—Leon's Point of View—
After thinking for a while, I began to lay out the plan in my head.
"Apollo, take more men with you, increase the number of patrols and their duration. Tell Jeros and all the Veagir warriors about this, have them stay alert. They're more experienced than the militia, but we should still inform some of the militiamen. Each instructor should tell two trusted militiamen. Choose people who won't panic and won't draw suspicion."
Then I turned to my colleague—the most muscular among us—short brown hair, chestnut eyes, a dirty beard.
"Reunalt! You and your team will assist Apollo."
Reunalt acknowledged the order with a nod. He's a quiet man and an excellent mace user. Among us, he is the best close-combat fighter; if there are orcs, he's the one who should be near Apollo. Then I turned to my sly-looking colleague— lean but muscular, shorter than us, with black hair and black eyes.
"Konex! You and your men will continue to keep watch around the camp. Maintain the highest level of vigilance."
I carefully scanned my surroundings—six of them were still on watch, ten were near me. We needed to be cautious about this. There was no need to create unnecessary enemies. If the orcs were watching us, it meant serious trouble. The possibility of an orc raid was very high. A sleepless night was ahead of us. I looked at my colleagues and continued speaking in a calm voice.
"Remember, we need to act normal—do nothing that would draw attention. If they're just curious birds, it doesn't matter, but if they're snakes, then we mustn't startle the snake."
After finishing my words, I paused briefly, then continued.
"We should set up traps around the perimeter—pitfalls with stakes, ditches, spiked barricades to stop warg riders. Tomorrow, under the pretext of trap training, we'll teach the militiamen how to set them. Also, we'll need to make flaming arrows, ready to—"
Maximus cut me off.
"No! If a flaming arrow sets the forest around us on fire, we'll be trapped! The forest has been bone-dry for a long time—even if there's some light humidity, it hasn't rained in days. We mustn't use anything that could start a fire."
Apollo also agreed.
"He's right, Leon. We don't want to end up caught in a fire trap just to keep the enemy at bay."
I thought for a moment and looked around. We were surrounded by trees, grass, and shrubs. It hadn't rained in a long while; the ground was dry. For it to be this dry in the north was bad luck. Still, there was a water source nearby. Hmm… they were right—not taking the risk was better. But it wouldn't hurt to be prepared.
"Alright, you're right. But still—let's make the flaming arrows, just to have them ready. We'll decide whether to use them depending on the weather."
Once my colleagues agreed, I sighed. Junes spoke up again.
"Leon, we should teach the militiamen crossbow maintenance. Their crossbows are in terrible condition—they don't know how to take care of their weapons. If crossbows fail during battle, it'll be bad for the army.""I understand. We'll teach them before shooting practice tomorrow. But explain it well—it'll be a one-time lesson. We can't keep interrupting training to constantly repeat it."
"Understood."
I took a deep breath. I hoped these watchers were merely curious eyes. If they were enemy scouts, that would be bad. Our infantry was small in number. The wall around the camp, while present, was crude and hastily made—good for keeping wild animals and goblins away, maybe for withstanding a small orc raid, but insufficient against a large group. We had enough ammunition for a battle, but no cavalry. Our unit was a unit in name only; we weren't bonded yet. Their obedience to orders was uncertain—I could only hope there'd be no problems in a real clash.
"Kios, you and Konex—organize a few groups. From now on, every six hours, have them wet the walls and tents. During the hottest hours, do it every four hours. The enemy might try to set our fences on fire. Also, I want you to dig ditches and set various traps. Within two days, I want the entire perimeter of the camp filled with defenses."
Kios chuckled, then looked me in the eyes. Speaking with a grin, though a touch of regret in his expression, he said,
"Leave it to me, Leon! Trap-making is my specialty! During the civil war, many people died in my traps! I know the ones best suited for fortress defense."
"Don't forget, Kios—if the orcs are watching us, they may attack the camp. We must prepare for warg riders. They're too quick for crossbowmen."
