Sword of Dawnbreaker

Chapter 393 - 392: The Army

Leslie territory, Tanzan Town, the tall and thin Viscount Andrew walked up to the city wall, looking towards the dock area from the vantage point on the wall.

The newly-constructed port tower stood tall by the White River, its beautiful spire reflecting a dreamy glow in the sunlight. Down below, thousands of sails traversed the White River, and the various boats scurried back and forth like busy ants, presenting a bustling scene along the entire waterway.

This kind of bustling and lively scene began last year.

A chilly breeze came, making his throat, sensitive from excessive consumption of Magic Potion, uncomfortable. Viscount Andrew Leslie couldn’t help but cough violently, and the butler standing by immediately stepped forward to drape a warm long-haired coat over his master.

The newly hired butler, less than a year into service, was a bit worried, "Viscount, you should go back and rest."

"Some cold wind helps in calming down the mind," Andrew said casually, withdrawing his gaze from the docks and sweeping over the newly built warehouses, mills, and the West District. He suddenly sighed, "So fast."

The butler didn’t hear clearly, "What?"

The newly recruited butler did his job reliably, was fairly smart, but ultimately lacked the tacit understanding with his master due to the short period of service — Viscount Andrew sighed slightly in this aspect, then shook his head and pushed some unpleasant memories out of his mind, "Nothing. Is the envoy still waiting in the castle?"

"Yes," the butler nodded, "Count Hosman is waiting for your reply."

Viscount Andrew was silent for a moment, then suddenly asked, "Who do you think will win the war this time?"

"... The situation for Duke Gawain Cecil isn’t good," the butler hesitated and spoke softly, knowing that his master was very close to Duke Gawain, but loyalty demanded that he express his true opinion at this time, "Even though he himself is legendary, he has only a few thousand men, while Count Hosman has already organized an army of tens of thousands..."

Viscount Andrew was noncommittal, "An army of tens of thousands..."

Given the mobilization capability of this era, coupled with the desolate and decadent state of the southern borders, being able to summon an army of tens of thousands was indeed an impressive number. After all, the largest nobles here went only up to Earl, and the number of private soldiers they could maintain was ultimately limited.

After pondering for a few seconds, Viscount Andrew gave his butler a glance, "So, according to you, I should quickly respond to Count Hosman’s call to stand on the side of the victors soon."

The butler deeply bowed his head, "My opinion is insignificant, I’m just a butler and lack the ability to comprehend your endeavors."

Andrew felt a bit uninterested, pursing his lips in a way his butler couldn’t see, then gazed at the trebuchet stands on the wall — those trebuchets faced the direction of White River. A century ago, the ancestors of the Leslie Clan had relied on this portion of the river-facing wall to resist thieves and escaping soldiers coming from the waterway. That was shortly after Anzu’s internal strife ended, and the southern borders were far from as safe as today. Now, a hundred years had passed, and these trebuchets had been replaced multiple times due to decay and fragility, but they had not been put to use for a long time.

Another cold breeze blew by; the wind on the city wall always seemed particularly irritative to one’s lungs. The Viscount wrapped his clothing tighter around himself, coughing lightly twice, "We should head back, Count Hosman’s envoy has been waiting for quite a while."

The butler quickly followed, "Yes."

"And also, find some of those ’newspapers’ issued by the Cecil Clan, as well as materials on their implemented ’Noble Reform Act’ and ’Land Distribution Act.’ Get me some... I need to understand them."

An army was assembling in the northern parts.

Apart from the twenty thousand troops assigned to Earl Peibo, the main force of fifty thousand had mostly arrived after over ten days of mobilization and gathering. Stretching camps and banners spread across the southwest plains of the Carol Region, bustling like an unprecedentedly grand marketplace.

Here gathered troops from dozens of real aristocratic families from across the southern borders, from baron to earl, all honorable and legitimate bloodlines converging together. Each noble brought troops ranging from less than a hundred to over a thousand, and they camped independently according to their size. They first divided large areas according to the high and low nobility titles they were loyal to and then further allocated within these areas based on the arrival sequence at the gathering point, ultimately forming an interlocking, extremely chaotic, and variegated assembly zone.

Dozens of different flags fluttered over this massive camp, and between the camps lay labyrinth-like winding roads, where messengers in various uniforms, armor, carrying various banners, with all kinds of accents, ran between these maze-like camp zones shouting orders that only their own people could understand (or misunderstand). Chaos bursting from erroneous commands occurred from time to time — only to be quickly suppressed by knights rushing out with force.

The equipment worn by the soldiers in the camp is as disorganized as their camp itself; it’s practically a lively exhibition. From the most basic half-body leather armor to the most exquisite full-body steel armor, everything is gathered in one place. Their methods of identifying themselves are entirely different too—some rely on wearing a cloak with a crest, some tie colored strips around their heads, some depend on the marks on their shields, and some don’t have any marks at all, relying purely on fellow soldiers from the same village to recognize faces. One can’t help but worry that on the day this ’army’ disbands and returns home, someone might follow the wrong group and end up in another territory—which is completely possible and has indeed happened.

