Chapter 1032: The King of Graycastle (II)
At the headstream of Silver Stream, in the southernmost reaches of the Sand Sea.
Brian sat in the tent and waited.
Across from him: Guelz Burnflame, chief of the Wildflame clan, and Thuram, elder of the Osha clan — the two men who had become the Sand Nations’ representatives at this table. Beside them, the commander of the Gun Battalion, who spoke for the First Army. Everyone involved in decisions about the Southernmost Region was present.
Outside, the desert wind cut sharp and cold. Inside the tent, warmth rose through the ground like breath. In the Sand Sea, terrestrial heat made the earth itself into a hearth — far warmer than the brick beds and heating systems back in Neverwinter. The locals had learned to exploit this. They called it the sand bed: a shallow hole as wide as a person, dug into the earth, filled not with coarse grit but fine-sifted sand that held heat and gave gently to the body. Softer than burlap. Warmer than stone. A tent and a sand bed and a man could wait out the whole of winter in reasonable comfort.
But the same terrestrial heat that made life here possible had, over centuries, destroyed it. As seawater evaporated, salts had worked their way through the soil within a hundred miles of the headstream. Sandworms, scorpions, trees, flowers — all gone. No oasis meant no food. The plain stretched in every direction: blank, white, dead. Perhaps nowhere in the Southernmost Region was more desolate, except Blackwater Swamp.
For a hundred years, the Mojins had maintained a few wooden structures in this saline-alkali land — way stations for salt merchants traveling through. That had changed. Now tents covered the ground in clusters, and the land was alive with workers.
The development of Silver Stream’s salt deposits had begun shortly after the relocation, alongside the building of Festive Harbor at Endless Cape. With no river to carry the salt out, every grain had to go by cart — human power and animal power, hauling it to the nearest branch of the Redwater River. Fallen Dragon Ridge and Port of Clearwater had offered competitive wages to pull in laborers, and Sand Nation people had come: first by ones and twos, then in groups, then settling.
They dug wells and drew water from the underground stream to filter the salt. Without steam engines or machinery, every step of the process ran on hands. The work was repetitive — separate, collect, crystallize, ship — but it had become routine. A new mundane. And with it, the land had grown crowded with purpose.
The small tribes who had hesitated longest had, in the end, simply not been able to resist the wages. They came to the border and offered their labor in exchange for wheat, dried meat, cloth. Some carried the food back to the oasis. Some stayed, becoming the earliest settlers of a place that had never before been settled.
The big clans of Iron Sand City were not pleased.
The logic was simple: every tribe that relocated was a tribe no longer feeding the great clans’ resource base. Tension had been building for months. Two months ago it had broken open — Wildwave and Cut Bone dispatching warriors to kill tribespeople who were departing the oasis, leaving their heads on the road north as a warning. A message to the Sand Nations: loyalty to the north means death.
They had not expected the King of Graycastle to notice. No northern king, they had assumed, would actually care about the lives of hundreds of Sand Nation tribespeople.
They had been wrong about Roland.
“You don’t seem worried at all.” Guelz broke the silence, his voice carrying the practiced steadiness of a man who made his concern sound like observation. “The Wildwave and Cut Bone clans are two of the largest in Iron Sand City. The chief can crush them. But these small tribes? Do you truly put that much faith in them?”
“The tribes who’ve relocated haven’t seen a single promotion to the six great clans in the past year,” Thuram added. “Wildwave and Cut Bone have kept the resources to themselves. With sufficient food, a clan in the Southernmost Region recovers quickly from any loss. They may be stronger now than they were before you arrived.”
“Faith?” Brian shook his head slowly. “I don’t put faith in them.”
Thuram blinked. “Then why didn’t you request troops from the chief? A hundred soldiers, combined with warriors from both clans, would be more than enough to keep those brutes away from the oasis.”
“Then what?” Brian held the elder’s gaze. “The First Army remains permanently stationed in Silver Stream, protecting small tribes? Is that the future His Majesty wants?”
Thuram fell silent.
Brian knew what Roland wanted. Not protection — transformation. The tribes couldn’t depend on Graycastle’s soldiers forever. They had to become something capable of defending themselves, advancing Graycastle’s policies among their own people. That required a victory won by their own hands.
