—Igris's Perspective—
After another six hours of marching, we finally stopped to rest in a beautiful and sheltered grove. A small stream ran through the center, providing us with fresh water to quench our thirst. That was the first thing we did—drink deeply until the dryness in our throats faded.
Gandalf and the Khuzait women started tending to our wounds. It was probably around 4 AM. After such a long chase and brutal skirmish, exhaustion had consumed us all. Gandalf checked on me first, as I was on the brink of collapse. Even walking had become unsteady for me. Though the poison couldn't kill me outright, it was strong enough to wage war against my body. My left side was numb now, nothing but a dull, heavy sensation. My body fought fiercely with every passing second—not quite enough to bring me down, but enough to make me stagger.
I had trained my body to such extremes that, at this point, Shadowmane, my master, Guno, and even the dwarves looked at me as if I were insane. But my reason for pushing myself so far was simple: I knew the dangers of this world—or at least half of them. Orcs, dark elves, vampires, bandits… not a single one of them fights honorably. Elise was proof enough of that. In the end, we must prepare ourselves to survive.
"How bad is it, Gandalf?"
I stripped off my upper armor and stored it in my inventory. Gandalf carefully examined the wounds on my back, applying a pungent salve to them. Dark veins had begun to spread across my arms and torso. Though my back reeked of rot, my complexion was surprisingly healthy. That meant my training had paid off. Still, my head was swimming, my stomach churned, and my body felt like it was wracked with a violent flu. To top it off, I was burning with fever. What a lovely bonus.
"…You've been poisoned by a black Imogi, Igris. Luckily for you, it's still a juvenile's venom. Your mixed blood is suppressing it well. An ordinary Dúnedain would be dead from a single drop, yet here you are enduring a fatal toxin as if it were nothing more than an illness. Still, you'll need healing. Your body is exhausted and battered. The bones in your left arm are close to fracturing. You have cracked ribs. Fortunately, your organs aren't critically damaged—just shaken. The elves could restore you in two to three weeks. Without them, you'll be bedridden for at least three months. This is all I can do. If only I still had my mana, I could use healing magic… Haaah… why does nothing ever go as planned? This mission was supposed to stay secret. How did Azog find out?"
Gandalf let out a deep sigh, finishing the last of the bandages on my shoulder. He straightened up with a groan, and I heard his joints pop loudly. The Grey Wizard had aged considerably. But that's life—no matter how long-lived, everyone ages and dies eventually. What matters is how you live and what you do with the time you're given.
"I think Azog doesn't actually know about the mission. It's probably just a coincidence that he put a bounty out right as we were heading out. But there are things that still bother me…"
Gandalf looked at me, deep in thought."Such as?"
"Where did Azog get that kind of money? He's a roaming orc. There's no way he could offer such an absurd reward for Thorin, Fili, and Kili. Also, the curse on the Arkenstone—it keeps gnawing at my mind. Who cast it? Why target Erebor? Is it for its wealth? Its strategic position? Or something else entirely? And who's backing Azog? Is it the same person who cursed the Arkenstone? I feel like I'm caught in a whirlpool, Gandalf. At its center are Azog, Erebor, the Arkenstone, the curse, and Thorin… but I can't piece it together yet."
Of course, I wasn't saying everything out loud.What was I supposed to say? Oh Gandalf, did you know Sauron is alive and well? He's just chilling in Dol Guldur, When he gets bored, he kills time by torturing Thorin's father, dreaming about conquering Middle-earth, building a massive army, doodling in his journal, and sometimes dancing the tango. Oh! And let's not forget—Azog's one of his generals, and the One Ring? Yeah, it's in Gollum's pocket, just a few kilometers from Rivendell, while he's wondering, 'How the hell do I get out of here? This crazy guy's falling for me!' So yeah, dear old man, the great enemy isn't dead—he's just hiding, preparing, occasionally sketching, and fully healthy, except for his missing soul, which is chilling in the Ring.
…No. I couldn't drop all of that on him. Not yet. Aragorn's still young—barely my age or older. How could he rally Gondor's armies right now? If I spread this information, people would call me insane. Saruman would probably want me executed. Ha! I'd like to see that stinking old man try.