"Don't worry, Leon—I'll handle it."
That eased me somewhat. Before being conscripted, Kios had been a hunter. He wasn't widely known, but I had heard of him—an excellent trap-maker. Every trap he set around us would be useful… Wait—that gave me an idea!
"Maximus! Before the traps are set, build a tall watchtower! If our new allies arrive, we don't want them walking into our own traps! We must be warned before allies approach the camp so we can alert them in advance. Apollo—shorten the intervals between patrols so that the sentries can see each other. We can't risk them being killed quietly—we're already few in number, and good fighters are even fewer. In camp, we can't afford to lose even one man. Every soldier is valuable to us—we'll be joining fierce battles in the future."
Maximus nodded and replied.
"Understood. Don't worry—I'll have one tall tower and four smaller watchtowers built. But give me some militiamen—I'm short on manpower."
Kios also spoke up.
"Why not give me a few of the younger ones? I can teach them trap-making, and we'll save time as well."
I thought for a moment.
"Alright, I'll send some militiamen with you—but after tomorrow's crossbow maintenance lesson. And only teach them simple traps. These men may leave us to return to their families, and could one day be our enemies. Let's not forget that possibility and don't hand them everything we know."
Kios made an 'okay' gesture with his finger.
"A sensible decision."
We spoke for a while longer about the plans, addressing the missing points. Then I excused myself and headed to my tent. Looking up at the sky, I saw a breathtaking sight dotted with countless stars—a reminder that this world still held beauty. But it was also a world filled with danger… Am I being selfish, wanting to see my family, dragging them into an even more dangerous place? What if they don't want to come here at all?
I stared at the sky with these doubts swirling in my mind, then went to bed. There was no point in overthinking it. As a commander, I had far too many other things to consider. But when my family arrives, this time I'll be there to protect them. I won't make the same mistake again.
—The Next Morning—
I began the day as usual—breakfast, physical training. After lunch, my group stood in front of me in two rows of six. I took a deep breath.
"BEFORE WE MOVE ON TO SHOOTING PRACTICE, YOU WILL LEARN HOW TO MAINTAIN YOUR CROSSBOWS! LISTEN CAREFULLY—THIS WILL BE A ONE-TIME LESSON!"
They all looked at me seriously. I had a crossbow in my hand, though not Betsy—that one was only for battle. The group formed a half-circle in front of me, listening intently. I began pointing out each part of the crossbow.
"First, let's know our weapon. This part is called the stock, also known as the body—it's the spine of the crossbow, where all the parts come together. This is the bow limb—it provides the tension force, usually made of steel or composite. This here is the string—without it, a crossbow is just a piece of shaped wood. This is the trigger mechanism—this is how we fire. This is the groove where we place the bolt—it's called the bolt channel. And this part here, where we hold the crossbow, is sometimes leather-covered—it's called the butt end. Those are the names of the parts. Now I'll show you how to maintain them!"
I paused for a few seconds, giving them time to absorb what I said, then continued.
"The stock must be wiped every morning with a linen cloth. The slide track should be smoothed with sandpaper. If there's mud, clean it off. If it's damp, dry it. If the stock rots, wears down, or cracks, the crossbow becomes scrap."
As I spoke, I demonstrated how to clean and sand the stock.
"The metal parts of the bow limb should be rubbed with olive oil or beeswax. If there's rust, scrape it off with a stone first, then rub it with oil."
I showed them slowly, scraping the rusty spots on my crossbow, then moved on to the next part.
"The string is the most delicate part. In damp weather, never leave it under tension overnight. Every night, unstring it and keep it in a cloth. If the string snaps during battle, you're in big trouble."
I stopped for a moment and looked at the young men—each seemed to understand. One raised his hand to ask a question.
"Do we have to do this every day?"
