Horizon of War Series

Chapter 202: Auriga’s Whisper

Auriga’s Whisper

New Midlandia Army Camp

The three Saint Candidates sat together inside their large, lavish tent, murmuring nighttime prayers dedicated to the Living Saint. In their prayers, they honored her who had come to show another path to the Ancient's paradise. The scent of incense lingered, strong despite having burned out moments ago.

Earlier, they had sent their troops and the Brothers in Black to war, hoping for success or even news of a decisive victory. Instead, troubling sounds seeped through the tent walls: clashing steel and distant cries.

"Sister, I hear a clash of swords," the youngest Saint Candidate whispered once their prayers ended.

"Yes, I heard it too," the wiry and oldest Saint Candidate replied, her tone cool and dismissive. "It must be the clamor of men hauling the wounded to safety. The noises we heard must be from the clatter of weapons and armor being hurriedly removed."

Her answer briefly reassured the two, but now the sounds of horse neighing, cries, and screams drew closer.

"Could we be under attack?" the middle Sister ventured.

"Impossible. Not even Bengrieve himself could triumph against 6,000," the oldest Sister snapped, though her expression betrayed her growing anxiety.

"Get the lantern out," the oldest Sister commanded.

The middle Sister, skilled in magic, snuffed out the expensive oil lamp with a flick of her fingers from afar. Not a moment too soon, a guardsman crashed into the tent, his boots sinking into the ornate rugs. Despite his efforts to steady himself, he lost his footing and stumbled back, stopping just short of toppling the mahogany table the Sisters used for rituals.

Another guard was wrestled to the ground near the entrance. He groaned, still struggling, until the blunt side of an axe struck his helmet with a sharp, metallic ring. His body slumped to the side, motionless.

Then, a tall knight in full plate armor entered. His visor was up, revealing sharp eyes, a firm jaw, and a calm, almost gentle face.

The first guardsman struggled to get up, but the knight spoke firmly. "Don't. Your hip is broken."

"I yield," the man muttered, before raising his voice, "I yield."

The knight lowered his axe and stepped further into the tent, his gaze scanning the interior. A lantern near the entrance cast flickering light on the Sisters' ritual tools and scattered belongings. Finding nothing, he said, "Drop your weapons, and I, Sir Harold, will take you as hostages."

Meanwhile, the three Sisters crawled frantically. Their earlier hiding spot had proven inadequate, and now they scrambled to conceal themselves behind stacks of blankets and clothing taken from Cascasonne City.

But Sir Harold unexpectedly climbed atop the ritual table, his armored greaves thudding on the polished mahogany. He easily spotted the Sisters crawling on all fours from his elevated position, even in the dim light. "Well, well," he said, his tone cold and cutting, "what do we have here?"

Instead of attempting to talk, the oldest Sister pulled a bottle of poison from her inner pocket and hurled it at the knight. It wasn’t meant for throwing, but she hoped it would harm him. At the same time, she barked at the middle Sister, “Go at him!”

Sir Harold caught the small ceramic bottle mid-air with ease, tossing it out of the tent without so much as a glance. Then he descended from the table, axe at the ready.

But the middle Sister was undeterred. She tapped into her soul, her eyes glowing gold as magic surged through her. Gripping a golden ceremonial scepter, she charged at him with a defiant cry.

The knight raised his axe to block the strike, his arm jolting from the unusual force behind her attack. His smirk widened.

From outside, two men rushed into the tent, swords drawn. "Sir Harold," one called, their faces illuminated by the dim light of a single lantern.

"Search the other tents. This isn’t the commander’s," the knight ordered, his voice calm. "But I think I’ve found the Saint Candidates." Without hesitation, the two men retreated, leaving him to handle the Sisters alone.

The middle Sister swung her scepter with relentless energy, her strikes fierce but unrefined. Sir Harold blocked every strike with practiced ease, his movements calm and deliberate, until she faltered, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

His gaze softened briefly as he took in her appearance—flushed cheeks, loose, tumbling hair, and golden eyes filled with determination. She was not unattractive, and even in exhaustion, her calm composure commanded respect. Unlike her older Sister’s frenzied, fanatical gaze, her eyes held a quiet intelligence that was impossible to ignore.