In some bards’ stories, there is a vivid depiction of such a tale: A soldier named Tom, possibly a Highlander or a Konsko, joined a grand war but mistook his superior’s face upon returning triumphant and ended up following someone else’s army all the way to a distant place from home. He married and had children in a foreign land, lived there for eight years, and then in a new war, once again, followed the wrong group, stumbling back to his homeland... This story is quite widespread in the southern borders and is even seen by many Knights as a symbol of ’romantic battlefield life.’

Clad in a gold-red Earl cloak, Earl Carloff Hosman rode his favorite chestnut warhorse, passing through this massive camp accompanied by several viscounts and barons. Closest to him was Viscount Carol, dressed in a straight black coat.

With a relaxed and cheerful smile on his face, Earl Carloff Hosman viewed the tremendous scene before him—a sprawling camp and an army of fifty thousand, all assembled and gathered under his supreme prestige. This magnificent sight is proof that the Hosman Family remains glorious in his hands, which is the greatest praise he can receive as a member of the Hosman Family.

"Look at this, such a scale of power; I really wonder what our ancient hero plans to use to resist," Earl Hosman said, pointing his whip ahead, his tone involuntarily rising. "To be honest, I’m almost a little regretful now—I might not have needed to gather so many people. Every flag here must share a portion of the spoils, after all."

"This precisely demonstrates your generosity, my lord," a baron said with a respectful tone, smiling in admiration. "You not only stepped up to defend the laws and traditions of Anzu but also generously took care of everyone on this land."

The others around them nodded in agreement, and just then, a commotion suddenly broke out nearby as the nobles conversed.

Earl Hosman looked up to see a group of soldiers clad in chainmail or half-plates noisily wrestling near a tent, seemingly quarreling over the privilege of fetching water first. But before long, a bright-armored Knight emerged and quickly knocked everyone involved in the brawl to the ground.

"Look, a dutiful Knight maintaining order, which is precisely the duty and purpose of the aristocracy," Hosman remarked contentedly as he watched the scene unfold. "I can’t even imagine what chaos would reign here without this order-maintaining force... So I can’t imagine what our ancient hero intends to do after stripping the Knights of their privileges and destroying the nobility’s role in maintaining order."

"Only the Goddess of the Night might know what he’s up to, but surely he’s already experienced the consequences of his actions," Viscount Carol said, shaking his head with a sigh. "Insulted Knights and Mages dismantled his ’Alchemy Factory’ and blew up his warehouse; he disrupted order, and now order has vanished from his land, a case of reaping what one sows."

Viscount Carol’s face bore genuine remorse and regret—of course, he would feel regretful because since last winter, selling potions to the Plains of the Holy Spirits and collecting high taxes from the Cecil merchants entering the town had been a vital income source for him. Now, with the destruction of the Cecil alchemy factory and a sudden reduction in potion supply, how could one not feel regret and lament?

What aggravated Viscount Carol even more was that when he had to search for the original alchemists in his territory to temporarily alleviate the shortage with traditional alchemical potions, he couldn’t find a single alchemist...

If not for this blow, the usually neutral Viscount Carol would not have so quickly and completely joined Earl Hosman’s faction and offered large areas of plains on the edge of his territory for the army to station.

"I wonder how the situation is with Earl Peibo," suddenly said a viscount in the group. "That Andrew Leslie is quite close to the Cecil, and didn’t respond to your call this time. It’s possible he might ignore the letter you sent him."

"I personally wrote to tell him to stay in his castle and not block Earl Peibo’s way, that’s the greatest courtesy and tolerance already," Carloff Hosman snorted softly. "If he intentionally ignores it, it doesn’t matter. Earl Peibo brought twenty thousand men, and it won’t take two days to capture the small Tanzan Town. Even if that sickly Leslie Clan runs to the Cecil for reinforcements, it won’t be in time to put out the fire in his castle... So as long as his mind hasn’t been completely destroyed by the Magic Potion, he’ll know what to do."

Hearing this clear analysis, the surrounding followers began to express their agreement.

Earl Hosman then raised his head to see a messenger galloping toward him.

He smiled: "It seems we’ve received a reply from the ’ancient hero.’"

Upon recognizing the lacquered tube as a familiar one when the messenger handed it to him, Earl Hosman couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. Upon seeing the parchment inside was the very letter he personally wrote, his expression turned from confusion to a mix of being fooled, tinged with anger.

This anger peaked when he fully unfolded the parchment and saw the single word at the end of the letter, yet it transformed into a hearty laugh.

Someone nearby was puzzled: "My lord, are there words of rebuttal in the letter?"

Earl Hosman ceased his laughter, snorted softly, and the parchment in his hand spontaneously ignited, quickly burning to ashes: "No, it’s ’war.’

(Gosh, it hurts to use up my backlog.)