Even if they believed me, Sauron would move much faster, and the consequences would be disastrous. We'd lose Erebor before even securing it, and whatever the enemy wanted from there, they'd take it. The dwarves wouldn't be able to form alliances, the woodland elves would either be trapped or annihilated, Lake-town and surrounding settlements would be massacred… No. I couldn't trigger that kind of chain reaction. Too much innocent blood would be on my hands from just a few words. I wasn't ready for an irreversible war—not yet.
So I stayed silent. Because deep down, I was afraid of seeing innocents die. I couldn't bear to wake up every night with the thought:
"Igris, this is your fault. Everyone in the North died because of what you revealed."
Once I established my kingdom and gathered an army, then… Sauron wouldn't be playing a staring contest with Aragorn. He'd be dancing tango and playing chess with me instead. As my people say:
"To fight a fierce enemy is a warrior's honor." Or in my case, "A brave man attracts trouble like a flame draws moths."
To face Sauron directly… I'd actually enjoy it. Everyone fears him, dreads him. Me? I'd find him entertaining. As my ancestors put it:
"Fear is a chain for the weak, but a fire for the brave."
Is Sauron strong? That just means more fun for me! HAHAHAHA!
…Okay, maybe the poison's messing with my head. Hopefully, it's not too obvious. Hopefully. Gandalf seemed lost in thought too, puffing on his pipe out of sheer habit.
"Gandalf…"
"…These are complicated matters, Igris. Young people like you shouldn't trouble themselves with such things. Probably just coincidence… at least, I hope so."
You keep hoping, old man. Meanwhile, I'm already cooking up plans to open eight battlefronts simultaneously. And you—don't think you're fooling me. You're scheming something too, aren't you, you old fox? I won't let you have all the fun without me! …Wait. What the hell am I even thinking anymore?
"…Gandalf, I have two serious matters to discuss. Listen carefully."
Gandalf looked at me, slightly more serious now. I took a deep breath.
"First matter—smoking is bad for your health, old man! It's rotting your lungs! And for someone your age, it's five times more dangerous! STOP INHALING THAT POISON, DAMMIT!"
Gandalf stared at me, stunned.
"Igris… are you all right?"
"Perfectly fine! Second matter… will this damned poison make me hallucinate? Will it mess with my thoughts? Make me think crazy things? Drive me mad?"
Gandalf studied me, checked my pulse, then my temperature. His eyes went wide in shock.
"Igris, your fever is sky-high. Are you sure you're all right?"
"I'm fine as a fiddle! I could take on thirty Katarinas right now! …Wait. What did I just say?"
I froze. What's happening? Why is my head so scrambled? Now my vision's blurring, sweat's pouring down my face… Oh. So that's it, huh? I drew a deep breath.
"HALT, GILAN, ALTAY, FIN! GET OVER HERE, NOW!"
The four rushed to me. Gandalf looked on, bewildered. Halt spoke first.
"What's wrong? Why do you look so drained? Are you okay—"
Not even close. I had to act fast.
"Listen to me carefully! Until we reach Rivendell, Halt is in charge. If he's unavailable, Gilan takes over. No matter what, stay with Thorin! That's my first order. Do you understand?!"
They stared at me in shock. My words tumbled out faster than my thoughts. Their expressions blurred—maybe because the whole world had gone hazy for me. I yanked supplies, arrows, healing herbs, and other essentials from my inventory in a rush. Their eyes widened even more. Gilan asked in a strange tone. Great. Now voices are deepening, thinning, and echoing too.
"Igris… are you sure you're okay?"
Magnificent. Splendid. I'm freaking fantastic. Damn it, and you supposed to be the commander of the forest Rangers? Do I look okay to you, idiot?!
"Fin, Altay! One of you on each side!"
The two of them moved to my left and right in confusion. That's it. I was done.
"I've spent the last of my energy talking to you. I'm about to pass out! See you when I wake up… Later!"
As I spoke, I felt my body pitch backward. The last thing I heard was the sound of voices shouting my name. Thankfully, Altay and Fin caught me before I hit the ground.
Damn that Imogi and its damned poison… When I catch you, I'm going to make so many things out of your hide, blood, and venom. I'll sell every part of you and use the money to build a war fortress for my kingdom. Just you wait! And Elise… I wonder if I could hop over to the other side for fifteen minutes, beat the hell out of her, and come back?
THUD!
