Chapter 1033: The King of Graycastle (III)
Brian stepped out of the tent as the returning soldiers came in.
They looked nothing like an army. They looked like survivors. Ragged, blood-soaked, some missing a boot, most stripped of their water sacks and ration bags. Every horse and camel in the column had been given over to the wounded. A handful of prisoners shuffled at the rear with their hands bound, heads down. The whole group was so battered it might have been a funeral procession — if not for the noise.
Because they were making noise. Every one of them.
They were shouting, laughing, gripping each other’s arms, raising their fists.
Out of two thousand who had marched out, fewer than half were walking. And yet Brian stood and watched them come, and felt something settle in him that he had not named yet but would later recognize as pride.
This was the first time the small tribes had ever defeated the great clans of Iron Sand City.
He noted what the ambush team had remembered and what they had forgotten. They had forgotten many things — water, food, spare footwear — but not one of them had abandoned a weapon. In every hand: a gun or a sword. He had told them once that no soldier under any circumstance surrenders his arms. They had held it.
The First Army could not stay in the Southernmost Region forever. These people had to carry Graycastle’s mission among their own tribesmen without supervision. Roland wanted more than simple obedience. He wanted soldiers. He wanted Mojins in the Battle of Divine Will. These people had taken the first step toward becoming that.
Brian turned to Jodel and nodded. “Tell me what happened.”
The battle had been, by any formal standard, a mess.
The plan had been clean enough: two thousand split into two groups. The first would slip into Silver Stream Oasis and advance north under cover of darkness, drawing the enemy out with the impression of an attack on the saline land. The second would wait at an uninhabited oasis downstream to spring the ambush. Simple. Provoked by the small tribes, the Wildwave and Cut Bone clans had dispatched over eight hundred infantry — contemptuous infantry, Jodel said, because those big clans had never taken the small tribes seriously. In their estimation, these people were weaker than watchdogs.
Up to the ambush, everything had gone according to plan.
Then it broke apart.
The group blocking the retreat had set the fire too early. The road went up in flames before the enemy had committed — they spotted it, panicked, began pulling back. If the ambush team hadn’t prepared a large stockpile of blackwater ahead of time, the enemy would have slipped through entirely.
What followed was not a battle. It was a brawl.
The “bait” group had drawn their swords and thrown themselves at the enemy — entirely out of sequence. The ambush team followed. Most of the men fired their flintlocks once, then forgot every reload drill they had ever been taught and dropped into the fighting style they had known since childhood. Hooves screamed. Fires hissed. A soldier lunged for a rider; a horse trampled a man; two men wrestled and when the sword was out of reach, teeth became weapons.
The small tribes also had warriors.
That was the thing the big clans had never fully understood: resources, not ability, had always been the gap. Every person in the Sand Nation who had survived sandworm venom or scorpion stings possessed combat skills honed since childhood. A warrior from a small tribe was not weaker than a warrior from a great clan. He was simply more likely to be outnumbered, to be hungry, to be wearing worse equipment. Now they all shared the same food, the same clothes, the same bed, the same training. They did not fight for resources. All they had needed was the courage to stand up.
The massacre of their tribespeople had given them that.
The battle ran all night.
By the time the fires died, the oasis was black. Every tree was gone. Without them, the sand would drain what little water remained from the soil, and the oasis would shrink further, giving way to wind and salt. Another piece of the desert reclaimed.
But the people of the Sand Nation would survive it. The battle had announced the oasis’s end — and pointed toward the direction they must go.
Brian walked to the returning soldiers.
“You should be proud.” His voice carried across the column. “You protected your people. This victory belongs to you — which means the decision about these prisoners belongs to you.”
He gestured toward the bound warriors from the great clans.
“Kill them! They killed my family!”
“They should pay!”
“Make them pay!”
Brian looked at the interpreter beside him and gave a casual wave. The man understood. He stepped back.
With a series of metallic scrapes, swords cleared scabbards.
Blood soaked the coarse sand. The soldiers’ voices rose.
Brian waited until the noise settled slightly, then raised his own.
“But Iron Sand City still stands. Wildwave and Cut Bone will send more warriors. Your tribespeople are still at risk.” He let them feel that before continuing. “The chief has granted you the right to live permanently in the oasis. But the traitors want to undo everything. So tell me: what do you do?”
“Take Iron Sand City! Drive them into Blackwater Swamp!”
“Let them learn what betraying the chief costs!”
“Commander — my friends are still in the oasis. Let them join us!”
“My sisters are still there—”
Guelz and Thuram stepped back, slowly, as if the sound itself had pushed them. They were re-evaluating something.
Brian turned his face toward Neverwinter.
Your Majesty, he thought. We’ve spilled the traitors’ blood on your coronation day. I hope it’s a gift you can use. The Mojins who once cared only for themselves have begun to move together. Iron Sand City will fall. The entire Southernmost Region will become yours. There will be no one left on this desert to challenge your authority.
He did not say it aloud. He turned back to his soldiers.
This was just the beginning.
Chapter 1033: The King of Graycastle (III)
Translator: TransN Editor: TransN
Brian walked out of the tent and saw the victorious soldiers return one after another.
Compared to how they had looked when they had marched for war, they now looked no better than a bunch of refugees. They were all ragged and covered in blood. It was obvious that they had just returned from a fierce battle.
The number of casualties was astonishing. Out of the 2,000 soldiers that left, less than half were walking. All the horses and camels had been used to carry the wounded. Together with a few captured enemy soldiers, the group looked so beaten-up that it did not look like a well-trained army at all.
