Chapter 2 Surprise Attack_2
He not only failed to annihilate the wolves and vultures but instead revealed signs of exhaustion, on the verge of being devoured by them.
Now, a Terdun noble named "Chilian" has openly raised the banner of vengeance for the Fire Bearer, attempting to reunite the fragmented Terdun tribes.
As a confidant and arrow officer of the Fire Bearer, Chilian is also the Terdun noble who harbors the greatest hatred for Iron Peak County.
Since the Battle of Bloody Mud ended, Winters has been working through Tie Chi to ransom the Palatu prisoners and slaves held by the Terdun tribe.
Most Terdun nobles chose to accept Tie Chi's generous offers—except for Chilian. Not only did he arrogantly refuse the request for ransom, but he also sent Tie Chi two Expeditionary Force prisoners with their eyes gouged out and tongues cut off.
The message conveyed could not have been clearer.
"Insult."
This added a substantial layer of personal grievances to the purpose of this beheading raid.
The trade between Iron Peak County and the Red River Tribe required stability in Terdun tribal lands, and Iron Peak County could not tolerate the resurgence of the Terdun tribe.
Since Tie Chi could not subdue the wolves and vultures,
"Then I will deal with them myself," Winters told Tie Chi's son.
...
[Chilian Tribe Territory]
[An Unnamed Grassland]
[Dusk]
The commoner, "Hanshan," heard the rumble of hooves.
At first, Hanshan thought his own herd of horses had been startled. Without even putting on his boots, he rushed out of the felt tent in a panic.
However, both his horses and sheep were perfectly calm. The sound of hooves grew louder and closer, while the smoke and dust on the horizon were tinted blood-red by the setting sun, carrying an unmistakable aura of slaughter.
"[Herde Language] War!" Hanshan ran back to the felt tent, frantically thinking, "[Herde Language] War!"
From the day the Chilian leader announced his intentions against the Tie Chi leader, Hanshan knew a battle was inevitable. Either the Tie Chi leader would strike first against the Chilian leader, or vice versa.
But no matter who attacked whom, it shouldn't have been now!
"[Herde Language] Springtime war? Why a war in springtime?!" Hanshan gritted his teeth and roared as he clumsily threw on his robe.
They had just barely endured the harsh winter. The livestock were emaciated, and even the horses hadn't regained their strength.
Hanshan couldn't comprehend it: "[Herde Language] Why a war? Why now?!"
A Herde woman carrying a child ran into the felt tent, frightened by her husband's frantic state. She asked nervously, "[Herde Language] What's wrong?"
"[Herde Language] Didn't you hear it?" Hanshan growled savagely, hastily scooping a few spoonfuls of dried yogurt balls into a leather pouch. "[Herde Language] It's war!"
"[Herde Language] And where are you running to?"
Hanshan tightened the leather pouch, slung it across his shoulder, and prepared to leave: "[Herde Language] I must warn the Chilian leader."
Upon hearing this, the woman immediately grabbed his sleeve tightly, and the child she carried burst into loud cries.
"[Herde Language] Don't go," the woman pleaded.
Hanshan paused for a moment. His weathered face, ravaged by the elements, revealed a trace of inner struggle.
Clenching his fists tightly, he said, pained, "[Herde Language] If I don't warn the Chilian leader, both you and I will be sewn into a sheepskin bag and trampled to death by the horses."
For commoners like Hanshan, living on the outskirts of the territory, it was their duty to alert the tribal leader in case of an enemy invasion. If the leader escaped harm but failed to be warned, he would never spare the negligent commoners—especially when the leader in question was the notoriously ruthless Chilian.
The woman lowered her head and silently let go.
Hanshan reached out to touch the child she carried, picked up his saddle, and instructed her, "[Herde Language] Hide in the mountains. Once I return, I'll come find you."
With that, he walked out of the felt tent without looking back.
Hanshan selected three of his best horses, swiftly saddled them, and galloped toward the Chilian leader's encampment.