She lunged at him again, aiming for his head. He deflected the blow and blocked her follow-up strike with his armored wrist. His gaze flicked to the other two Sisters, who had armed themselves with a sword and spear scavenged from the tent. But they failed to notice the massive shadow looming outside.

Sir Harold smirked and caught the middle Sister’s wrist mid-swing. She gasped in surprise as he lifted her effortlessly into his arms, cradling her as one might carry a bride. Turning to the shadow beyond the canvas wall, he shouted, "Francisca, now!"

A deafening tear ripped through the air as two enormous clawed hands shredded the tent wall, canvas flapping like torn parchment. The other two Sisters froze, their eyes wide and mouths agape, before screams erupted from their throats.

Francisca stormed inside, her hulking form casting a menacing silhouette. With a swift, brutal motion, she slammed her massive hands onto the other two Sisters, pinning them to the carpeted floor as if they weighed nothing.

The wolf-like creature opened her maw, revealing sharp, glistening fangs.

"Oi, be gentle. Don't break them," the knight warned.

"Can't help it. I smelled magic." Francisca guffawed as she withdrew her hands from the trembling Sisters, rising to her full height with an air of dominance. The two gasped for air, clutching their limbs in pain.

Her sharp gaze lingered on them, and she commented with a smirk, "But only the girl in your embrace seems adept at it. This young one is still growing, and this old one has only faint traces..." Her voice turned ominous. "Now, what should I do with you?"

The sudden sound of gushing water made Francisca giggle as the scent of urine filled the air. "Scared, are you?" she mocked, eyeing the two who had wet themselves. "As you should be. Why challenge the Lord of Korelia? Not even mountain folk like us would risk it."

"You're giving them too much information," Sir Harold remarked, striding toward the tent’s entrance while still clutching the middle Sister. She remained limp in his grasp, too exhausted from the fight and too aware of their insurmountable gap in strength to resist.

"What should I do with them? I'm still needed elsewhere," Francisca asked, her tone casual, though her claws and fangs made the Sisters on the ground tremble.

"Take them to the nearest vanguard lieutenant. Tell them to bind them and treat them as mages," the knight instructed. "But keep them away from the mages from Cascasonne."

"Understood," Francisca replied cheerfully. She knelt, scooping the two frightened Saint Candidates against her broad chest, and sprinted outside with ease.

On his way out, the knight passed the man with the broken hip. "I'll send a squire for you later. Do you have a waterskin?"

"I do, Sir."

"Good. I still have business to attend to," Sir Harold said, leaving the tent, cradling the middle Sister with one arm supporting her back while the other gripped his axe."

Outside, the sight of the battlefield struck her speechless. It was far worse than she had imagined. Tents burned in the distance, while men surrendered en masse under the watch of crossbowmen. Cavalry charges swept through scattered pockets of resistance, breaking what little cohesion remained. A column of soldiers moved systematically from tent to tent, leaving no room for anyone to hide.

"So, do you still want to fight after witnessing all this?" Sir Harold asked lightly, his tone casual, as though the chaos around them were nothing more than a fleeting distraction on a quiet evening stroll.

"I'm the Living Saint's servant, not some man's plaything," she replied firmly, her tone resolute yet free of arrogance.

"I'm not that kind of man," he said, the certainty in his voice leaving no room for doubt.

More of his men emerged, lanterns casting flickering light over their raised shields and drawn swords, forming a small lance group. Behind them, a continuous beam of white light swept across the battlefield, revealing the crushing defeat of the New Midlandia Army. Cascasonne Castle loomed in the distance, its towering walls standing unconquered against the odds.

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***

Lansius

Touring the defeated camp under heavy escort, Lansius saw how his battle plan had succeeded. His encampment’s last stand had been both a diversion and a trap. The half-erected defenses served as bait, while the nomads hiding in the nearby woodland were the snare. Yet, even with those measures, victory had been far from certain.

