed on, leaving the Protectorate Knights' chaos far behind.
Levin rode up, a hint of mockery playing on his lips. "It seems some people thought this was a hunting expedition, not a war."
Harrison didn't respond, but his gaze conveyed his approval of the regimental commander's sentiment.
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Abal stood alone outside his tent, gazing at the blood-red sunset.
The howling north wind, carrying the stench of blood, whipped across his face. In the distance, wounded soldiers moaned and warhorses whinnied in despair.
Shaman Otasi approached, leaning heavily on his Bone Staff. His voice was hoarse. "Orc Chieftain, the count is complete... We have lost thirty-two thousand warriors."
Abal's fists clenched so tightly that his bronze knuckles turned white.
Thirty-two thousand men—not just cold numbers, but thirty-two thousand of the bravest warriors of the steppe, the elite force the Chieftain's Tent had cultivated for over a decade.
"The battle at Stonebridge Town... we were defeated," Otasi murmured, a rare flicker of worry in his cloudy eyes.
Abal didn't reply. His gaze swept across the camp—by the campfire, the surviving warriors silently bandaged their wounds, no longer singing their boisterous war songs; his son, Ajil, was directing the personal guard in gathering scattered soldiers, his face etched with exhaustion; further away, several riderless warhorses wandered aimlessly, occasionally letting out mournful whinnies.
"No, we were not defeated," Abal suddenly declared, his voice rumbling like thunder. "When a wolf pack on the steppe is wounded, it retreats temporarily, but it never abandons the hunt."
He turned toward his tent, pausing one last time at the entrance to glance at the southern horizon—the banners of the humans must be gathering in the distance.
Inside the tent, the firelight flickered, casting the towering shadows of the assembled commanders across the animal-hide carpet.
Abal stood in the center, his bronze face appearing particularly stern in the firelight. Before him stood his most trusted lieutenants—Calem, Ajil, and others—each bearing the grimness of defeat.
"Are the messengers ready?" Abal's voice was low and raspy.
"Fifty of our fastest riders are prepared to depart at any moment," Ajil stepped forward, his youthful face etched with resentment. "They will carry your orders to every tribe."
Abal nodded, his gaze sweeping across the assembled lieutenants. "Tell the chieftains—the Chieftain's Tent requires new warriors, more than last time, and fiercer. All tribes who answer the call will receive double the land and spoils after the war."
The lieutenants' breathing grew heavy, and a renewed fighting spirit ignited in their eyes.
"And those human lords under our protection!" Abal continued, his tone urgent. "Mobilize them all. Make them gather grain, conscript soldiers, and build siege weaponry—since they chose to stand with the Chieftain's Tent, they must prove their worth."
Ajil suddenly let out a sinister chuckle. "Shall we remind them of the price of betraying the Chieftain's Tent? Perhaps the fate of Lord Fersen, who deserted on the battlefield?"
A chorus of bloodthirsty snickers echoed through the tent.
Three days earlier, a human lord had attempted to desert with his troops. Orc cavalry had caught up with him, and he was executed on the spot. His corpse hung at the entrance to the camp as a warning.
(End of the Chapter)
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