“What if they lose?” Guelz pressed, massaging his forehead. “Those people trained on flintlocks only three months ago.”
“Then they’ll be slaughtered,” Brian said, eyes closing, “and your clansmen will be slaves in Iron Sand City.” He let that settle before continuing. “I told you before the battle: this is your fight, not mine. I gave you weapons. If you can’t protect your people with them, you don’t deserve to call yourselves soldiers of Graycastle. I can always train new people.”
The chief’s expression tightened — the casual assessment of a man who had, until this moment, underestimated the young officer sitting across from him.
“And you’re forgetting,” Brian went on, “that the training three months ago was only for flintlocks. They also use swords, daggers, fists, and teeth. These are weapons Sand Nations have carried since birth, aren’t they?”
The members of the Sand Nation troop Brian had assembled were drawn from the small tribes that had relocated to Port of Clearwater. Unlike the great clans, these were people who had left the desert but still cared about the tribes they’d left behind. Uninvested in the political struggles of Iron Sand City, yet still connected to the desert’s blood — they were the right material for a local military force. They carried old, outdated flintlocks. They knew their enemies.
A quick patter of feet outside the tent.
“Halt!” the guard barked.
“I’m Jodel — from the ambush unit. I have something to report to the commander.”
“Let him in.” Brian opened his eyes.
The tent flap swung back. A man stumbled through — face smeared with blood, shaking, breathless, barely keeping his feet. He went to one knee. His chest heaved.
His eyes were bright.
“Sir,” he managed between breaths. “We won.”
Chapter 1032: The King of Graycastle (II)
Translator: TransN Editor: TransN
At the headstream of Silver Stream located in the Southernmost Region of the Sand Sea.
Brian sat in a tent, waiting for news from the front to arrive. Sitting opposite to him was the chief of the Wildflame clan, Guelz Burnflame, and the elder of the Osha Clan, Thuram.
The two men had become the representatives of the Mojin Clan.
Together with the commander of the Gun Battalion who represented the chief, all the leaders who participated in the decision-making process with respect to the Sand Nations were here.
The cold desert wind whistled outside the tent, but the interior of the tent was quite warm as if it were sitting on the top of a giant brazier. No matter how cold the ground seemed to be, every time Brian buried his feet into the sand, he could feel heat escape from underneath. It was even warmer than the brick beds and the heating system used in Neverwinter.
The locals invented this so-called “sand bed”, which was a shallow hole as wide as a man in the ground. Native people would first replace the coarse sand with sifted fine sand, and then bury themselves in it to keep their body temperatures. The fine sand had a soft touch and was even softer than burlap matresses. With just a tent and a sand bed, the Sand Nations could spend their winter very comfortably.
Sadly, it was also the same terrestrial heat that destroyed the life here. As seawater gradually evaporated, the desert within 100 miles was wiped out
by seasalts. Hardly any sandworms or scorpions lurked around, let alone trees and flowers.
Without an oasis, there would be no food. The entire plain was thus a bleak emptiness. Perhaps, nowhere in the whole Southermost Region could be more dismal and dead than here except Blackwater Swamp.
For the past hundred years, Mojins had erected several wooden houses here and there in this saline-alkali land to provide accommodations for traveling salt merchants. However, things had now changed.
“You don’t seem to be worried at all, young man.” Guelz ended the silence. “The Wildwave Clan and the Cut Bone Clan were two biggest clans in Iron Sand City. The chief can easily crush them, but this doesn’t mean those small tribes can do that too. Do you really put so much faith in them?”
As Guelz spoke out, Thuram also said, “In the past one year, not a single tribe in Iron Sand City has been promoted to be one of the six big clans. Apparently, Wildwave and Cut Bone have kept all the resources to themselves. With sufficient food, a clan in the Southernmost Region can easily recover from a previous loss. They’re now probably stronger than prior to you coming here.”
“Faith? No…” Brian slowly shook his head. “I don’t put faith in them.”
“Then… why didn’t you request troops from the chief?” Thuram asked in surprise. “100 soldiers and the warriors from the Wildflame Clan and the Osha Clan would be more than enough to deter those brutes from setting foot on the small oasis again.”
