Count Matthew Knott of the Principality of Knott spoke up in a ringing voice, asking, "As for the army's order of attack, how do you intend to arrange it?"
At these words, everyone held their breath. This was precisely what the noble lords, large and small, gathered inside the command tent wanted to ask most.
After all, under the North's customary feudal system, the troops in their hands were the bedrock of their power and standing. None among them was so selfless as to squander their own strength merely to secure a victory; many of the nobles had joined this war under semi-coercion, though House Lakeman had also yielded benefits too enticing to refuse.
Robert pressed his white-gloved hands down slightly and said calmly, "Gentlemen, calm yourselves. I have no intention of sending your troops to die in vain.
"This time, His Grace the Duke has conscripted a full ten thousand laborers to form the 'Honor Legion.' These brave men will advance as the vanguard, probing the strength of the vile dragon's minions on our behalf."
The nobles' hearts finally settled back into place, and no one raised any further objections—cannon fodder would be paving the way, after all.
Yet off to the side, Andre frowned deeply, questioning once more, "How could we send commoners to serve as cannon fodder? That flies in the face of the chivalric virtues of valor and mercy."
"Hahahahaha!"
The tent erupted into another burst of laughter, the mood turning rather relaxed.
This green "little lion" was truly naive to an extreme. They were Northern nobles—who among them would ever care about these creatures known as "grey cattle"?
Yet seeing Andre's earnest expression, Robert suppressed his urge to laugh and explained, "Well... they are all brave men who volunteered for the expedition. Should they die honorably in battle, the principality will compensate their families with a generous condolence pension."
*Though whether they have families, and whether that pension ever reaches their hands, is another matter entirely,* he added silently to himself.
Before the war began, the members of this "Honor Legion" had mostly been simple farmers toiling in the fields, devoid of any formal military training.
Apart from crude, shoddy weapons, they possessed virtually no armor or equipment. Or rather, their primary duties had never been combat at all, but tending warhorses, hauling baggage, and serving as fodder before the elite troops engaged.
They were mostly tenant farmers and serfs bound to local squires and landlords—wretched souls stripped of personal freedom who had no right even to lay claim to spoils of war. Any merits or plunder they won would inevitably be credited to their masters' names.
Such were these men.
Treated like worthless weeds by the Northern nobility.
Feeling the mocking glances around him, Andre lowered his head and fell silent.
Robert pointed to the map, resuming his tactical dispositions.
House Lakeman's direct army, the eight-thousand-strong "Eagle's Claw," would anchor the center, launching a frontal assault once the laborers had probed the situation.
The three-thousand-strong "Lionheart Legion" dispatched by House Bosque and five thousand reinforcements from House Nott would take the left and right flanks respectively, guarding the coalition's wings upon entering Storm Heights.
The private armies of the various noble lords, totaling over four thousand men, were interspersed throughout the coalition force to follow the generals' commands—not that Robert expected to command them effectively anyway. The main reason for interweaving and dispersing them was fear that they might start brawling among themselves before the battle even began.
Meanwhile, the three hundred North Wind Eagle Guards would circle overhead, surveying the battlefield from above while seeking opportunities to deliver aerial strikes at key junctures. Yet for reasons unknown, the Sixth North Wind Eagle Guard Regiment dispatched on reconnaissance had still not returned. Likely having run into trouble, their absence gave Robert quite a headache.
A baron of the Principality of Lakeman asked in a hushed voice, "Milord, wh-what of the dragon?"
"I hear... it is a terrifying entity."
His fief was not far from Storm Heights, and rumors of the dreadful "Dragon of Flying Flame" frequently drifted down from the north.
In those poems and songs, the red dragon was depicted as the favored child of Tiamat, the incarnation of an infernal flame demon, the master of endless flames, the destined destroyer of the Northern Kingdom, an existence capable of incinerating all things.
Robert gave a cold sneer.
"Heh, the so-called 'Dragon of Flying Flame'?"
"Do not be deceived by those foolish bardic verses," said that wizard, "Grey Hawk," who was surprisingly present in the command tent as well, speaking in a raspy voice. "Whether by the North Wind Eagle Guards' intelligence or my divination spells, it can be confirmed beyond doubt that it is merely a young red dragon with a slightly unusual breath weapon—perhaps even younger than young."
"This is Master Schroeder, the principality's Chief Archmage," Robert said. "His magical attainment is something I believe no one present can rival."
Robert continued, "Indeed. Those so-called poems are probably nothing more than deliberate propaganda spun by a vain, arrogant red dragon.
"Gentlemen, please follow me."
As if feeling words alone lacked conviction, Robert strode out of the tent, followed closely by the nobles.
They came to an open clearing where supplies were stockpiled.
The group's gaze was instantly drawn to an enormous object. Covered in thick cloth, its shape was obscured, but it stood more than twice the height of a man. Moving just one of them required twelve horses and over a hundred laborers—and there were three of them displayed right here.
They had noticed them long ago and had been consumed by curiosity ever since.
"Take a look, gentlemen—"
Robert signaled with a glance, and guards on either side stepped forward to pull away the thick covering cloth.
It was a colossal, ponderous mechanical weapon forged from rough black timber and dark grey metal. The carriage bed was massive and thick, seated atop an exceptionally sturdy iron chassis fitted with several iron wheels to aid in slow movement.
At the top was a conical bolt-magazine wrapped in riveted iron plates, flanked by long, curving bow arms affixed on either side.
A massive bolt, thick as a man's arm and over two meters long, lay quietly along the carriage track. Its sharp iron tip glinted with a cold sheen, marked by what appeared to be mottled traces of blood.
This was a ballista of terrifying power!
"Whoa—"
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, awestruck by this dreadful instrument of war.
Duke Robert seemed well pleased with their reactions, explaining in a smug tone, "This is a Dragonslayer Ballista. Its bolt-head is steeped in dragon blood, capable of piercing a dragon's scales with ease.
"A hundred and forty years ago, General Turner Lakeman used one to slay the old white dragon that ravaged the North—Glacial Wing."
He raised a single finger and gave it a deliberate wag.
"One shot. With just a single bolt, he pierced the vile dragon's heart.
"And at that time, the great General Turner had only one Dragonslayer Ballista.
"Now, our Principality of Lakeman spent tens of thousands of gold coins to locate these three Dragonslayer Ballistas, and consumed over a hundred horses and more than a thousand laborers to transport them here. I trust you can all appreciate the tremendous effort we have poured into this, and just how much confidence I possess.
"Should that dragon dare to show its face, these three Dragonslayer Ballistas will shoot it out of the sky."
Robert's tone carried absolute conviction.
"The Dragon of Flying Flame?
"Heh. I will see it become a fallen dragon."
Chapter 106