Training had scarcely reached its third day when two of Duke Grein's personal guards—bearing the sigil of a top-ranked silver knight, a lion's maw lined with five fangs—arrived at Klaus's encampment and delivered a terse order: "By command of His Grace the Duke, Team Leader Klaus is hereby promoted to command the Fifteenth Provisional Legion of the Siri Province. The entire force is to advance to the border where the Qingfeng Plain meets the province of Siri, deploy across the field and, in concert with the other twenty provisional legions, intercept the Smartean army. Under no circumstances are they to be permitted to gain ground."
Klaus, still dazed by the sudden two-rank elevation of his commission, was rendered speechless by the remainder of the decree. He looked over the ragged cluster of recruits—townsmen armed with sharpened sticks, struggling like careless children to stab at ragged straw dummies—and, with a face that treated them like little more than refuse, asked incredulously, "Sir… you expect me to lead these men to halt the might of the Smartean army? Do you not understand that a single ordinary magic assault would send them running in terror?"
One of the guards regarded the raw recruits with the same contemptuous pity and shook his head helplessly. "Klaus, this is the duke's command. The 'Greenfield Legion' ran into a mishap while attempting to mask their march along the Koslo hills; a landslide slowed them severely. To defend our territory we must—"
Klaus sighed and thumped his longsword wearily. "We must send these people into battle… Very well, I obey. But sharpened wood is no weapon. It won't pierce even light mail, much less wound a trained man."
Relief brightened the faces of the two guards; they chuckled. "Do not worry. The duke has ordered every smith in the province to work through the night. They've produced enough iron heads—sharpened and fitted to the wooden shafts. They are, in effect, spears. Fifty thousand spearmen will surely inflict heavy casualties." With that they tossed a sample to Klaus.
He stared at the conical iron head in his hand, incredulous. It was nothing but a sheet of iron rolled into a cone, its seam crudely soldered. Klaus looked to the guards and sighed. "Well, it will at least outdo a stick. But there are still problems."
The guards' expressions soured. "This is the quickest, most feasible fix to our shortage. Armor and true weapons are in short supply. Other lords' private companies remain at the border of Siri, refusing to come. We're left to fend for ourselves."
Klaus exhaled and shook his head. "My concern isn't merely arms. If we march out in such numbers, the Smartean command will calculate the risk. Exchanging elite troops for our raw levies is poor calculus. What alarms me is the lack of senior knights. Among our three divisions the captains at best are silver knights of the fourth rank—lesser than your lords—and only three of them at that. Bronze-top knights like myself are rare. If they demand a challenge, can we refuse?"
The guards laughed, more at ease. "The duke foresaw that. Our leader, the formidable Sir Kairo, a Golden Knight, will bring several senior knights to the border. If they call for an open duel, let the Smartean soft-footed knights learn what Vant warriors are."
Klaus managed a smile. "Then there's little to fear. Though I am but a Bronze knight, I should be able to fell a mid-rank Silver—kill a divisional captain and I'll be well rewarded."
They laughed together, their conversation laced with contempt for the Smartean knights. Yet in Klaus's mind nagged a worry: wherever Duke Grein went Sir Kairo always followed—why would Kairo leave the duke unguarded? He could not know that, after receiving news from the front, Duke Grein had already fled for the capital with his family and all his wealth. If one cannot be a formidable lord locally, being a noble in the capital was preferable to capture and execution.
So it came to pass that with their lord gone, most senior knights lost with the Greenfield Legion, neighboring lords' private companies reluctant to commit, and reinforcements from the capital nowhere to be seen, their raw levies set march for the front.
Klaus was a practical leader. He folded the young men from Kary Village into his veteran detachments and drove the rest mercilessly in training: every day after marching he made those uniform spearmen thrust and parry until their arms could scarcely hold aloft their poles. One new conscript from the city broke down and sobbed during drills; Klaus's fighting spirit severed the man's head at a distance of a meter as a lesson in martial law, and the recruits' fervor rose anew.
Their camp lay uncomfortably close to the provincial border; even with halting progress they reached the rendezvous three days later. Three provisional legions had already set up a sprawling main camp—hundreds of slate and black tents stretching like a somber sea.