Lansius was aware that even if he routed the fanatics, they would simply regroup and fight again. With just two thousand men at his command, defeating the entire New Midlandian Army—numbering seven to nine thousand—was still a daunting task.

This was why he entrusted his best with a critical mission: a decapitation strike. Believing his crossbowmen, nomads, and the gemstone of light was enough to hold their ground, Lansius sent his hardest-hitting force under Sir Harold, Francisca, and two Cascasonne mages to the castle. At the right moment, using captured ladders, they scaled down from the castle wall unnoticed and made their way to the enemy camp.

They infiltrated the camp and began targeting every chain of command they could find. However, things didn’t go as planned. There were multiple large tents, and the guards were competent, unlike the fanatic army. Additionally, their small numbers and the absence of light, while advantageous for stealth, made identifying their targets challenging.

Fortunately, Sir Harold was a fearless man, undeterred by hardships. He ordered his men to attack methodically, eliminating the need for guesswork. Personally leading the charge, he secured tent after tent. In the end, they succeeded in capturing not only the key commanders but also the three Saint Candidates.

Lansius could only smile when he heard the reports.

“With this victory, South and East Midlandia—or perhaps more—are yours, My Lord,” Sir Michael said as they rode side by side.

Lansius chuckled but replied, “Is it, really?”

His words prompted a questioning glance from the one-eyed knight.

“Sir Michael, all I hear from the wind is a reminder: you are only a mortal and all glory is fleeting,” Lansius explained.

Sir Michael found the statement profound and nodded in contemplation.

“Besides, I don’t feel worthy,” Lansius admitted, letting out his true feelings.

“With all due respect, My Lord, even modesty must know its bounds,” Sir Michael said firmly.

"What made you say so?" Lansius asked.

"The first thing that comes to mind is how you acted to resolve the Nicopolan crisis. Other lords would have stayed in their castles and turned a blind eye. No Lord of Lowlandia would send aid to Korimor against marauding Nicopolans. None would send his army to South Hill to feed the surrendering Nicopolans. And certainly, no lord would venture into Umberland to save another lord's domain. My Lord, you are beyond worthy."

Lansius blinked, momentarily overwhelmed. Their words had left him warm, yet uncertain how to respond.

"You sowed good seeds, My Lord. Now you reap a good harvest," one of his four guards chimed in respectfully.

"Fortune always favors the brave, My Lord," another added proudly.

Lansius smiled faintly, muttering, "Is that so," as he spurred his horse forward. He was heading to oversee the security detail handling the captured fanatics. He wasn’t willing to take any chances with fanaticism. If necessary, he was prepared to put them to the ground.

After all, he was deep inside enemy territory with unreliable allies and supply lines stretched thin to Korimor and Ornietia. Worse, the neighboring cities had empty granaries. Remembering Sun Tzu, he recognized this as “deeply involved ground" or "entangling ground."

It was the kind of situation where one was deep in enemy territory, making retreat dangerous and survival precarious. To triumph over such conditions required strategic focus, secure supply lines, and discipline to avoid overextension.

On entangling ground, keep your forces together.

Lansius recalled the words as he came upon a large group of captured men sitting on the ground, surrounded by crossbowmen. With hundreds of them, there weren’t enough ropes to bind them, but they had been disarmed. He stopped his horse and dismounted, his men following closely with long torches and lanterns.

He surveyed the captives: scarred, exhausted, thirsty, and generally in pain.

"Behold, you are in the presence of the Lord of United Lowlandia," Sir Michael announced, his voice booming and commanding, much to the shock of the surrendered fanatics.

Lansius turned to Sir Michael, his gaze sharp, silently seeking an explanation.

“To them, you’re as good as that,” the White Lake knight replied. “Explaining the Shogunate would take too long, and it might weaken the impact.”

Lansius nodded in understanding and patted the knight’s shoulder twice. He then approached the captives, his men instinctively stepping forward to form a protective line of shields in front of him.

