Chapter 149: Korimor's Fifteen

Chapter 149: Korimor's Fifteen

Korimor's Fifteen

Great Plains of Lowlandia

The airship, cavalry, and nomads continued to ride unopposed across the Great Plains. Without the heat of the sun, it was a pleasant journey for both humans and beasts. More importantly, at night the horseflies were inactive, which was a huge relief as they often became abundant around the height of fall.

For the nomads, the return of their Noyan buoyed their spirits. They had witnessed another glorious testament to his might. Soon, a saying spread among the tribes: The Noyan went to battle on horses and returned soaring in the sky.

Amazingly, the airship wasn’t the only spectacle. By chance, Sir Harold had found a horse unafraid of the half-beast. Although Francisca couldn’t ride, she could certainly sit still. Like a novice rider, her horse was led by a rope attached to Sir Harold’s horse.

When they rotated horses, Francisca, without a spare, simply jogged alongside. Her speed and endurance were sufficient to allow her horse to recover its stamina.

The nomads looked on with respect, having never seen a creature who could match their horses on foot. Many even contemplated the possibility of having children with her, as the nomadic tradition bore no taboos against such unions. They believed that a powerful offspring would greatly benefit their tribes.

Were it not for their respect for Sir Harold, the half-breed's guardian, they might have tried to woo her. Nevertheless, this did not deter eager youngsters from offering her their water and mare-wine.

Meanwhile, Lansius slept comfortably in his airship while Audrey, with time to spare, quizzed Hans about the airship's steering mechanisms.

The craftsman-turned-pilot had little else to occupy his time besides watching for trouble on the flat plains, bathed in the glow of the brass spotlight. Moreover, he knew from Angelo that the lady was a mage with keen vision, capable of spotting the black airship from afar, so he was eager to answer her questions.

After an hour, the Lady seemed to grasp the basics and asked, "If we have an emergency, how can a mage assist with the airship?"

Hans pondered, his forehead wrinkling. "My lady, I know little of magic. However, Angelo used to train himself by using the wind to steer the ship. If you could try the same, steering the balloon slightly left or right, it would be excellent practice."

Taking Hans' advice to heart, Audrey focused inward. Channeling her lackluster amount of magic, she experimented with manipulating the wind, testing her control over the airship’s movement. Although Ingrid had mentioned that her magical source seemed depleted and she felt it was not giving anything significant, Audrey managed to practice with what little she had.

The night was still young, and she practiced until she could no more.

Below, the riders of the plains moved through the night, guided by the trusted spotlight whose soft glow enabled them to see further into the darkness.

***

Korimor

Hugo wore a sour face that unnerved the men around him. He had sat, whined, and farted on the battlements above the city gate. From there, anyone could see the gathering of hundreds of armed men outside the city.

Michael arrived at the battlements fully armored, his face reddening from ascending a flight of stairs. He wasn’t alone; Omin, clad in orange brigandine, trailed behind him.

"You came armored, good," Hugo praised Michael, motioning to the empty seat next to him.

"What are their demands?" Michael asked as he sat.

Hugo gestured to Roger, the squire, to answer. "They claim to be families of the people we unjustly captured, demanding their release to end this peacefully."

"So, it's an intimidation," Michael surmised.

"And obviously a lie," Omin added, observing the enemy with his reddened eyes. "It's unlikely those families we captured could muster a hundred armed men from outside the city."

Hugo crossed his arms and stomped impatiently. "This is driving me nuts! How could they appear here after only one day?"

"One of the local knights must be in cohort with them," Michael ventured, then asked Roger, "Do you see any heraldry or banner?"

"None, Sir. We see nothing, and the scouts reported the same," Roger replied with confidence.

The knight with the eye patch inhaled sharply and stroked his chin.

Omin turned to them and warned, "They look quite formidable, obviously used to following commands."

"Mercenaries?" Michael asked.

Hugo frowned. "The remnants of the Nicopolans...? They're also mercenaries."

Omin approached them, his steps light, seemingly unconcerned about the situation. "Whoever they are, we know the smuggler is behind them. And knowing their motivation is the first step to victory."

Hugo, still seated, stared at Omin. "Then do we have a plan, Sir?"

Instead of answering, Omin quoted, "In times of confidence, attack. In times of doubt, defend."

With his hand, Hugo motioned for Omin to continue, unconcerned about the latter's status as former Lord. When Omin refused to elaborate further, Hugo's lips turned into a gleeful grin, mocking Omin's half-hearted approach.

In return, Omin gave a sharp look and a nose expression as if he had just caught a whiff of rotten feet, then looked away.

Michael intervened, asking, "Gentlemen, then how should we answer?"

Hugo had been sober for several nights in a row and had no wenches, making him miserable and prone to violence. Yet, he was an able military commander. He let out a huge belch and then blurted out with clarity, "It reeks of a bait."

"A bait," Michael repeated and acknowledged with a nod, while Omin said nothing but puckered his pale lips.

Hugo exhaled noisily and gazed at Omin. "And your take on this, Sir Omin?"

Omin gazed at the northern part of the city where wooden walls protected their fertile lands, now fallow for winter. "If it's true, they'll try to draw us out. And when we man the outer wall, they'll launch a strike on the inside."

Hugo said nothing but grinned, as if teasing Omin, which had become his hobby.

Again, Michael intervened, "Sir Omin's words seem to be true. The smuggler knew we have limited men. Meanwhile, they've shown they have men inside."

"Their goal would be to cause chaos. And then either free their people or take the city," Omin added.