"IGRIS!" ×5
—Meanwhile, 270 kilometers southeast of Erebor—
—Temporary Commander Leon's Perspective—
We were stationed in a temporary encampment nestled in a sheltered grove, surrounded by trees and with a clean, fresh water source at its center. The lake provided a variety of edible fish, and the forest was teeming with game we could hunt. With the Veagir warrior Jerus and his nineteen men wielding axes, we had felled enough trees to construct a wooden palisade around the camp. Watching over the high ground were Imperial crossbowmen like myself, alongside the Veagir fighters.
At this moment, I was standing before a group of young yet determined militia. In their eyes, I could see it all—some had already tasted battle, others had endured cruelty, and a few had lost loved ones. Like me, they had come into this world hoping to be reunited with their families someday. But since the Kingdom had yet to be officially declared, their loved ones could not yet cross over. And we hadn't even met the man destined to lead us. Still, he had already entrusted us with a mission. At first, I thought of it as a test—to prove our worth and earn his trust. That is, until they told us about Igris.
That man… he probably doesn't want the people of Lake-town to continue suffering under their tyrannical leader and his soldiers. But there's likely another motive too. I'll set that thought aside for now.
Right now, my priority was to train these men. Though they'd received some basic instruction, it wasn't enough—they were militia, after all. If they were Khuzait peasants, I wouldn't have been so concerned. The Khuzaits' militias had excellent archery and combat skills. But Swadia… I'd learned they were essentially the successors of Vlandia. Meaning these men's training was shallow and underdeveloped. That had to change.
And to think—Vlandia, once famed for its crossbowmen, had shifted focus to heavy cavalry. It made no sense to me. I'd faced Vlandian crossbowmen in a tournament once; not only were they incredibly skilled, but their discipline was impeccable.
Taking a deep breath, I straightened my posture and leveled a cold, unwavering gaze at the men before me. My voice rang out, firm and without hesitation.
"I am your current temporary commander, Leon. I come from a time 500 years ago, where I served the Eastern Empire under Queen Rhagaea! I don't know your Kingdom of Swadia—it was founded 500 years after my time. But I know Imperial training! I will train you in my way. I value discipline above all else. Now, listen carefully as I teach you the fundamentals of crossbow use!"
A disciplined and organized army is the backbone of a kingdom. I'd learned that lesson the hard way. The Queen had done well on that front, but even her efforts weren't enough. Especially when I recalled my time with the Khuzaits.
We used to mock them as goat herders, yet those people were constantly at war—against the climate, against bandits, against raiders, against the harsh terrain and famine. For them, a child's education began at the age of three or four. While we gave our children slingshots and straw dolls to play with, Khuzait parents handed their young ones daggers. As they grew, they moved on to wooden practice swords and hunting bows.
The people of the steppe were raised from childhood to fight and endure. Many call them barbarians, but as someone who lived among them, I can tell you—they are anything but. That said, I'll admit the Khuzait elites—the Khan's Guard—terrified me. Master horsemen, master archers, master warriors—they excelled in every aspect, and their presence alone was enough to strike fear into anyone.
Snapping back to the present, I fixed my gaze on the militiamen, speaking calmly yet with a cutting edge in my tone.
"Now, split into nine groups. Listen carefully to the other instructors—they'll assist you."
The 200 men divided into nine groups, making it easier for us to train them effectively. We guided them to nine separate firing ranges we had prepared earlier.
My group consisted of twenty-five men—a manageable number for now. I reached for my beloved crossbow, one of Vlandia's finest heavy crossbows. Her name was Betsy—my best partner in battle. This baby could punch through even plate armor with the right bolts. She was heavy at first, but now I couldn't even sleep without her by my side.
Facing my group, I spoke.
"Form a semi-circle in front of me and listen closely!"
They moved quickly into position. There was a faint sense of discipline in their actions—a promising sign. These men weren't just scattered peasants; they were ready to be molded into soldiers. Give me two years, and I'd turn them into the finest crossbow unit in this world. Even if crossbows weren't common here, that didn't matter.
I began addressing the young men."Today, we train not just your shoulders but your minds. The crossbow is not as wild as a sword, nor as temperamental as a bow. It is a weapon of patience. Reloading takes time. If you face skilled archers—say, a Battanian Fian Champion—they'll fire three to four arrows before you even finish reloading."
I pulled back Betsy's string with practiced ease, retrieved a bolt from my quiver, and loaded her.