"Yes! You must maintain your crossbows daily, exactly as I showed you. Do you want your crossbow to break during battle? Or fail to shoot?"
I looked him calmly in the eyes as I spoke. He didn't look pleased, but said nothing. Another young man raised his hand.
"Commander, when will the veteran infantry join us? Not that I don't respect your work, but I think I'm more skilled in close combat. I didn't know using a crossbow would be this complicated."
I chuckled at that.
"I don't know either. I don't know when Igris will call for new men, but I want a new unit to join us as soon as possible. That way, we can train you in a different role. But for now, you have to make do with what you have. And even if you become infantry later, knowing how to use and repair a crossbow might save your life. Let me give you an example—imagine you and a few friends are being chased by a large enemy force. You take refuge in an old castle, but the enemy could find you at any moment. By chance, you find crossbows there—but they're old, poorly maintained. If you can restore them to working order, you can thin out your enemies before they get close, or hold them off to buy time. I had a friend who was in that exact situation. He and his team set up a defensive line in the castle's armory and managed to hold off the enemy until we arrived. And do you know the first thing he did?"
I paused, and the group stared at me. One asked,
"What?"
"He gave our crossbow sergeant a big hug. And he bought him a barrel of fine grape wine—because it was the sergeant who had taught him everything about crossbows. Thanks to that knowledge, he was able to get the old crossbows working and hold the enemy back without his team ever having to engage in melee."
When I finished, the young men began murmuring among themselves. I spoke again, this time more gently.
"Don't get tired of learning new things—or run from them. One day, it could save your life—or your allies' lives."
The young militiamen fell into thought. I could see a faint glimmer in Kevin's and Tommy's eyes. Sighing, I continued,
"For now, let's set this topic aside. Time is short—if this old man gets the chance later, he'll tell you some stories."
One young man grinned shyly.
"Commander, you're still young—you're only in your early forties."
Another snickered.
"And in this world, we'll be able to live over two hundred years! You're basically a kid!"
The young men laughed. I chuckled as well—I still hadn't fully grasped that my youth had returned, nor gotten used to the idea of living a long life. Calmly, I said,
"One day, if you become a commander, you'll understand how quickly you age. Anyway, let's get back to work—our maintenance lesson isn't over yet. Now I'll tell you what to watch out for in winter."
They pulled themselves together and focused on me. I continued in a calm voice.
"In winter—especially when there's snow—never leave the stock wet. It can cause various technical problems; the stock must always stay dry. This is the main reason crossbowmen don't stand watch beside large fires on the walls or in towers during winter. If the stock rots or cracks, the crossbowman's job becomes much harder. Also, make sure your trigger doesn't freeze. If it does, clean it with a soapy cloth and rub it with leather. If there's frost damage on the string, leave it under tension overnight."
I paused, took my water skin from my belt, drank a sip, and continued.
"Now, let's talk about repairing damaged parts! If your crossbow gets damaged during battle or outside the safety of the walls, you'll need to repair it yourself—since we won't have a blacksmith or carpenter at hand, it'll be up to you to fix it. I'll give you a few simple repair tips now."
After picking up a damaged crossbow, I continued speaking.
"If the stock is cracked, clean out the crack first. Then use wood glue or a resin with strong adhesion to seal it. Let it dry for at least twelve hours."
After showing them how to do it, I pointed at the snapped bowstring.
"Reinforce the broken part with horsehair, beeswax, or linen—tie it together to make a softer string. Accuracy may suffer, but it's better than not being able to shoot at all."
I repaired the string and fired at the target. The arrow's speed and accuracy had visibly decreased, but it was still better than nothing. Then I pointed at the bow limb.
"If the bow limb loosens, wedge in a block of wood instead of an iron pin. If there's any metal creaking, polish it with a stone."
Next, I pointed at the trigger.
"If the trigger jams, disassemble the parts, scrub them with a soapy cloth, and file down the sear wheel."