"Then I propose to counter them," Hugo suggested, placing a wooden statue of a horseman on the map, just as Lansius used to do. He gazed at Michael. "I'll go out, while you hide your forces. If they appear, strike them."

Michael wiped the sweat from his forehead. "That will require a lot of men, and we don't have enough."

"That's my job. Worry not, I'll ride out only with a small group," Hugo snickered. "The Lord only trusted me with so few horsemen anyway."

Plains of Korimor

Four dozen men marched through the night, guided only by lanterns atop the carts. They had been fleeing with little rest since the hostilities outside Korimor ended.

They knew they were lucky to have escaped and didn’t want to risk being chased by resting. However, they had been forced to march yesterday and today, and were close to their limit. Their feet were blistered from worn-out leather insoles, with many wearing mismatched shoe sizes, and some even barefoot.

"Water!" someone demanded, face reddened and breathless, directed at the carts in front.

"Please, a break!" another voiced irritably.

The coachman was about to slacken the reins, but a handsome man in brigandine sitting next to him disagreed, "Don't slow down."

When the coachman began to slacken the reins anyway, the younger man tapped his hand firmly.

"But we're going to lose these men," the coachman whispered.

The leader of this doomed expedition simply whispered back with a light, even cheerful tone, "They can die. Their usefulness is over."

The coachman frowned, making the man smile. "We're close to winter. And food costs a lot, especially in Lowlandia. It's not coming from my purse, not after losing contact with Three Hills."

"We can drop them at the manor," the coachman argued.

Another shouted angrily from the back, disrupting their conversation. "We can't march anymore!"

The leader turned to the men behind him, daring a smile as the darkness concealed his face, and feigned encouragement in a soothing voice, "Keep it up! We're close to a good resting place."

There were grumbles and whines, but the men, fatigued and thirsty, could only groan.

"But my good man, we're still unable to free our clients. Can we afford to lose these Nicopolans?" the coachman whispered.

Returning to his seat, the leader shrugged and said, "It's unfortunate, but our client's men inside have successfully completed their part."

"Success?" the coachman was surprised. "But we haven't got anyone out, not the clients, nor the money or goods."

A wide smirk formed on the man's lips as he explained, "From the start, it was a long shot to think that we could free our clients."

"Then why are we attacking Korimor if not to lure them out and take the city?"

"I simply see another possibility to make a profit without relying on our clients' freedom."

The coachman made a sharp noise to alert his horse to the rougher, bumpier terrain he saw from his trusted reflective lantern. He then glanced at the leader and said, "I don't understand. How can we make a profit out of this situation?"

The man sat relaxed, unbothered by the bumpy ride. "In Lowlandia, wine and honey come from Three Hills, grain is from White Lake, but Korimor had only barley."

The coachman pulled the reins to the side to avoid a small mound. Then he responded, "So?"

"I suggested to our affiliates inside the city to burn the barley storage to cause chaos. But chaos isn’t the only thing I seek," he hinted.

"T-that's nasty. But how can we make a profit from the lack of barley?"

The younger man chuckled. "I have befriended a man who had an ample supply of barley. His land is only suited to grow those. Before, they were worth little and he fed his livestock with it. But soon they'll be worth their weight in silver."

"But every town grows its own barley. Can't ale makers get barley from somewhere else?"

"They could, but with South Hill still reeling from being occupied, a coup in Three Hills, and the Midlandia succession crisis in full swing, I doubt it."

The coachman nodded deeply in understanding. "And with winter coming up..."

Flashing his teeth, the leader nodded, seemingly satisfied with his plan. "I bet they'll need something good to drink when the snow forces them indoors."

The leader glanced toward the rear of the cart, where his Midlandian fighters sat alert among the supplies. They were obviously listening, but their eyes passed no judgment. This was how they survived in this harsh world. "You know, I'm not greedy. I only need to recoup my investment."

His fighters merely shrugged or stayed indifferent. Pleased with their reaction, the leader shifted his gaze further back. The lantern's light reached only so far, yet he could make out the figures of the four dozen men on foot, gradually fading into the distance. "I can't hear their whines and groans. Maybe it's time."

His lieutenant then gazed at the rest, ordering, "Be ready. They're almost at their end."

Out of five carts, three were filled with supplies, and the other two were filled with injured men.

...

"S-stop, stop!" one man shouted angrily from behind, his breath faltering.

"What are you doing? We can't continue like this," another pleaded.

There was no answer. Suddenly, the guiding lights from the lanterns all went out. Then there were noises of heavy things falling overboard. After that, there were only the fading noises of carts and horses speeding away.

"What is going on?" someone asked in the darkness.

"Nooo!" one screamed after finding something in his path. "They pushed the injured out of the carts. They're running away!"

"Chase them! They're getting away with our money!" another voiced what they all feared.

"Bastards! We won't forgive this treachery!" They cursed their employer. But they were already at their limit. Despite their anger, their limbs gave out after a short sprint. One by one, the men collapsed, their legs and bodies trembling from sheer exhaustion.

It was dark with only the stars in the night sky, filled only with the sounds of gasping, groaning, or vomiting. Some even cried, weeping at their cruel fate that had pushed them away from home and left them abandoned on these harsh, lifeless plains. Once proud Nicopolan mercenaries, they were now reduced to brigands.

The men needed a long time before they began to call out to their comrades and attempted to regroup. After some time, with great effort, some managed to stand and walk again, determined to catch those who had fooled them.

Suddenly, without warning, a white light descended from the sky, bathing their position in a bright glow. Stunned and captivated like insects to a flame, the men shielded their eyes with their hands, forgetting their instinct to flee.

Then, breaking the eerie silence, the sound of thundering hooves began to echo in the distance.

***