Fearing pursuit from the cavalry behind, he chose a cautious route, avoiding the direct path. Using his familiarity with the grasslands, he headed south before veering back on his course, riding through the night guided only by memory.
From dusk till dawn, Hanshan stayed on horseback, stopping only to switch saddles.
One by one, the three fine horses gave out from exhaustion. With a heavy heart, Hanshan abandoned each collapsing steed, praying they would find their way home.
When the last horse was on the brink of collapse, Hanshan finally saw the familiar cairn marking the outskirts of the Chilian leader's encampment.
Forcing the horse onward, he pushed it beyond its limits. With a mournful cry, the steed foamed at the mouth, collapsed, and pinned Hanshan beneath its body.
He struggled free from beneath the dead horse and limped towards the hill.
As the first rays of dawn pierced the horizon like golden blades, Hanshan clawed his way to the summit, paused for a moment, then collapsed to his knees in despair.
The sight before him broke this iron-willed Herde man:
An endless sea of black cavalry swept across the landscape like a massive scythe, leaving only mutilated corpses in their wake. The once-impregnable Chilian encampment in the valley below had turned into a raging inferno. Men and women fled in all directions.
...
On a distant hillside overlooking the valley, Winters stood, observing the scene unfold.
Exceptional swordsmen strike from unexpected angles, but the best swordsmen strike so swiftly their enemies cannot react.
If the attackers' speed exceeds the sentries' retreat, if the vanguard outraces those who raise the alarm,
Then speed itself becomes concealment.
...
Within the valley.
Colonel Seber's saber once again cleaved through the barbarian encampment. Tossing aside his dulled blade, he grabbed a fresh one and charged back in.
"Where is the barbarian leader?" Seber roared wildly. "Where is the barbarian leader?"
Anglu caught up from behind, shouting, "Colonel! The barbarian leader has fled!"
"Fled?!" Seber yanked his warhorse to a halt and grabbed Anglu by the collar, his bloodshot eyes ablaze with fury. "Fled?!"
"Not long ago," Anglu replied calmly, deftly maneuvering his red-maned horse out of reach. "The bedding is still warm."
Seber exploded in frustration, bellowing, "Chase them!"
...
Simultaneously, at the Shovel Port Dock.
"Hey," fisherman Marin paused his net-mending, puzzled, and asked his companion, "Did you hear that?"
Fisherman Nemo lazily plucked a struggling fish from the net and asked, "Hear what?"
Marin pricked up his ears and listened carefully for a long moment, then shook his head with self-mockery. "Nothing."
"With the mayor banning trips to Revodan, and nobody buying fish in Shovel Port, why not make fish paste? Sell it when winter comes," Nemo suggested in an unhurried tone.
"Good idea." Marin sniffled. "But what do we do until then?"
Nemo remained unperturbed. "Eat fish."
Before he could finish his sentence, Nemo froze mid-motion.
"What's wrong?" Marin asked.
"There, there…" Nemo stammered in fear, pointing behind Marin. "…Ships!"
Marin spun around in shock. Emerging from the morning fog on the lake were over a dozen large ships, their long oars dipping into the water like wings, propelling them swiftly toward Shovel Port Dock.
"I knew I wasn't hearing things!" Marin exclaimed excitedly. "That was the sound of rowing! The ships are here!"
You couldn't blame Marin for his excitement—aside from the secretive ships procured by the mayor, Shovel Port hadn't seen any merchant vessels in ages.
"No, no," Nemo's voice trembled with despair. "They're coming from upstream!"
...
Aboard one of the large ships, a steel-masked officer snapped shut the drum-like silver box in his hands and issued a cold command: "Not all ships can dock. Have the flanking transport vessels adjust course and beach directly."
"Understood," replied a man with a red birthmark on his face curtly: "Captain Moro."
Meanwhile, outside Shovel Port, Lieutenant Andrea Cherini held a drum-shaped silver box, watching its needle creep forward incrementally. He was growing impatient.