Klaus ordered his men to set up and, with a few bodyguards, went to confer with the other legion captains—now temporary legion commanders. As he approached the central command tent he heard a booming voice: "Our mission is defense. Hold the three-hundred-li span of the front. Pitch the camps in straight lines—twenty thousand men per camp—twenty-five camps in all. Guard the central two hundred li; leave the wings be. If the Smarteans attempt to advance on our flanks, they will stir the neighboring lords' forces; let them duke it out."
Klaus entered cautiously and found Sir Kairo in purple armor, his family dragon crest embossed on his arms—an honored knight permitted to bear his house emblem though without the inheritance. His weapon bore a golden flying dragon with four fangs.
Kairo nodded at Klaus without ceremony and resumed his briefing. "For safety, bring the encampments closer together. Give the enemy no opening. If I had Greenfield's veterans under me I need not be so careful, but—" he muttered disdainfully, "a heap of trash: can garbage win a war?"
A commotion interrupted him as Lei burst in, shouting, "Sir Klaus, trouble—our men and the Seventh Provisional have come to blows… Two soldiers have a blood grudge; they met and struck. Now two thousand are fighting."
Kairo was about to punish Lei for intruding, but the news of a two-thousand-man brawl stole his ire. Slamming the table, he roared, "Come with me! Where is the military police? Cut down the ring-leaders—" then cursed, "Damnation, there's no military police—guards are recruits? How can you not post reliable sentries?"
The captains exchanged helpless looks; all veterans were stretched thin supervising raw conscripts. Kairo and five Golden knights and a dozen Silver charged to the melee where more than five thousand were now trading blows. On a nearby knoll tens of thousands cheered and egged them on, delighted by the spectacle.
Kairo's rage bent the air; drawing his longsword and chanting, a ripple of force hurled forth. The front hundred staggered, collapsed, seeing stars. The sound silenced the gawkers. Eighteen senior knights descended upon the mêlée and struck without mercy; in moments roughly two hundred heads fell, blood spraying the fighting men into screams. The field split as soldiers scrambled away, trembling.
Orderly footfalls announced the arrival of four imperial squads—escapees from the Ironblood Bastion—with butts of their weapons swinging. They beat the rioters like cattle, flinging them aside.
Kairo's voice carried through the camp: "Any more brawls and the sentence is death."
A small, tremulous voice protested, "At least punish the ringleaders—not kill innocents. This is too harsh."
Kairo whirled, eyes gleaming, and seized Lei by the throat. Klaus swallowed hard—the sight was terrifying. Lei, who had no sense to pull back, instantly regretted his words. Kairo hissed, "Do you understand? This is an army. Discipline trumps all. Discipline is life, discipline is victory. If a ragbag of rabble could win war, why have armies at all? You will never know if you cannot sit where I do." He sneered at Lei's purple face and declared, "You will not be a man like me, boy. I am an Imperial Golden Top-rank Knight, a general; my title is Knight of Merit, my rank a viscount. You—" He flung Lei to the ground, dropping him atop still-bleeding heads, and pronounced: "Though you have not broken military law, you trespassed into the command tent and disrespected your superior. Normally that would be punished—yet we need men now, so alive you remain. Consider yourself indebted." With a flick of his crimson cloak he strode to the tent and left the sentence: "Fifty lashes each for those who fought."
Lei fainted from horror; Klaus surveyed the field—two hundred heads, flayed and strewn—and felt a chill. If Lei, a veteran of hunts who had slain wild beasts unflinching, could faint, what would the other recruits do at the sight of blood? The thought unsettled him; many onlookers wore an odd look, as if another head might fall and they too would scatter.
Bit and the others came to support Lei. Orley muttered, "Lei can gut beasts without blinking—why faint at a human head?"
Bit frowned at the pile of severed skulls. "A beast is different—killing a man is another thing."
Orley, half mocking, suggested hunting Smartean troops to test himself—Klaus slapped him into silence. He reminded them, "Do you think you and a few fellows can face a Smartean unit? One lowly mage could vaporize you. Their troops, though perhaps poorly equipped, are trained for years. You cannot go alone."