Nevertheless, their spirits were high. Everybody was excited about the victory.
This was literally the first time that the small tribes were able to defeat the big clans of Iron Sand City!
Brian knew this past battle had made those hunters true soldiers.
He was more pleased to see that the ambush team, although battered and dishevelled, had followed his instructions that no soldier should abandon his weapons under any circumstances.
Most of their water sacks and ration bags were gone, and some had even lost one of their shoes, but all of them still had their guns and swords.
The First Army could not be stationed in the Southern Territory to protect Sand Nations forever. They must be able to carry out Graycastle’s policies among their tribesmen by themselves. Brian knew the King of Graycastle wanted more than a simple implementation.
He wanted more soldiers, more Mojins to participate in the Battle of Divine Will.
Now, these people were qualified to move on to the next step.
Brian turned around in satisfaction and nodded at Jodel, “Tell me the details of the battle.”
It was a pretty straightforward battle, although it was full of errors and accidents. The initial plan was that the 2,000 strong army should be divided into two groups. One would sneak into Silver Stream Oasis and advance to the north during the night to make an impression that they were planning to attack the saline land, while the other would wait for the enemy in an uninhabited oasis at the end of the Silver Stream so that they could launch an ambush.
Provoked by the smaller tribes, the Wildwave and Cut Bone Clans had soon dispatched an infantry of more than 800 people to pursue the “traitors”. Although there were many “traitors”, the two clans had not taken them seriously. In their opinion, this group were even weaker than the watchdogs.
As the battle had progressed, the enemy had soon been lured into the ambush. Everything had gone well up to this point.
The “baits” were supposed to dismount and yield. They should have found an opportunity to disperse the horses once the enemy had dismounted as well. Then the ambush squad would have launched their attack. However, the group responsible for blocking the retreating path had set the fire too early. As the road had been ablaze, the enemy had realized something had gone wrong and started to retreat. Had they not prepared a large amount of blackwater beforehand, the enemy would have probably escaped.
The battle then turned to chaos. The “baits” had drawn out their swords and flung themselves at the enemy, and so had the ambush team. Many people had used the flintlock just once, completely forgetting the loading and firing skills they had learned during training. In the end, they had resorted to their traditional combat method: a hand-to-hand fight.
Like Brian had said, the people of the Sand Nation had weapons other than flintlocks. With the horses neighing and fires sizzling in the air, the withering, small oasis had become the location where the two parties had started an intense, life-and-death struggle. One moment a soldier had lunged at a horserider, and the next a horse had trampled a man. When two people tussled, teeth could also be a lethal weapon.
The small tribes also had warriors. Since the people of the Sand Nation had started to learn how to cope with the harsh living conditions from the moment they had been born, almost everyone that had survived the venom of sandworms or scorpions possessed excellent combat skills. Indeed, there was no large difference between a member from a big clan and one from a small stribe in terms of individual physical strength.
What those small tribes lacked was resources. Inadequate resources limited their ability to reproduce and expand. No warrior could defeat ten people at a time, no matter how strong he was. As long as the tribes remained small in size, it would be impossible for them to compete with the big clans.
But now, they had what they needed.
All the soldiers were from the ten Silver River Clans. Since everyone shared the same food, wore the same clothes, slept on the same bed, and received the same training, they did not have to fight for resources. Now what they needed was simply the courage and determination to challenge the big clans in Iron Sand City.
The massacre of the small tribes committed by the Wildwave and Cut Bone Clans had encouraged them to stand up for themselves.
The battle had lasted all night.
The Sand Nation army had gained a tough victory.
By the time the fires were quenched, the oasis was covered with blackened wood. Since all the trees were gone, the sand would soon drain the little water around this area, and Silver Stream would shrink further, exposing more oases to wind deflation.
But the people of the Sand Nation would survive.
The battle preluded the eventual disppearance of the oases, but it also pointed out the direction in which the people of the Sand Nation should head.
After hearing Jodel’s report, Brian walked up slowly to the returning soldiers.
“Good job! You should be proud of yourselves because you protected your people! This is a victory belonging to you, so you have the right to decide on how to deal with these captives.”
Brian pointed toward the captured warriors from the big clans.
“Kill! Kill them!”
“Sir, they killed my family!”
“They should pay for that!”
Brian’s eyes met with the anxious ones of the people of the Sand Nation. He gave them a casual wave and they immediately understood what to do.
With clanks and clatters, numerous swords were drawn out from their scabbards.
Blood blossomed and soaked the coarse sand beneath their feet. The soldiers’ morale had reached its peak!
“But Iron Sand City still poses a threat to us. The Wildwave and Cut Bone Clans will still dispatch their troops to the interior of Siver Stream, so your tribesmen are still exposed to danger,” Brian proclaimed. “The chief has
granted you the right to permanently live in the oasis, but the traitors attempt to ruin everything! Tell me, what should you do?”
“Take Iron Sand City and drive them out of Blackwater Swamp!”
“Let them know the consequence of betraying the chief!”
“Commander, some of my friends are still in the oasis. Please allow them to join us!”
“And also my… my sisters!”
Guelz and Thuram stepped a few paces back involuntarily, shocked at the soldiers’ reactions.
Brian looked in the direction of Neverwinter.
“Your Majesy, we’ve shed the traitors’ blood, and I hope this will be a nice present for your coronation. The Mojins who used to only care about themselves have started to work together. I believe that sooner or later, you will be able to take over Iron Sand City.”
But this was just the beginning.
“The entire Southernmost Region will eventually become a part of your territory. There will be nobody on this desert to challenge your authority.”
I hope you like my gift.