"Is it hard? After all, many people died in the battle!"
Logan sat on the steps, his body slumped in a despondent heap, hands clasped tightly together. As his gaze fixed blankly on the horizon, a gentle voice unexpectedly broke the silence at his side.
Jolted from his reverie, Logan looked up with a start. "Grandpa!"
It was Barnett who had approached quietly. With a nod and a warm smile, Barnett seated himself beside his grandson. "Come, sit with me again," he urged gently.
Logan obeyed, resettling beside him.
"Congratulations are in order," Barnett began, his voice tinged with pride. "The tribe has notched a significant victory. I hear that four smaller tribes will be annexed under our banner. It's astounding really, your leadership has already doubled our size in less than a month. You're doing wonderfully."
These weren't mere flatteries but heartfelt truths.
Logan, Barnett's grandson, truly was remarkable, a young man with the vision and tenacity of a born leader.
"Do you know?" Barnett's tone shifted, turning reflective. "I am not originally from these wastelands. I hail from the Kingdom of Rennes. Fifty years back, I was guarding a large trade caravan for a major commerce guild there. Unfortunately, luck wasn't on our side. Our 2,000-strong group was ambushed by several large bands of thieves.
The caravan was decimated; senior guards fled, leaving the less experienced to fend for themselves. My brother... he died in that chaos."
Pausing, Barnett's eyes clouded over with a mix of sorrow and resignation. "I was gravely wounded in that assault. Back then, I had potential, thought I'd rise high, maybe to the sixth level of mastery. But that injury stunted my progress forever."
His voice hardened slightly. "Afterwards, captured by those thieves, I was sold into slavery. But I didn't remain bound for long. I managed to escape during a slave uprising."
Barnett's gaze drifted across the landscape, lost in the past. "In those days, this land was filled with turmoil. To survive, I banded together with other nomadic beastmen, and from that strife, the Silvermane Tribe was forged."
Hearing this, Logan's eyes widened with astonishment. He had always known his grandfather was the pillar of the Silvermane Tribe, but the depth of Barnett's past and the origins of their tribe were revelations to him. And to learn Barnett originated from the Kingdom of Ren was yet another layer to the storied life of the man he admired.
"The notion of an beastmen kingdom is notably expansive and undefined," Barnett began, his voice steady, reflecting his deep experience. "Unlike human territories with their rigid borders, the lands of the beastmen are in constant flux."
He sighed, the weight of history in his eyes. "Wars among the beastmen kingdoms are frequent, as no single tribe maintains power indefinitely. At the first sign of weakness, the larger tribes pounce, eager to claim dominance. Thus, the leadership—and even the name—of the kingdom can change with startling rapidity."
Thus, the cycle of sacrifice and ascension for the Silver Mane tribe was only beginning.
...
In the sprawling conference hall of the tribal fortress, the atmosphere was thick with anticipation. Logan had just arrived when commanders Crow and Bagan, alongside notable figures like second uncle Begon, Uncle Reynolds, Kodiak, and Cobos, filtered in.
"Thank you for your diligence, commanders. You've organized the post-battle reports, I presume?" Logan inquired, scanning their solemn faces.
Crow, holding a piece of tanned animal hide etched with figures and notes, stood and saluted sharply. "Chieftain, we have documented the outcomes of the battle," he announced with a formal air.
"Let us all hear it, then," Logan commanded.
Crow nodded, clearing his throat. "This engagement mobilized 527 of our warriors and 186 wolf cavalry."
He paused; the weight of the next words heavy on his tongue. "We suffered 52 fallen warriors. Another 27 were grievously injured, with 118 sustaining minor injuries. Twelve warriors have been rendered completely unable to return to duty."
He continued, "From our wolf cavalry, we mourn 15 brave souls. Thirty-nine were critically wounded, and 46 bear less severe injuries, but 23 of those grievously wounded will no longer ride."
The room fell silent as the grim toll of war settled among them, each number a stark reminder of the cost of their survival and their enduring struggle for power.
"That concludes the report, detailed information about our soldiers' sacrifices," Crowe said, his tone somber as he met Logan's gaze, which was clouded with a mix of resolve and sorrow.
Logan, though already aware of the grim statistics, felt a renewed twinge of discomfort ripple through him as the numbers were articulated aloud. The battle had exacted a steep toll, slashing their tribal numbers by nearly a hundred. This loss was not just numerical but deeply personal for a tribe with only 800 warriors in its ranks.
The air in the conference hall was thick with despair, the weight of their loss palpable among the assembled leaders. Sensing the need to fortify their resolve, Logan stood, his voice steady yet heavy with emotion. "In war, the harsh reality is that not all warriors return. But we honor every soul that has fallen under our banner."
He continued with a directive that underscored his commitment to their values and traditions. "Crowe, ensure that every fallen soldier is returned to our homeland for a proper burial. We will reunite them with the earth of their ancestors."
"And let there be no hesitation in providing the fullest care for our wounded. We spare no expense for their recovery."
"Yes, Chieftain," Crow replied, his voice tinged with regret. "However, the fallen have already been buried on the battlefield..."
Without missing a beat, Logan's response was firm, an unyielding edge to his command. "Then we shall retrieve them. No member of our tribe will be left behind. Dig them out and bring them home."