Four imperial squads had rounded up the sprawled brawlers, and their whips, ropes, and cudgels laced flesh with blood. Klaus sighed, "Fifty lashes—will keep them down for months. Two thousand recruits lost before a battle—this bodes ill."
Ex Captain Ex, Bronze-four knight and leader of the Seventh, smiled bitterly. "Klaus, I share your fate. Who began it? I'll gut him myself."
Klaus watched the ruined men and smiled coldly. "Two thousand spearmen. If we had them upright with pikes, they'd hold a line. I'll make that ring-leader pay; otherwise I'm no Klaus."
Bit and the others stilled, alarmed. Another commander fretted about morale: "Numbers can patch lack of skill, but men who swoon at blood won't hold."
A different captain proposed concentrating veterans: "We have three divisions—twenty-one teams—thirty thousand if grouped. Concentrate strength at one point and hold better."
Klaus balked. "Without veterans supervising, fifty thousand recruits will dissolve into chaos. Three thousand won't stop a proper assault. What happened to the Greenfield Legion? Why haven't they arrived?"
Imperial officers passing by had glanced at Klaus oddly; he failed to catch the significance, but Lei noticed the furtive looks before he sank back into stupor.
After a brief council, they redeployed to Kairo's specifications—stretch the front while keeping density—leaving fate to determine which provisional legion would be first struck.
Two days of toil found Lei pounding the final stake into the ground with stones, rubbing his bare chest and sighing: soldiering was no easy life; even camp construction was a grind. He had not known regular troops could pitch a camp in an hour; their slowness was simply due to inexperience. Kairo insisted on triple rows of stakes for the front, hence the delay.
Urban conscripts shirked when they could. For the sector under Kary's team, the manpower came from the highlands—small townsfolk unwilling to labor. Bit and the others were young and had not yet mastered commanding presence or filing complaints; they could do little.
An old veteran ambled up and slapped Lei on the back with approval. "You're solid for seventeen. If you keep training you could be a knight."
Lei blushed. Bit, eager, asked, "Do the army teach combat spirit? Our captain uses it."
The veteran shook his head. "Spirit training's for senior knights or nobles. The Empire has standardized methods, but one must be at least Bronze-four to learn. Noble houses have their own doctrines, but they won't teach we common folk. If the rabble learned, how would nobles seize glory? It's the same reasoning as in Smartea—magic apprentices take oaths and are branded so they cannot betray. Power is hoarded."
The men fell silent—rulers' psychology beyond them.
Suddenly Lei snatched up his bow, not for show but instinct: he loosed an arrow that snapped the bow in two with the force of the draw, the arrow screaming true.
A lone rider in black galloped across the Qingfeng Plain toward the camp. Kary cried, "A Smartean mage! Watch—how does he dare ride alone?" Bit fretted that Lei might have risked friendly fire; but Lei's shot was so precise that the arrow flew towards the mage's brow.
Strange waves shimmered through the air. The arrow slowed, hovering midflight as the mage cantered past—then, with a casual gesture, the black-cloaked man plucked the arrow from the air and sent it whistling back on a small vortex.
Lei's reflex sent him ducking; the returned arrow pierced the chest of an unlucky recruit behind him. The man screamed and fell, his body brushing Lei's back and splashing blood across him. It was Lei's first taste of a comrade's death; he trembled.
Ten archers drew and aimed, but the black-cloaked mage had halted some yards from the camp and spoke with a cold smile. "So this is the Vant Empire's treatment of an envoy? I am disappointed."
Kairo marched out with cavalry and soldiers. "An envoy? I accept no excuses. Return at once. If your general desires war, so be it."
The hood came down, revealing a handsome face. "Forgive me. I am—" he curtsied slightly from horseback, his manner insolent yet elegant—"Carin, commander of the Smartean forces. A Phoenix-five mage." He bowed with playful grace.
Kairo froze. "You, a mage, lead an army? A Phoenix-five is no trifle—are you the emperor's fool?"