"When you load a crossbow, you're deciding to kill a man—or an orc. Aiming is the act of confirming that decision. And when you fire… there's no turning back."
I demonstrated step by step, speaking deliberately so they would absorb every detail. Though many of them had seen crossbows before, they were still unfamiliar. First, I showed them the stance.
"Plant your feet firmly. The power of a crossbow depends on its class. Mine is a heavy crossbow—much heavier than your hunting crossbows. But its bolts can pierce plate armor. Second, don't draw strength from your chest. Use your waist. Third, use your right eye—not your left. Why? Because your shield arm won't be on that side. If you don't want to die, choose your angle carefully. Breathe slowly. Stay calm so your hands don't tremble. Feel the wind. Gauge the distance. And then… fire."
The twang of the string was followed by the sharp whistle of a bolt splitting the air. Moments later, a solid thunk echoed as it embedded itself dead center in the target—200 meters away.
The militiamen stared at me in wide-eyed shock, some murmuring amongst themselves. I couldn't help but smirk with pride for a brief moment before my expression returned to its cold, stern mask.
"As I said, crossbows vary by quality and class. Light crossbows range from 300 to 600 pounds of draw weight, with maximum ranges of 120–150 meters and effective killing ranges of 30–50 meters. Beyond 60 meters, hitting a target becomes extremely difficult without calculating bolt drop, velocity loss, and wind.
Mid-class crossbows have 800–1000 pounds of draw weight, with effective killing ranges of 50–80 meters and maximum ranges of 180–220 meters.
Heavy crossbows like mine have draw weights of 1200–1600 pounds. Their effective killing range is 80–100 meters, and maximum range is 250–300 meters. My personal record is 280 meters—I once shot an apple off a tree at that distance. I can strike an enemy dead in the chest at 300 meters.
As for your hunting crossbows… they fall between the light and mid classes. Ideal for game. Mediocre for war."
I paused, letting my words sink in. After three minutes of silence, I spoke again.
"Any questions?"
The men remained quiet. Not a single hand rose. I smirked again, reminded of my younger days. Though, I suppose I'm young once more—but that's beside the point. Youth tends to carry pride and arrogance. Those two traits are a soldier's greatest enemies. Slowly, I'd have to break their pride down.
"No questions? Good! Now, you'll take turns firing. Form groups of five. I'll show you the proper aiming positions."
The first group stepped forward and took their positions—but they were already making mistakes from the start.
"You! Your stance is wrong! If you stand like that, your bolt will dip downward as soon as it leaves the crossbow. Fix your posture! And you—you're bending your arm too much. That'll cause your shot to veer slightly upward. Relax your arm a little more. And you there—your shoulder alignment is off! Stand more naturally…"
After correcting their errors, they took their first shots. I'd set up targets at a distance of 45 meters. As I expected, all of them either missed entirely or struck the outer edges of the targets.
Honestly, I'd expected worse. This generation truly deserved to be called a generation of war. These young men should have been helping their fathers in the fields, or learning trades like carpentry and blacksmithing—but instead, they'd received combat training, starting at a young age. Just like the Khuzait people… Damn the cursed and greedy nobles! Haah… no matter. Focus on the present, Leon.
Even if they performed better than I anticipated, I wouldn't inflate their pride. Pride only leads soldiers closer to death.
"Do you call that shooting? My grandmother could do better! RELOAD!"
The militia reloaded quickly, but still at the standard pace: seventeen seconds. For now, I decided to keep focusing on their shooting.
"TAKE YOUR POSITIONS!"
The five militiamen lined up once again. This time, they made fewer mistakes. After a few minor adjustments, I gave the order.
"FIRE!"
Five bolts streaked through the air. This time, they all struck the targets—though still near the outer rings. It was an improvement, but not enough to satisfy me. I barked again in the same cold tone.
"AGAIN!"
We repeated the process. The mistakes were fewer now, and the shots landed closer to the center rings.
"Not bad! NEXT GROUP! TAKE YOUR POSITIONS!"
The next group of five stepped forward and prepared to fire. I immediately began pointing out their flaws.
I walked up to the first young man and studied his posture. His lead foot was tucked in too far, his rear foot turned out awkwardly. He looked like an old grandmother picking watermelons at the market. I placed a hand on his shoulder. He flinched.
