Looking at the scene before him, the Captain's mind was completely filled with a rising tide of fury. "You worthless fools!" he roared. "You didn't even see the enemy, so why did you fire? You're like a pack of pathetic recruits, with no sense of order! Get back to your positions!"
The men, already demoralized by the ambush, were crushed by the Captain's tirade. Their morale took a heavy blow.
Number Two, who had been sent to search the area, returned with the bodies of two men clad in white wolf pelts—likely killed in the chaotic friendly fire. "Boss," he said, moving to placate his leader, "these must be the barbarian reinforcements. Their appearance means they've brought the thing back with them."
At this, the Captain's anger was largely washed away, replaced by a different kind of fervor. "All wounded will remain here to form a defense and gather the bodies! The rest of you, advance at full speed! Kill them all!"
This was not a decision made in the heat of the moment. He did not know that the Wolf Pack's patrol range was so large; he believed they had been attacked only because they had stumbled upon a returning party. If that was the case, he had to intercept them now, before they could rejoin their main camp. If he could stop them here, it would be a great victory.
But the wounded brigands did not think so. To be left behind in this situation was a death sentence. The wounded thought they were being abandoned. The uninjured also grew despondent, for who could guarantee that they would not be the next to be wounded, to become a burden, to be discarded by their leader? Their already precarious morale plummeted again. Seeing that they were on the verge of a rout, the Captain understood. He immediately announced a new decree.
"One silver coin for every barbarian head! And any loot taken from a man you kill is yours to keep! I won't take a single copper!"
At his words, the brigands' mood instantly shifted to one of excitement. In the past, the majority of their plunder had to be handed over; little of it ever ended up in their own pockets. But now, not only were the enemy's heads worth money, but their belongings were also theirs for the taking. The brigands could not resist such a rich temptation. Their fallen morale was forcefully pulled back up by a single sentence. Though they had lost many men, the barbarians' attack had been repulsed. They had even left behind two of their own dead, and the corpses of several white wolves. This proved the enemy was not invincible.
As for the wounded? That was their own bad luck. What did it have to do with them? Just die somewhere far away.
"The wounded will stay here for treatment. The rest, march on."
With that, he abandoned the handful of wounded men and a field of corpses and continued his advance. The earlier ambush had, in a way, restored some discipline to his ranks. And the Captain, for his part, had cast aside his earlier contempt for the enemy, sending out scouts to prevent another surprise attack.
But Lance had no intention of following them. Instead, his gaze fell upon the wounded men left behind.
"You want to move against them?" Number Three asked, sensing Lance's intent. The thought of attacking his former comrades brought a look of pain to his face.
"They are blocking our path. It is our rule that we are paid for the work we do. You can choose not to participate, but you will have to pay us a hundred gold coins to do your share for you."
At this, the lieutenant's expression immediately hardened. "What do you need me to do?" he asked, his voice serious. Life as a brigand was an ordeal. He had once been a proud Imperial artilleryman, a non-commissioned officer. After having lived that life, how could he be content to be a bandit? He could only borrow the heads of his brothers for a moment.
"Dismas, go and bring Reynauld and the others here."
As he spoke, Lance began to study the wounded men. Three were already dead. Of the remaining eleven, two were dying, and four were so severely wounded they were no longer combat-effective. That left only five who were lightly wounded and still mobile. It would be difficult for any of them to even escape this place. They could only perform some basic first aid on their wounds, and then lie there, moaning in agony, waiting to die, praying that the main force would return victorious and they might be saved.
But in truth, Lance could already see that the Captain was employing a rather... pragmatic form of triage. As had been mentioned before, medical care in this society was extremely primitive. The typical progression was injury, infection, and then death. By leaving these men behind, regardless of whether he won or lost, their chances of survival were slim. Not everyone could endure on death's door for more than a fortnight like Barristan, and then be saved by Lance's unstinting use of his powers. It could be said that these men were already dead.
"The Captain was not always like this," Number Three said, his voice full of sorrow as he watched the scene. "He rose from the common folk to become an officer, graduating with distinction from the military academy. He was known for being studious and diligent, an honest and kind man. He never put on airs with the common soldiers and was well-loved by them. The only reason any of us escaped... it was all thanks to him."
He had noticed the Captain's strange behavior before, but now, seeing it from a third-person perspective, the man seemed like a stranger, as if he had been replaced by someone else—someone greedy, irascible, and mad.
"What exactly happened in that war?" Lance tried again to probe his secret, but Number Three remained tight-lipped, even changing the subject.
"It must be that woman's fault. It was her bewitching that made him this way."
Here we go again, Lance thought, exasperated. But he was also curious. What was the story with this woman, that she held such an important position?
While they were waiting, the two dying men finally succumbed to their wounds. Comically, the first thing the mobile survivors did was to start looting their bodies.
"Get ready. Avoid using guns if you can, so we don't alert them." Lance looked at his men and noticed that Number Three had, from somewhere, found a piece of cloth to cover half his face. It seemed he still felt some guilt. But who would not recognize him? It was a classic case of plugging one's ears while stealing a bell.
"Move."
At Lance's command, the team sprang into action. Against these non-combat-effective wounded, no tactics were needed. They simply charged out of the dense forest. The battle was over in a matter of seconds, amidst the terrified cries of the ambushed.
Number Three looked at the dead brigands, their faces frozen in expressions of shock and disbelief. He knew they had recognized him. A complex emotion rose within him.
"You will return to the city," Lance said, seeing his dazed expression. "You will sleep in a clean, neat bed, and eat warm, sweet white bread." He still had a use for this man. He couldn't have him breaking down at a critical moment.
"I am fine," the lieutenant said with a sigh, shaking his head.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Suddenly, a volley of gunfire echoed from the distance. The main battle had begun. They had no more time to waste.
"Dismas, you and he go on ahead. We will deal with these men."
"Yes, my lord!"
Number Three had no suspicions. He followed Dismas, scouting the path ahead. Lance quickly sacrificed all the corpses, lest the old bastard wake up and have a meal. He had no time for a thorough search. They threw all the gear into the dense forest and, taking the two "barbarian" long guns with them, hurried to catch up.