I showed them the process slowly. Then I added a few more tips—like how to braid a temporary bowstring from soft tree bark, or how to wrap a cracked stock in goat hide for temporary use. Now it was time for shooting practice, but first, I wanted to improve their reloading speed.
"Now I'll show you how to load bolts faster. Watch closely."
I planted my left foot on the crossbow's stirrup, my right foot slightly crossed for support. I kept my back straight but relaxed, breathing in rhythm. As I moved, I explained each step.
"…You need to draw power from your hips, not your arm muscles. If you don't have a cocking hook, be careful—you could cut your fingers or your hand. When you pull the string, use your hips for strength. Before you shoot, I recommend taking three breaths—it will calm you and help you focus on your target."
I paused and looked at the militiamen, seeing their attention fixed on me. They weren't bored with the lesson—unsurprising, given their times were far more chaotic than ours, and they understood the importance of these drills. Taking a deep breath, I continued.
"Your target time will be fifteen seconds—two seconds to set your foot, five seconds to draw the bow, one second to release the hook, four seconds to place the bolt, two seconds to aim, and one second to pull the trigger! Now—FIRST GROUP, TAKE FIRING POSITIONS!"
And so, our shooting training began.
—Apollo's Perspective—
I was on the trail. Alongside four Vaegir warriors, I was scouting the area within a five-kilometer radius of the camp. Normally, if we found no tracks, we'd only cover about three kilometers—but here we were, in the eastern sector of the camp. I'd tracked the signs this far, and after two kilometers of trailing, we were lucky enough to find fresh tracks. I whispered to Jerus beside me.
"Jerus, be careful. The tracks are very fresh. Inform the others."
He replied in a low voice.
"Understood."
Jerus used a few hand signals to give commands to the men. We moved in a horizontal line, spaced thirty paces apart—this was necessary to avoid losing the trail as we fanned out and examined the terrain piece by piece. And finally, we found them—the fresh tracks.
I examined the footprints: standard size, but these were incredibly fresh—someone had passed here just minutes ago. Then, a smell hit my nose. I muttered quietly:
"Smells like a rotting corpse."
"Yes… but more like rust and rotten eggs,"
We kept moving until, in a clearing, we heard noises. Advancing silently through the bushes, we finally found the owners of the tracks.
Orcs.
Jerus immediately raised his fist, signaling everyone to get down. We dropped flat onto our stomachs, motionless, weapons in hand. No one made a sound. Both I and the warriors beside me were experienced in this; the Vaegirs even more so—their age was one of endless war, and they had seen situations like this countless times. Ambushes were one of the most decisive tactics in war, especially in night raids.
I scanned the area—six orcs. Ugly as sin, but the real problem was what they were wearing. These bastards had armor—leather or half-steel. Their weapons were neither old nor rusty. If the intel I'd gathered upon arriving in this world was correct, their gear resembled Mordor craftsmanship. That meant one of two things: either these orcs had gotten lucky and scavenged this equipment, or we were looking at an actual military unit of orcs—and these were the scouts.
I whispered to Jerus, keeping my voice low—thirty meters separated us from the orcs, but there could be unseen ones nearby.
"Jerus, if I'm not mistaken, these are the vanguard of a military unit. They all have identical equipment—Mordor-made."
Jerus's eyes sharpened.
"Are you sure, Commander Apollo?"
"I'm an archer, Jerus. From here, I could tell you the color of an orc's eyes. I'll get closer—we need to be sure of their numbers. You and your men stay alert."
"Be careful. If they are a military unit, as you say, we'll need your skills more than anything else. We have far too few experienced men."
"Don't worry. I've done plenty of reconnaissance. Why do you think Leon sent me to Lake Town?"
I crouched and began to move forward, making sure to approach against the wind—orc senses of smell were sharp. Fortunately, our camp was nearby, and the scent of humans had lingered in the area for days, masking us. I slowed my breathing, moving with great care through the brush, avoiding stepping on or bumping into anything. After advancing ten meters, I found some mud. Setting Veronica aside, I quietly lay face-down in it, covering myself completely—dirt would dampen my scent.