Carin shrugged and dismounted awkwardly. "One might think His Majesty mad, but my father is the First Minister. He wants me to win glory so he may advance my station. I, Carin, famed lover in the capital, prefer courtship to slaughter."
Kairo's eyes glittered. A Phoenix-five was a prize. Slay him and a thousand gold might be his—capture him and he might be sent to the capital for promotion. Especially as the prime minister's son, this man's value was enormous; he stood alone in an enemy camp. To Kairo it was like a lamb walking into a den.
He greeted Carin with false courtesy. "Welcome, Your Excellency. What wine would you prefer? Mages drink tea, I know—" Carin laughed and declared his love for fine wine, and Kairo quickly ordered refreshments.
Carin apologized for the dead recruit and fumbled for compensation from his pockets—nothing, awkwardness, then a smile. Kairo commanded five hundred gold to be delivered to the man's family, then ushered Carin forward.
Carin cast a glance at Lei and the broken bow, inwardly muttering at the boy who nearly had split his face with an arrow. He still smiled as he pulled Kairo aside. "I came to ask a favor."
Kairo, eager to keep the man, offered him wine and tent comfort. Carin forgave the Greenfield slaughter. "My men counted twenty-six thousand corpses—nineteen Golden knights, sixty-seven Silver, one hundred and ninety-five Bronze and four hundred seventy-eight Black Iron. This matches what we knew of the Greenfield Legion, does it not?"
Kairo could not answer. To name specific low ranks indicated true destruction. The recruits realized then that a feared veteran legion had been annihilated. Kairo's face paled beneath a smile that hid fury.
Carin continued: "We misjudged the season. The Qingfeng Plain is abundant, but we came in spring—fields only show green shoots. We have no grain."
Kairo's expression shifted to incredulous contempt. "You expect me to believe this? Your generals did not tell you?"
Carin feigned wounded innocence. "I am honest—my greatest exploit is wooing three noblewomen in one night. The minister's son who contested my command is to blame. He betrayed the Ironblood Bastion and the storerooms were burned. I chewed popcorn the first day in the city; I long for capital lamb chops."
Kairo recoiled at the mention of the supply fortress, but Carin insisted they must withdraw—and asked for Kairo's cooperation to ensure a retreat without pursuit. The surrounding soldiers murmured: the Smartean general surrendered? The idea thrilled the recruits; some preferred not to fight.
Carin pleaded practicalities: "I command a hundred thousand with ten thousand mages and allies from the city—if we pull back with even my small force, we need a face-saving story. If you allow us to retreat without pursuit and stage a feint—burning the fort or staging a coulée of casualties—my report will earn me membership in the Mage Association. I'll reward you handsomely. One million gold if I earn my seat."
Kairo bristled at the bribe and demanded a duel. Carin scoffed—he was not a knight; duels were knightly tools. Instead, he proposed a different scheme: Kairo should permit a staged withdrawal and a little bloodletting that could, by appearances, be said to represent a costly siege recapture. Kairo's pride wavered at the thought of commanding glory.
Carin's confession that the minister would seize control at dusk tightened Kairo's options. He could kill Carin—imprison him for ransom—or cooperate. Carin argued that killing him would hand command to the minister's man and that he was not worth such a gift.
Kairo weighed matters in silence. The men were reminded that such calculations mattered: whether to risk annihilation to deny an enemy respite. After long thought he said, "I cannot trust you. But…stay."
He seized Carin's wrist until the mage howled. Carin writhed and then, some calmer, swore by the cunning god and the rituals of his people that he would honor the accord: the Smartean withdrawal would not pursue the Vant army, and that his word and shame were bound—if not, the gods would punish him.
The two commanders exchanged solemn vows—Kairo kneeling, sword drawn, pledging his honor and blood. Carin, in turn, made an ostentatious oath. The recruits nearly laughed at the theater of it, but the gravity of the camp kept them silent.
Carin hoarded the camp wine and rode away, whispering back a last venomous aside that those the Vant left idle would be best sent to the front where he could claim the glory—or that his jesting, dishonest oath was not meant to be kept. As his horse carried him off he murmured: "Pettiness and guile—these are my teachers. My vows are for mouths only; the Vant are fools to take them as bread."