"Calm down. With that stance, you won't hit anything."
I pressed lightly on his knee, lowering his center of gravity.
"Bend your knees. Plant your feet as though you're standing on solid rock. Keep your lead foot pointed toward the target. Your shoulders should stay parallel with your crossbow."
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw another young man pressing his crossbow tightly against his chest, holding his breath so hard he looked ready to burst. I stepped beside him.
"Don't hold your breath. If you stop breathing, your hands will tremble. Exhale as you aim. Stay calm as you squeeze the trigger."
I moved on and spotted someone with his arms raised stiffly.
"What are you doing?"
"My… my hands are shaking, Commander."
"You're not shooting the crossbow—you're fighting yourself. Relax. Raise your arm, lock your elbow, but keep your wrist loose. Tension will only make you miss your shot."
Then I saw another trying to brace his crossbow against his chest with his wrist crooked at an awkward angle.
"When you grip the stock, don't clench your fist like a hammer. Keep your wrist straight. A crooked wrist leads to a crooked shot. Those who mistake this for technique are the first to fall in battle."
I stepped back. They all drew a collective breath, their foreheads beaded with sweat.
"FIRE!"
The bolts flew. Their shots were markedly better than the first group's—most hit the targets' edges, and two nearly struck the center. I raised an eyebrow.
"AGAIN!"
The crossbows were reloaded swiftly. They took aim and waited.
"FIRE!"
Again, the bolts landed solidly. The same two young men had come closest to hitting dead center. Perhaps I'd found two diamonds in the rough.
"AGAIN!"
They reloaded once more.
"FIRE!"
The bolts hit the targets again.
"Not bad! You two—what are your names?"
The first, a sharp-eyed young man with short black hair and piercing blue eyes, answered quickly.
"My name's Kevin, Commander!"
Then the second spoke—a brown-haired, black-eyed youth with a small scar on his face. His voice was calm and measured, his tone confident but not arrogant.
"I'm Tommy. Pleased to meet you, Commander."
"Good names! Alright then. NEXT GROUP! TAKE YOUR POSITIONS!"
I mentally noted their names. I hadn't expected to find potential sharpshooters in this batch.
We continued with the remaining groups. After six hours of relentless shooting drills, we gathered for dinner. But training wasn't over. Far from it—we'd only just begun.
We had one month to shape these men into proper soldiers. Before Igris arrived, we needed to eliminate the tyrannical mayor and his cronies in Lake-town and install Bard the boatman as the new leader. Then, we'd help Bard train his own troops. There was so much work to be done.
The young men, holding their bowls, sat in a semicircle around me.
"Tomorrow, I'll teach you how to make crossbow bolts. In our current situation, this will be vital. Our ammunition is limited—we must produce our own. The more, the better. Battles are coming. And in this world, we face not only men but also creatures. We all know this.
We must prepare you well. For now, we'll focus on crossbow training. Afterward, we'll begin standard melee combat drills. That's all we can offer you—for my comrades and I specialize in crossbow warfare. In melee, we'll teach you the Empire's standard training. Pray that a few veteran infantry join us soon—that would make your melee instruction far more effective. Rest well tonight. We continue tomorrow."
I couldn't rely on the Vaegir warriors for assistance. They had clashed with the Swadian militia—tensions ran deep. The two kingdoms had been bitter enemies for generations. Some of the Vaegir fighters had lost family members to Swadians—killed in torture, or worse.
Haah… Let's hope the young man destined to become our king takes the right measures. Otherwise, I'll have no choice but to take my family and flee to another kingdom. Soldiers from different realms would continue pouring in, and unless Igris could curb the brewing internal conflicts, the kingdom would collapse before it was ever born.
I slowly walked away from the group and joined my comrades by the campfire. Taking the bowl handed to me, I sat down and spoke calmly.
"How are we doing?"
The first to answer was Junes. He looked at me, his voice steady.
"The men in my group are average crossbowmen. I can shape them into a decent unit, but I doubt any sharpshooters will emerge."
I nodded. Then my other comrade spoke up—Monos.
"Half the men in my group are better suited to infantry. Their shooting is poor—even after correcting their mistakes, their accuracy remains abysmal. Thirty meters seems to be their limit. I wouldn't trust them against moving targets. On the other hand, their physiques and stamina are excellent. We haven't started melee training yet, so I can't say for certain, but my gut tells me these men would excel as foot soldiers."
