Erwin pondered for a moment before answering.
“Nilfgaard did consider wiping him out during the early stages of the war.
But later, they changed their strategy.
Instead of sending troops to attack him, they tacitly accepted his rule and simply required him to deliver supplies on a regular basis.”
“They’re bleeding him dry.”
“Yes—but not because they need the supplies.” Erwin lightly tapped the edge of the table with his fingertip.
“The Nilfgaardian Empire has fully established supply lines by both sea and land.
Their fleets can sail north along the coast, then enter the interior via the Yaruga River without ever passing through an active war zone.
Their overland supply routes stretch all the way from the southern provinces to the front lines, with military depots stationed along the way.”
He looked up.
“The supplies Velen can provide are insignificant to the tens of thousands of soldiers stationed on the front.
The regular tribute isn’t about logistics—it’s about dividing and restraining him.”
“They’re keeping the baron’s power under control,” Rhoen said.
“Gradually weakening it,” Erwin corrected.
“The baron’s core forces are made up of old Temerian veterans, but he has no stable rear territory.
He can’t collect taxes consistently, and without tax revenue, he can’t pay his soldiers.
That leaves him with no choice but to tolerate his men looting on their own.”
“Looting turns the local people against him.
Every roaming bandit and brigand dumps their crimes on his reputation.
The worse his reputation becomes, the harder it is to collect taxes.
The less tax revenue he has, the more he has to tolerate looting.”
“At the same time, Nilfgaard keeps drawing blood from him.
The obligation to deliver supplies forces him to loot even more often, which brings even greater infamy and even less support from the people.”
“When those Temerian veterans joined him, they thought they were defending their homeland.
Now they realize they’re little different from common bandits.
Those who have somewhere else to go will eventually leave.
Those with any pride left will simply grow silent.”
“The ones who remain will increasingly be the true desperados.
The army’s most important qualities—its fighting spirit and cohesion—are slowly falling apart,” Erwin concluded.
“Nilfgaard doesn’t need to defeat him.
They only need to keep him trapped in the mire of Crow’s Perch.
Bleed him once in a while, and he’ll rot away on his own.”
“And now the quartermaster has ordered him to wipe out a ‘resistance’ force.
He agreed, sent a small squad wandering around south for a while, then reported that they’d gotten lost and never found the target.”
Rhoen folded the letter and slid it beneath his cup.
“He sent a handful of men to wander aimlessly in the south…
then told me he was waiting for me.”
“So he has no interest in doing the quartermaster’s bidding.
He’d rather keep the initiative in his own hands.”
Rhoen rose to his feet.
The water in his cup had long since gone cold, the letter pinned beneath it.
Outside in the central courtyard, shouted drill commands and the clash of steel echoed from afar.
Miko was leading the new recruits through formation practice.
“We’re going to Crow’s Perch,” Rhoen said.
“Straight through the front gate.”
The following day—
Rhoen decided to visit Crow’s Perch with Karl, while Erwin remained behind to oversee the camp’s defenses and handle its daily affairs.
The camp now housed nearly a hundred people.
Every day brought more routine work than actual fighting—distributing rations, assigning guard shifts, repairing the palisade, settling disputes.
Without someone capable of running things at home, the whole place could descend into chaos before noon.
Erwin’s ledger board was already crammed with writing.
One glance was enough for Rhoen before he quietly walked away.
Just before they departed, Brom emerged from the smithy carrying a coat of mail.
It bore little resemblance to the hastily pieced-together one Tod had made before.
Every iron ring was uniform in size and tightly interlocked.
The joints were dense and neatly woven, with almost no visible seams.
The collar had been reinforced with thicker rings, while leather padding had been threaded along the inside.
Brom flipped the mail over.
Triangular leather gussets had been added beneath the armpits for greater flexibility, and two extra leather straps had been woven through the shoulder rings to reinforce them.
Without a word, he shoved it into Rhoen’s hands.
“Put this one on.”
Rhoen changed into the new mail and jumped in place several times.
The shoulders fit perfectly.
The hem hung to the middle of his thighs.
The reinforced collar rested comfortably against his neck—neither chafing nor pinching.
As he rolled his shoulders, the mail expanded and contracted with each movement, the interlocking rings gliding smoothly against one another.
It fit far closer to his body than the old one ever had.
Brom circled halfway around him while he moved, pinched the seam at his waist, tugged at the leather gusset beneath the armpit, then gave a satisfied grunt.
