To use cannons on refugees... it was indeed something the Empire would do. Or rather, in this world, it was quite normal. With such low productivity, in the face of a great disaster, it was simply impossible to feed so many people. It was obvious what these refugees would become. To give them a cannonball was, in a way, more efficient than to give them food.
Such was the mercy of the great lords.
The lords in the city cannot see them, and what cannot be seen, does not exist. If there are no refugees, then the Empire is prosperous, and all is peace and song within its borders.
And the artillery company had thought the same. How hard could it be to fight a few refugees?
As Number Three told it, they were a newly formed artillery company of the Empire. The entire eastern province had only one regiment, with six companies under its command. A single cannon required four to six horses to pull, and the specialized knowledge required of an artilleryman was immense. In an age without widespread education, the cost of training a single NCO was enormous. All told, they were a more precious branch of the service than even the cavalry.
An artillery company consisted of 150 men and eight cannons of various calibers. Three companies had been dispatched, nearly five hundred men and twenty-four cannons. In addition, there were regular army units of infantry, spearmen, and cavalry, as well as the knights and peasant-levies summoned by the local lords, for a total force of three thousand men. This was a force sufficient to fight a sizable battle against a regular army. Against mere refugees, would it not be an easy victory?
Until they encountered a horrific war.
At this point in his story, Number Three fell silent. No matter how many times Lance pressed him, he would not continue, only shaking his head, his face a mask of terror.
"After the battle, we were separated from the main force. There were less than a hundred of us left, a mix from different companies. And we had only three cannons remaining. We were a remnant, but as long as we returned in due course, our identities could be proven. But for some reason, when we appeared before a regular army unit, we were fired upon. We only learned later that our identities had likely been declared 'killed in action.' To appear before the Empire now would be to be branded as deserters, and desertion is a capital crime everywhere. We could not go back. We could only take our gear and flee into the remote mountains.
"We lost most of our baggage train on the run. To survive, we had to attack brigands and bandits, taking food from their hands, all while trying to find our way home. Then, we rescued that woman from a band of brigands. She claimed to be of noble birth, that her guards had been killed and she had been captured. And after she joined us... the Captain began to go mad..."
Lance had heard from Dismas before that there was a bewitching woman among the brigands. Now, hearing it again from Number Three, he was unimpressed. A band of deserters, who had plundered caravans, attacked villages, burned and killed their way across the land... and they pinned the blame on a woman. He had heard such stories too many times. The feudal dynasties of old had always blamed the emperor's incompetence on others. He himself, upon taking over the Hamlet, had laid the Ancestor's sins at the feet of the steward and the Magistrate. "Degenerate stories" held no interest for him. Solving the problem at hand was more important.
"Where are the cannons? Are they usable? Is there enough ammunition?"
"They are in the camp. They are usable. As for ammunition, there is not much, but enough for several volleys."
Hearing this, Lance was glad he had chosen to take the offensive rather than wait for them to attack. If those cannons opened up, his own defensive lines would completely collapse. His new recruits would never be able to hold back a hundred brigands.
"Do you think the Captain will take the cannons to attack the barbarians?"
"He would probably only take one 8-pounder. The other two are too heavy to move easily in the wilds. And one cannon requires eight skilled crewmen to operate."
"Who do you think has a greater chance of winning?"
"Us, of course," Number Three said without hesitation. Though he was now a deserter, he still held the pride of an Imperial artilleryman. "How could those barbarians possibly be a match for the Empire's cannons?"
......
Number Two and the two wounded elites stumbled back into their camp, their arrival causing an immediate sensation. To be honest, being cooped up in this ravine day after day was an ordeal. Even the presence of women grew tiresome after a while. And so, everyone had become sensitive. The smallest incident could spread through the entire camp in an instant, to say nothing of something of this magnitude. Two elite squads and two lieutenants had gone out, and only three had returned. Everyone was curious as to what had happened.
"What the hell happened?" This, of course, included the Captain, though his curiosity was tinged with a palpable rage. He had been waiting at home for good news, and now this. Who could bear it?
"The barbarians... we were... ambushed by the barbarians..." Number Two gasped, not having even caught his breath. "We have to save Number Three! They can't hold out for long!"
The Captain, now thoroughly agitated, immediately called for a large group of men and, with Number Two leading the way, rushed back to the site of the ambush. But by now, the scene had been cleaned. All that remained were some bloodstains and bits of flesh. There was no sign of any bodies.
"Where the hell are they?" the Captain roared, a bad premonition growing in his heart as he looked at the empty camp. He turned to Number Two. "You and your damn gun! I'm asking you, where are they?"
Number Two looked at the scene in a panic, his eyes darting about, searching for any trace. In the short time it had taken them to get back, everyone had vanished. Not even the bodies were left.
"Is this the place? I'm asking you, where are they?" the Captain pressed, seeing that Number Two did not answer. "Where are Number Three and the two squads?"
"I... I don't know..." Number Two was at a loss. This was the place, but there was nothing here.
Hearing this, the Captain confirmed that Number Three and his eight elites were gone. His rage boiled over. He screamed at the dense forest. "Barbarians! This isn't over! Just you wait!"
The surrounding brigands watched their captain's crazed display in silence, afraid of being caught in his wrath.
After a round of venting, the Captain quickly calmed himself. What's wrong with me? he thought. On the battlefield, this kind of mentality would not last long. Ever since coming here, he had become so irritable. Had becoming a brigand made him lose his discipline? But even after his rage had subsided, he still felt a sharp pang of grief. If it had been eight common grunts, it would have been easier to bear. But eight of his personal elites? These were the crack troops he had brought with him from the artillery company, men who were literate, who could fire the cannons, who were his own people.
"Tell me what happened," the Captain said, forcing down his anger as he looked at Number Two.
"We followed that man out. It was just as he said. The bodies were all gone, and there were wolf prints on the ground and gnawed human bones. In this region, only the barbarians can command wolves. We followed the trail and found that several other camps had also been hit, all the men killed, all the bodies gone. And then we came here. We were attacked by hidden barbarians. They had at least ten gunmen, and they were all crack shots. Before we could even react, most of us were down. We had to fight to the death just to escape."