I nodded. As I expected, while using a crossbow might be easy, without true skill in aiming, it spelled the end for any soldier relying on it in battle. Haah… what we really need are infantry. But the Vaegirs can't get along with the Swadians—at least not all of them. Jeros doesn't care much about grudges or old enmities. As long as he's reunited with his family, nothing else matters to him. But seven of his men? The villages they hail from sit right on the Swadian border. Their families were slaughtered by Swadian soldiers.
Likewise, over fifty Swadian militiamen in our ranks have seen their homes and towns raided by the Vaegir kingdom. Their families? Either enslaved or butchered. And I'm not talking about simple killings. Enemy soldiers tortured villagers for sport, impaled them on stakes, raped women, even cut open the bellies of pregnant mothers to rip their unborn children out. They wagered on whether the babies would be boys or girls.
This wasn't rare. It happened everywhere—everywhere except in Aserai and Khuzait lands. Those two nations raided villages for supplies, yes, but they killed only those who resisted and spared those who did not. They even left behind enough food so villages wouldn't starve through winter. Yet ironically, those supplies often ended up seized by the villagers' own nobles. Funny, isn't it? The so-called "barbarians" and "shepherd folk" showed more honor in war than our so-called civilized nations ever did.
But let's focus on the matter at hand. Our current problem is clear: we can't provide proper training for all the militiamen, and we can't call on the Vaegir people for help without sparking serious conflict. Of course, Jeros and a few others could help us, but then the Vaegirs who would be the instructors would be branded traitors by those seven men of their own people. And likewise, any Swadian militiamen trained by Vaegirs would wear the same mark of betrayal among their own.
That would lead to Vaegirs clashing with Vaegirs, Swadians turning on Swadians. The unity of my only coherent force would crumble into dust. Why in all the hells did I ever accept this commander's position?
I listened carefully as the rest of my comrades reported on their assigned trainees. Their assessments were much the same as mine. But, to my surprise, three groups had produced promising sharpshooter candidates. Counting Tommy and Kevin from my own squad, we now had thirteen young men with the potential to become snipers. That number wasn't bad at all.
Even among crossbowmen, trained sharpshooters can change the tide of battle. If they could pick off enemy commanders and officers during engagements, we would gain both a psychological and tactical advantage. Without leadership, enemy units would scatter and become nothing more than prey for our hunters.
"I understand… We need to train these thirteen youths separately. If we can turn them into true sharpshooters, they'll prove invaluable."
I glanced around at my comrades. Each of them understood the gravity of the situation. They weren't fools. But there was one face among them that looked unsettled. I spoke calmly.
"What's the matter, Maximus? You don't seem pleased."
Maximus let out a heavy sigh.
"Forget it, Leon… I have a grudge against the Vlandian bastards. The fact that these Swadians are their descendants only makes things harder for me. But I'll manage."
"I see. We've all served under different leaders, but most of our lives were spent during the time before the Empire's fracture. Only the last five years have been consumed by civil war. That's why we've adapted to each other so quickly—our lives and our scars are alike.
But Vlandia… Vlandia has always been the bane of the Empire. On the borderlands, skirmishes were constant. The same holds true for Battania and Sturgia. If they too cross into this world someday, we may find ourselves clashing with them. That's human nature. We can't shed our hatred and grudges overnight.
But Swadia and Vaegir? Those kingdoms didn't even exist until five hundred years after the Empire's fall. We hold no true enmity toward them. If anything, we are their ancestors. For now, I need you to focus. But if you still feel uneasy, you can take over the Vaegir watch rotations."
Maximus looked at me thoughtfully, then let out another long sigh and nodded.
"Alright, Leon. If I still feel troubled, I'll let you know. But you're right—I'm overthinking this. These militiamen are just young lads. I have no quarrel with them."
"Good. I trust you, my friend."
With that small problem settled, I turned my attention to Apollo and his team's report. I had tasked him and six Vaegir warriors with infiltrating Lake-town to gather intelligence. I'd also ordered them to sell the pelts, hides, claws, and horns from the animals we'd hunted. The money was to be used for supplies, medical gear, tent materials, and crossbow crafting components.
"Apollo, judging by the materials you and your men brought back, you were able to get into Lake-town. What did you learn?"