We were lucky this was near wetlands—even orcs needed to drink water. Though I sure as hell wasn't going to drink from where they did.
Once ready, I picked up Veronica and crept closer. At less than ten meters away, I stopped, scanning my surroundings. No warg riders—good. But I spotted three more orcs. My earlier count from a distance had been correct—they wore Mordor-made weapons and armor. Even from afar, the craftsmanship was obvious: sinister, cruel designs. The question now was—were these tribal orcs, or legion orcs? If tribal, they'd be from a settlement, looking for a place to raid. If legion, they were the vanguard of an army—and that meant we were in deep trouble and would have to retreat immediately.
As I pondered, two orcs emerged just four meters to my left, carrying a deer on their shoulders. They paused, sniffing the air.
SNIIIFF—
SNIIIFF—
One spoke.
"Mâshu globûrz snaga-ishi, agh ronk! Shak globûrz-ob?"
(I smell man-flesh, but it's faint! Do you smell it too?)
"Ghâsh, agh burzum-ishi globûrz ghashûrz-ishi, globûrz lat."
(Yes, but there's a human military camp nearby—that's normal.)
Great. They were speaking Black Speech. And of course, I didn't understand Black Speech. At least I hadn't been detected—mud camouflage was doing its job. If they'd noticed me, these twisted-faced monsters would have attacked instantly.
The two moved on, conversing in that infernal tongue. Oh, wonderful. Would it kill them to speak some Common for once?
"Godo, Karir! Mâ lat globûrz? Mâku glob-hûrz!"
(Godo, Karir! Where have you been? We're starving!)
"Grishnákh, krimp-ob na thrakûrz, globûrz-ishi."
(Grishnákh, the prey was quicker than we expected, so we were delayed.)
While they chatted, I began to withdraw—very quietly, very calmly. There were eleven orcs in total now, which only made the risk of being spotted higher. The orcs set the deer's carcass down, then began tearing it apart and eating it raw.
Ugh. I almost vomited. What a sight. Intestines, spleen, heart, liver—nothing spared. Blood dripped from their mouths, the thick stench burning my nostrils. They chewed loudly, and I could clearly see blood spurting as their teeth ripped through the meat. Now I understood even better why no one in this world liked orcs—they were savage animals.
I backed away silently. With all the noise of their feeding, they couldn't hear me anyway. I reached Jerus and gave a hand signal. We pulled back sixty meters from the feeding ground. Jerus muttered:
"What in the gods' name are these creatures? The way they ate that deer puts predators to shame."
Calmly, I replied:
"Up close, it's even worse. My stomach turned. I've walked among countless corpses and thought I was numb to horror—but what I just saw was something else entirely. Now imagine them eating people."
I rubbed my stomach. Wonderful. Just what I needed—fresh nightmare fuel for tonight. I'd have to hug Veronica tight to sleep.
"What are your orders, sir?"
"Send two men back to camp—report to Leon that we've confirmed eleven orcs. I was right—they have Mordor gear. Tell him we'll watch them for a while to determine if they're tribal or legion orcs, and he should keep the camp on war readiness. If you see Renault's group, warn them too—eyes open for more orcs. Reinforcements would be great. Also tell them we haven't seen any warg riders… yet."
Jerus quickly signaled two men, who nodded and started toward camp. Then he sighed, giving me a sulky look.
"I was hoping to sleep in my tent tonight."
My eyebrow twitched.
"As if I want to spend the night in the middle of the forest. With orcs."
Looked like it was going to be a long night.
(Author's note: Dear readers, I've been swamped with work this past week. I couldn't write as much as I usually do. I'll be busy for another week or two, but I'll try to get a chapter out — still, a week might not be enough.)