Without waiting for Rhoen to say anything, Brom handed him another piece of armor.
It was a lamellar cuirass of cold iron-gray plates, each one hammered repeatedly into shape, its curved edges following the contours of the chest.
It had been rebuilt from Karl’s old suit of lamellar armor.
The original full suit had been cut down and refitted into a cuirass sized for Rhoen.
The surplus plates had been layered into a double overlap over the shoulders.
The fastening straps were brand new, cut from beeswax-treated cowhide that bit tight with a single hard pull.
Rhoen slipped the lamellar cuirass over the mail and cinched the leather straps at his waist.
He swung an arm.
The overlapping shoulder plates shifted smoothly over one another, producing a soft chorus of scraping metal.
Brom tilted his head up to look at him, his beard twitching slightly.
It wasn’t the expression of someone pleased with his work.
It was the look of a master craftsman whose work had turned out exactly as it should.
There was nothing worth praising.
Rhoen picked up the two-handed battle axe leaning against the wall and rested the haft across his shoulder.
“This’ll do.”
The ten Household Knights had already assembled in formation in the courtyard.
Their Imperial Elite Cataphract armor gleamed with a cold sheen beneath the afternoon sun.
Only a pair of silent eyes could be seen through the narrow slits of their visored helms.
Their horse barding stretched from the horses’ necks all the way to their hindquarters, rows of scale plates neatly overlapping one another.
Karl wore his newly reforged full plate armor, his cavalry lance standing upright at his side, its butt secured in the leather socket beside the saddle.
“Move out!”
The column rode through the camp gate and followed the river north.
…
Under the afternoon sun, the marshes of Velen steamed with pale gray mist.
From the camp, the road followed the river through the marshlands.
Once they crossed a low ridgeline, the reddish stone buildings atop the distant hill came into view.
A handful of guards stood atop the walls, their crooked silhouettes visible even from afar.
By the time the company reached the village drawbridge, the sun had just emerged from behind the clouds.
The sunlight stretched the shadows of riders and horses long and heavy across the muddy road.
The guard at the entrance had been squatting beside the gate, gnawing at a strip of dried meat with his front teeth.
The moment he got close enough to make out the overlapping scales of the horse barding—
He froze.
The halberd he’d been resting against the ground now lay flat in the mud.
He hadn’t even noticed when he’d let go of it.
The overlapping scales shimmered with a cold gray sheen beneath the afternoon sun, like a metal beast drawing slow, steady breaths.
The riders were armored from head to toe as well.
Through the narrow slits of their visored helms, only their eyes were visible.
Their gazes remained fixed straight ahead.
Their lances stood upright beside them, the spearheads forming a perfectly parallel line beneath the sunlight.
Each hoofbeat struck the ground in exactly the same rhythm.
They looked only forward.
Ahead of them lay Crow’s Perch’s muddy main street—and the red-brick fortress at its end.
The two riders at the front advanced side by side.
The one on the left wore full plate over a coat of mail.
A pronounced medial ridge ran down his breastplate from the sternum to his belt.
By all rights, he should have been the most eye-catching man in the company.
Instead, everything about him was overshadowed by the giant riding beside him.
Rhoen’s lamellar cuirass rested over his mail, its plates forged in a cold iron-gray finish.
The mail itself draped from his shoulders all the way to the middle of his thighs.
At 2.2 meters tall, mounted atop his warhorse, the top of his head was nearly level with the eaves of the roadside houses.
From beneath those eaves, looking up at him, it seemed as though he blocked out half the sunlight, casting a broad shadow across the muddy street.
He carried a two-handed battle axe casually in one hand, its blade hanging toward the ground.
His fingers rested loosely around the haft, as though he were carrying nothing heavier than a tree branch.
The guard swallowed.
The strip of dried meat was still hanging from his mouth.
He had seen routed deserters.
He had seen Nilfgaardian patrols passing through.
He had seen mercenaries coming to Crow’s Perch to do business.
But he had never seen anyone move like this.
It wasn’t the way they walked.
It was something deeper.
Even the sound of their horses’ hooves striking the muddy ground seemed to overlap into a single rhythm.
Karl reined in his horse before the gate and raised his right hand.
All ten cavalrymen halted at the exact same moment.
He pushed up his visor, revealing the young face beneath.
“The Calradic Mercenary Company,” he announced.
“We’ve come as arranged to pay the Baron a visit.”