Apollo took a spoonful of food, chewing thoughtfully as he gathered his thoughts. We waited patiently. When he finished his bite, he set his bowl closer to the fire and unrolled a parchment.
"A real cesspit—that's the only word that fits. The so-called Prime Minister, that fat bastard, and his sidekick Alfred, the weasel, are nothing but tyrants. They've hoarded the people's wealth for themselves. And the townsfolk? Sheep. They believe whatever they're told without question. I wouldn't want to live among such fools.
Now I understand why Igris doesn't want to conquer the place outright. He just wants the Prime Minister and Alfred dead. If they're left alive, they'll cause trouble for us later. Greed runs in their veins.
When I posed as a merchant, Alfred insisted on escorting me personally. From the moment we met, I've wanted to put a bolt from Veronica"—he patted the heavy custom crossbow leaning against the rock—"right through his forehead. The man's a silver-tongued manipulator. He can turn the townsfolk against each other with alarming ease.
The town guards? Most stand with the Prime Minister. Only a handful are true warriors. The rest will likely flee at the first sign of chaos. They're undisciplined, disorganized. I saw glaring weaknesses in the town's defenses. At night, the sentries get drunk and stumble about.
If the orcs ever seize Lake-town, they'll build a fortress in the middle of the lake. That would drive a stake into the heart of our kingdom's borders. But if we control the lake, it could provide us with abundant fish. Since our kingdom is just beginning, we'll face food shortages. Lake-town and the lake itself could become our strategic food source. We can't leave it in the hands of these fools."
Apollo spread the parchment across the rock we were using as a table, then took another bite of his meal. He wasn't wrong. Dale was in a strategically excellent position. From my distant observations, even though it lay in ruins, some repairs could make it serviceable again. If we built large, sturdy walls around its hilltop perimeter, security would be greatly improved.
Considering Igris's relationship with the dwarves, when Erebor is restored to them, we'll have a strong ally to rely on. But our greatest challenge will be supplies and materials. The safest trade route runs over the lake and river. If we could build several large boats, we could establish trade lanes. Yet Lake-town itself remains an obstacle.
If the current Prime Minister retains power, we'll have no choice but to fight and bring the town under our control. That's a bad sign. Splitting our forces this early would be disastrous. We'd need at least 15,000 troops—and I'm not talking about militiamen, but a real army. Garrisons, patrols, rapid response units, border outposts, watchtowers—we need them all.
To divide our forces now would leave us vulnerable. And with soldiers from different cultures in our ranks, we can't yet guarantee their loyalty. We need time to grow familiar, to become comrades. For the next two or three years, we can't afford to settle anywhere other than Dale.
We all leaned in to examine Apollo's parchment. A rough sketch of Lake-town lay before us. Apollo began pointing out key locations.
"These two points here are watchtowers. They oversee the only landward entrance to the town. The sentries there are either drunk or utterly lacking in discipline. Still, storming the main road with a large force would be risky.
If we could form a testudo—or even a Sturgian-style shield wall—we might be able to advance to the gate. Testudo would be ideal, but sadly, we don't have proper infantry or legionnaires.
Aside from the bridge, there are six harbor entrances around the town's perimeter. We could infiltrate by boat. If only we had a few men skilled in shipbuilding…
The town walls? Rotten through. Years of neglect have left them crumbling. If they gave me this place, I'd turn it into a floating fortress. But… well."
As I studied the map carefully, I spoke in a calm but focused tone.
"How many enemy soldiers are estimated to be inside?"
Apollo sneered, his voice dripping with disdain.
"I told you, Leon, calling them soldiers is a damn insult to real warriors. But at most? There should be around 500 of them. The town's total population exceeds 1,500. That weasel was very confident about it—the exact number, including children, is 1,876. Those tax-hungry bastards have done a fine job keeping records on this."
My comrades and I examined the map a little longer in silence. Finally, I straightened up, taking the parchment and carefully placing it into a secure container before tucking it into my pack. Turning to my comrades, I spoke in a composed, steady voice.
"For now, let's set this matter aside. It's pointless to make detailed plans when we don't even have a proper unit to command. I'm turning in for the night. Tomorrow, we continue training the militiamen. Stay vigilant, my friends."
With a nod of farewell, I left the group and made my way to my tent. A long day of training awaited me.