His gaze met their weary, frightened eyes. He quickly noted that they likely weren’t as fanatical as he had feared; there was no unyielding, blazing glare or crazed intensity. It wasn’t surprising, given that no organized religion had ever truly taken root in the Imperium.

“Gentlemen,” he addressed them.

The crowd of men exchanged uncertain glances before replying, “My Lord,” with little hesitation.

“I do not come in peace, but that doesn’t mean I intend to kill, loot, or pillage. The Lowlandians under me are civilized people, we will not exact our wrath on innocents. Our issue is with Sir Reginald—not with commoners, nor with the good people of Midlandia.”

His words seemed to soothe the crowd. Lansius could see it in their expressions, the way they listened intently, their faces showing a glimmer of hope and longing.

“Years ago, I walked many of these roads on foot,” he continued. “I even trained in Toruna for a time. I served as Lord Bengrieve’s retinue before becoming a Lord in Lowlandia. This is why your behavior—besieging Cascasonne and looting the city—concerns me deeply.”

The captives collectively lowered their gazes, guilt and uncertainty filled their faces.

“Has Lord Bengrieve wronged you?” Lansius asked, his voice calm but probing. “And who is this Living Saint I keep hearing about?”

He braced himself for angry replies, but none came. Their silence convinced him that these men were far from the zealots he had expected and were tame by comparison.

“Why does this Saint want Cascasonne to fall? Does she have a claim over this land? And who is she to Reginald?” he pressed further.

Still, there was no answer.

“This business of Reginald, Cascasonne, Lubina—to me, it’s all just a lot of horseshit," Lansius remarked, easing his tone. He noticed several of the captured men flash a faint smile.

Then he hit them with the cold reality. "Gentlemen, their horseshit caused two thousand people to die in just two hours. And many more are dying. Another two thousand are unlikely to see the morning sun. Don’t you feel any regret for being involved in this?"

His words hung heavy in the air, broken only by the soft sound of muffled cries here and there.

“If your leaders had backed down, none of you would have had to die. Instead, your commanders didn’t even have the courtesy to send me an envoy to negotiate. They sent you to attack at the first chance, and now you’re paying for their pride and arrogance. By dawn, you’ll be burying thousands of your comrades. Let this be a lesson: blind faith leads nowhere!”

“But she promised us salvation!” someone shouted from the crowd, followed by a wave of nods and murmured chants.

“Can you heal our suffering family members?” another voice asked boldly.

“I have a healer in my ranks,” Lansius replied with unflinching honesty. “It’s no secret. I’m going to task my healer to care for my men first. With so many wounded, it will likely take several hundred days if I try to tend to them all. So, even if I wanted to heal everyone here or your families, how long it would take? Three thousand days? How many years is that?”

The crowd fell silent, dumbstruck by the simple truth.

Lansius pressed on. “Healing is not an act of faith. It is a skill practiced by mages and Saint Candidates. The problem isn’t faith—the problem is scarcity. Too few healers, too many patients. Thus, it is reserved for emergencies. If one can wait for treatment, then it’s unlikely to be an emergency.”

"But Salvation?" another repeated desperately.

“Salvation does not come from the outside,” Lansius countered emphatically. “Salvation is on the inside. Search it in your soul. Be at peace with yourself. To do that, if you have a grievance with someone, apologize to them and take the fair penalty willingly.”

“What if they’re already dead?” a voice asked hesitantly.

“Then make peace with the dead,” Lansius replied without hesitation. The men looked at him expectantly, their hope rekindled under the wrong belief that the Lord knew a way.

Lansius sighed. He didn’t want to deceive them, but he needed to prevent rebellion. If a small trick could achieve that, he would bear the burden of the lie. “You see that white light?”

They all nodded, captivated but also afraid.

“I’ll ask my Saint to use the Dwarven Gem, made by the Ancients, to shine light to the Heavens above.”

A murmur of awe rippled through the crowd.

