Erwin stood before a low table in the captain’s cabin, a letter in his hand.
The paper trembled ever so slightly as he read, his eyes narrowed behind his spectacles, lips pressed into a thin line.
He didn’t even look up when Rhoen walked in.
“Found it,” he said.
Setting the letter aside, he picked up another document.
A red wax seal was stamped across it, bearing Nilfgaard’s sun emblem.
Erwin rested a finger on the signature.
“Agreement for the Disposal of Military Quartermaster Supplies.” Signed by Tavar Eggebracht, Quartermaster of the Nilfgaardian Army Group ‘Center’ Camp.
His finger slid to the next line.
“Destination of the disposed goods: Civilian Material Recovery Contractor, Temeria Theater of Operations.”
He tapped the line twice.
Turning the page over, he revealed an inventory list.
Some entries had been crossed out and replaced with new figures.
Others were marked with question marks, which had later been circled.
“Mail hauberks, mail coifs, finely forged breastplates, medium helmets and kettle hats, one-handed and two-handed swords, longbows, military crossbows.”
“And plenty of logistical supplies as well—belt buckles, quivers, armor-piercing daggers, maintenance oil, flint, bandages, ore.
Altogether, enough to equip sixty or seventy men.”
“It even includes dimeritium.
Looks like their targets weren’t just ordinary people.
A single mage is worth far more than an entire shipload of common slaves…”
He placed the document back on the table.
“This is the shipment mentioned in the camp correspondence—the one meant to upgrade the slave-catching squads’ equipment and recruit more men.”
His gaze shifted from the papers to Rhoen.
“The quartermaster of the Nilfgaardian Army Group ‘Center’ Camp oversees all military supplies for the forces stationed there.
What gets written off, how much gets written off, and where those supplies end up afterward—all it takes is his signature.”
Erwin swallowed.
“Within the Nilfgaardian Army Group ‘Center’ Camp, the quartermaster ranks second only to the commanding officer.”
…
In the lowest deck of the ship, Cole stood before a pile of wooden crates.
They had been uncovered beneath the lowest layer of grain.
Once the sacks had been cleared away, a row of tightly sealed crates had appeared beneath the deck planks.
Using his sword, Miko pried loose the nails from the lid of the topmost crate.
As the lid swung open, the torchlight glinted across rows of interlocking mail rings.
Mail hauberks.
Mail coifs.
Finely forged breastplates.
Longswords, their blades coated in protective oil against rust.
Military crossbows, folded for storage, their stocks made from hardwood reinforced with iron fittings, with brass plates protecting the trigger mechanism.
Cole removed each item one by one.
Then, at the bottom of the crate, his hand touched something different.
A stack of blueprints.
Miko couldn’t make sense of the diagrams.
Curved lines intersected one another, with measurements and angle markings filling the margins.
Crossbow Mechanism Replacement Parts — Version III.
Miko handed the blueprints to Rhoen.
Rhoen glanced over them.
He understood the mechanism immediately.
An eccentric cam.
A connecting rod.
The principle itself wasn’t particularly complicated—but manufacturing it to the required precision would be extremely demanding.
He folded the blueprints and tucked them inside his mail hauberk.
…
When Erwin emerged again, he carried a rolled parchment.
He unfurled it.
At the bottom was a blue wax seal bearing Redania’s royal crown, surrounded by a ring of crisp lettering.
“Issued by the Port Authority of the Free City of Novigrad, Kingdom of Redania.”
Erwin tapped the seal.
“A vessel transit permit.
It authorizes the registered ship to enter the Port of Novigrad for docking, resupply, trade, and repairs.
It’s valid for three years, and it still has more than two years remaining.”
His finger moved down to another line printed in smaller script.
“Registered vessel information: Ship name, Seagull; vessel type, cog merchant ship; owner, Walter Griffin; place of registration, Nilfgaard.”
His finger lingered on that line for a brief moment.
“He registered the ship in Nilfgaard, yet obtained its transit permit from Redania.
Novigrad is a free city.
As long as you pay the harbor fees, they’ll let any ship in.”