“Then what? The First Army would be permanently stationed in Silver Stream Oasis protecting those small tribes?” Brian stared at him. “Do you think His Majesty wants a future like this?”
“Um, well…” Thuram was at a loss for words.
Shortly after the relocation, they had started exploiting the resources in the Southernmost Region. Apart from building the Festive Harbor at Endless
Cape, another key project was the development of the saline-alkali land at the headstream of Silver Stream. Since there was no river, they had to rely on manpower and animal power to transfer those salts out of the desert, to the closest branch of Redwater River by cart.
For this reason, Fallen Dragon Ridge and Port of Clearwater had provided competitive wages and benefits to the laborers, in hopes of attracting more Sand Nations to help with the transfer.
Within a year, various tents had been pitched in the saline-alkali land, and the place was soon alive with busy workers.
The laborers dug wells and drew consumable water from the underground stream of Silver Stream. They not only drank the water but also used it to filter salt.
Shortly afterwards, plants were built. Without steam engines or other machinery, they did all the work manually. The whole working process was similar to gold mining. People separated the scattered salt from the sand and gravel, collected and crystalized them before shipping them to the inner land of the Western Region where they would be further processed. The repetitive and tedious work gradually became a new mundane routine of everyday life in the saline-alkali land.
Although there was no oasis, sandworms or scorpions around this area, the place started to get teeming with life.
Many relocaters, as well as some small tribes who had been hesitating to come simply could not resist the good compensation. They came to the border in groups and offered to work for the project in exchange for wheat, dried meat and fabrics. Some of them returned to the oasis with the food while others stayed, becoming one of the earliest settlers.
The big clans in Iron City were not happy about this. The more tribes that chose to move out of the oasis, the fewer resources they would obtain. The increasing tension between the big clans and the small tribes had finally turned into an open conflict two months ago, where the Wildwave and Cut Bone Clans had dispatched infantry and killed some tribesmen departing the
oasis. They had left their heads on the road leading to the north, apparently to deter people from the Sand Nations from leaving.
The big clans did not have the courage to openly provoke King of Graycastle, so they had attacked the small tribes who had yet to submit to his rule. They had thought the chief would dismiss the matter, for no northern king would actually care about the lives of hundreds of Sand Nations. They had not expected, however, that this would be the very thing that Roland detested.
Brian knew very well that King Roland dreaded any loss of the population for no reason.
Before Guelz had sent his letter to Neverwinter, Brian had already prepared himself for a probable war.
“What if they lose?” said Guelz Burnflame as he massaged his forehead apprehensively. “If I remember correctly, those people received training on how to use a flintlock just three months ago, right?”
“Then we’ll be slaughtered, and your clansmen would be reduced to slaves in Iron Sand City,” said Brian as he closed his eyes. “Prior to the war, I told you that it’s going to be your battle, not mine. I’ve provided you with weapons. If you still can’t save your clansmen from their swords, you don’t deserve the honor of being one of the soldiers of Graycastle. I can always train new people if I want.”
“…” Guelz’s manner tightened abruptly into a grave expression for the first time as if he was re-evaluating the young officer in front of him.
“Plus, you forgot that the training three months ago was only for flintlocks.” Brian went on, “Apart from flintlocks, they also use swords, daggers, their fists and teeth. These are weapons Sand Nations have been using from the moment they were born, aren’t they?”
The members of the Sand Nation troop selected by Brian were all from the small tribes that had relocated to Port of Clearwater. Unlike the big clans such as Wildflame, those tribes were still concerned about the tribes left behind at the oasis, even though they had chosen to live at Graycastle. As
these people were not politically involved but still maintained a relationship with the desert, they were perfect for forming a local military power. They used old, outdated flintlocks as their weapons.
Suddenly, outside the camp came the little pattering of feet.
“Stop there!” The guard hollered.
“I’m Jodel from the ambush unit. I have something important to report to Mr. Commander.”
“Let him in.” Brian opened his eyes abruptly.
The tent flap was pulled open, and a man stumbled in, his face smeared with blood, all shaky and breathless. He sank to his knee, panting, but his eyes were glinting with excitement.
“Sir, we won!”