“Prepare your prayers,” Lansius instructed, “the names of those you’ve wronged or those you cherish. Do not expect an answer; it’s just a one-way message to the Ancient’s Everlasting Garden. But believe that, whatever your message, your loved one will smile back upon you.”

As Lansius turned to leave, he spoke to Sir Michael. “Can you brief Ingrid on this?”

“Certainly. But who will be the Saint?” the knight asked, stifling a grin as he helped Lansius mount his horse.

Lansius let out a grin as he sat on the saddle. “Certainly not my wife,” he said, though he couldn’t deny that with her skill with the bow, she could easily pass for a goddess if he wanted to claim it. But bringing Hellenism and their pantheon was not on his plan.

...

The day after the battle, Lansius awoke sluggish and fatigued. Forcing himself to rise, he splashed water on his face and dressed quickly. Audrey and Margo were absent, as he had expected. He donned his brigandine and stepped outside, where his guardsmen promptly assembled to escort him.

"The Lady has already reviewed the morning report," one of them said.

"Good. Can’t have urgent matters waiting on a sleepyhead like me," Lansius replied lightly.

His men let out a faint grin and followed him as he walked the short distance to another tent. Inside, he found Audrey playing a medieval tabletop game with one of the half-breeds, a scholar within her tribe. She was smaller than Francisca but equally skilled as a fighter.

“You’re awake,” Audrey greeted him cheerfully, rising from her chair and approaching him, while the half-breed bowed respectfully before quietly returning to her post.

“Sorry I wasn’t there to help you dress,” she said with a soft smile.

“No, don’t worry about that.” Lansius took her hands gently in his. “How are Arryn and Tanya?”n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

“Tanya’s still sleeping—she had trouble resting last night. As for Mother, she’s at the field kitchen helping out. I hope that’s alright—”

“Of course,” Lansius reassured her. “Arryn is a hard worker. If she wants to do it, then I don’t see a problem.”

Audrey nodded happily. “I’ve sent Margo and a few of our guards to watch over her.”

“My gratitude, then.” He gently caressed her belly, clad in soft linen. “And how’s the baby?”

“I can feel him moving sometimes,” Audrey said with a satisfied smile. “Care to join me for breakfast?”

“That’d be great,” Lansius replied, sitting down with her for a meal.

As they ate, Audrey briefed him on the morning report. The beauty of having a corps of scribes was their ability to deliver reports in writing. Despite the ongoing chaos and lack of accurate numbers, even estimates were better than nothing. He needed casualty reports and the number of captives to better understand the extent of his victory.

There were also reports of stragglers and scouting parties. The war didn’t simply end on the eve of victory; remnants of the enemy still posed a potential threat.

After breakfast, Lansius returned to the command tent and summoned his staff for a meeting. Most arrived with reddened eyes, still bearing the fatigue from last night’s battle. Only Francisca seemed unaffected, thanks to her unique sleep pattern. Half breed like her could fall into a deep sleep instantly, rest in short bursts, and stay awake through the night without issue.

"Where’s Dietrich?" Lansius asked as he opened the meeting.

"He’s still recovering from minor injuries," Sir Omin reported readily.

Lansius nodded, making a mental note to visit him in the infirmary. "Gentlemen, let it be known that I’m planning to withdraw from Cascasonne and possibly end this campaign without besieging Lubina," he revealed. His statement drew surprised looks from his staff, who exchanged uncertain glances.

"But, My Lord, the opportunity is clear and present. We’re victorious, our casualties are minimal and our supplies are enough. The road to Lubina is practically open," Sir Michael said. Meanwhile, Sir Harold, the acting Marshal, remained silent.

"Yes, I’ve reviewed the reports," Lansius reassured his staff. "But this isn’t about our strength. From this point on, we’re dealing with a much more delicate issue. Believe it or not, taking Lubina now could very well mark the beginning of our undoing."

His staff’s gazes sharpened as they tried to decipher what Lansius was thinking. They understood that his decision didn’t arise from timidness but from considering things from far greater heights—at the level of grand strategy.

***