He rolled the parchment back up and tied it shut with its ribbon again.
“This ship has a very shallow draft.
It can sail straight into the river inlet beside the camp.
With this transit permit, we’ll have a legitimate supply channel for purchasing goods.”
He looked up at Rhoen.
“And those florins…
Nilfgaardian currency can’t be used directly in the North.
They have to be exchanged for crowns at a bank in Novigrad.
I have a classmate who works in foreign exchange there.
He can get us a pretty favorable rate.”
Rhoen looked at him and waited for him to finish.
“You know how to sail a ship?”
Erwin adjusted his monocle.
“No.
But I’ve read seamanship manuals.
A single-masted merchant cog usually doesn’t require particularly complicated sail handling.” He paused.
“It’s worth a try.”
…
At the bend in the river stood the camp’s watchtower.
Wrapped in a cloak, the sentry rested one hand on his bow as his eyes swept downstream.
Moonlight washed the river in a pale gray sheen.
Then he saw it.
A silhouette emerged from around the bend in the inlet.
First came the mast.
Then the sail.
The bow cut through the water, sending twin white wakes spreading along either side.
At the top of the mast fluttered a flag in the night wind.
The sun emblem of Nilfgaard.
The sentry seized the bell rope beside him.
The bronze bell atop the watchtower rang out.
Clang!
Clang!
Three peals.
The camp reacted even faster than the bell.
Along the walls surrounding the central courtyard, the Battanian Fian Champions were already in position, bows half drawn, arrows nocked, every arrowhead tracking the moving silhouette on the river.
Some men tightened the straps of their leather armor.
Others snatched spears from the weapon racks.
Footsteps echoed throughout the camp.
Then came the thunder of galloping hooves.
Horseshoes pounded across the gravel road leading from the camp to the river inlet.
Karl rode at the front, only his eyes visible through the slit of his full-face helmet.
His lance was tucked beneath his arm, its point angled toward the path ahead.
Behind him rode fifteen Imperial Elite Cataphracts in a wedge formation, their horses shoulder to shoulder, their lance tips perfectly aligned into a single, merciless line even as they galloped.
Sixteen Imperial warhorses, brought all the way from Calradia, each taller and heavier than any horse found in Velen.
Their hooves hammered the earth, making the ground tremble.
The lances rose and fell with the motion of the horses, every single one moving in perfect unison.
…
The ship had already reached the shore.
The gangplank was lowered.
The first to disembark was the dwarf, a wooden barrel slung over his shoulder.
Behind him came a group of ragged civilians, supporting one another as they slowly made their way down the gangplank.
The dwarf was the first to hear the approaching hoofbeats.
His head snapped up.
He saw the lances.
Lined up in formation.
Charging straight toward the river inlet.
The hoofbeats grew louder and louder, crushing the gravel beneath iron-shod hooves.
“Shit!”
Brom hurled the barrel onto the ground and roared, “Cavalry!
Back on the ship!”
Before he had even finished shouting, Karl had already closed to less than a hundred paces from the vessel.
All sixteen lances dropped level at the same instant.
Their tips shifted from pointing forward at an angle to perfectly horizontal.
The warhorses never slowed.
The rapid pounding of hooves deepened into the heavy, rhythmic thunder of a full cavalry charge.
Brom didn’t retreat to the ship.
Instead, he hoisted the barrel in front of himself.
The muscles in his thick, stubby arms bulged as he held its bottom outward like a shield.
A furious roar burst from his throat.
“Come on!”
His voice seemed powerful enough to shatter the ripples across the river.
“If you want to kill them, you’ll have to step over my dead body first!!”
The woman in the gray robe didn’t run.
She spread both arms, shielding the children behind her.
Her lips moved silently, but no sound came out.
The civilians huddled together, trembling, their eyes filled with despair and numb resignation.
Aina’s pupils had shrunk to pinpoints.
Her hands were still shaking.
Yet she remained at the very front of the crowd, refusing to step aside.
Sixteen lances.
Less than a hundred paces from the river inlet.