Horizon of War Series-Chapter 235: The First Front

The First Front

Strait of Three Hills, Hidden Cove

Lord Avery sat on a warm boulder, the heat easing the chill in his backside. It was nighttime, but he needed neither a lantern nor a gemstone, as the village before him was burning. Not a drop of volatile oil had been used since Avery had reserved it for a larger target: the mountain citadel hidden deep in the mountain range.

The Lord of Dawn watched the final moments of the village raid unfold. Even with only two airships' worth of personnel, fewer than forty men, they had taken the village by surprise and secured hundreds inside.

It was, in truth, a massacre.

The mountain people in this village had not been prepared at all. Most were drunk, and there was no night watch. They believed themselves safe in this village by the cove.

The Dawn raiders, still ashamed of their failure in Corinthia where all three airships had failed to take the castle, methodically attacked the sleeping village without mercy. The darkness posed little challenge. Angelo had provided the layout, and they had drilled until they could recall it with their eyes closed. There were no chuckles or grins, only cold focus as they carried out their mission.

They proved their effectiveness by preventing any effective resistance. Their surprise was total. There was no hesitation as they killed their targets in their sleep. They already knew which compounds and houses to spare for forced labor and interrogation.

Now, Avery’s men lined the captives beside the fire for questioning. The process was made easier by the Corinthian woman, who identified several individuals as local authorities. Among them were sailors the women demanded dead, seeking vengeance for the crimes committed against them.

There was no more singing, no laughter, no drunken jeers. Only groans of pain and the crackle of burning huts filled the night.

Avery watched the women with quiet fascination. Their hatred ran deep, raw, and unshaken. When his men refused their pleas to kill the captives, the women asked them to push the prisoners into the flames and watch them burn.

When his men turned to him for a decision, Avery simply shook his head. Moments later, a crowd of women approached and dropped to their knees before him.

“My Lord, we beg of thee to grant us justice,” one cried.

“These men defiled us, even the youngest among us,” another added bitterly.

Avery's response was calm. “And what do you mean by justice?”

“Set them alight,” a young woman shouted.

“Burn them,” others echoed.

“Burn them?” Avery repeated, taken aback as if insulted. “Ladies, you will have your justice. But burning people isn’t the answer. Their friends wouldn't even be able to recognize their faces. That is no way to send a message.”

The women began to cry, thinking their new lord intended to spare the captives by keeping them for ransom.

But Avery smirked and explained, “Burning gives them only a moment of agony. Why not prolong it?”

His words confused them. One woman near him could only whisper, “My Lord?” ƒrēewebnoѵёl.cσm

“May I propose a more fitting end for these animals?” Avery asked.

The Dawn men who had subdued the captives began to chuckle ominously.

***

Mountain Region, East of Nicopola

Roderic woke to the harsh glare of sunlight streaming through the glass window above his home. He massaged his temple, his head slightly pounding from the wine. He glanced around and found himself alone in the large bed, meant to accommodate several, yet now empty.

He exhaled as he remembered that he had sold or given away his other wives, even the tender and much-favored Midlandian, as concubines to some of the elders. Their financial and political support was crucial to his next move. Roderic needed the Three Hills campaign and would stop at nothing to secure a favorable outcome.

At the same time, he believed his new Centurian wife would satisfy him. Keeping only her also spared him from jealousy among his other wives, whom he feared would disrupt his time with his newly wedded bride.

However, things had not gone as planned.

Even after being separated by his campaigns in Corinthia, upon his return, his beautiful Centurian wife still refused to join him willingly. After that, things only worsened. Now, she had secluded herself in the farthest corner of the house near the kitchen, wrapping herself in blankets like armor, clutching a wooden ladle as if it were a weapon.

The doors and windows were locked. So were all the blades.

From the doorway of his chamber, Roderic spotted her fragile form curled on the wooden floor. Despite everything, her delicate features and long, flowing hair still enchanted him. Barefoot, he stepped closer. She remained motionless, likely having slept that way, her fingers locked around the ladle close to her chest. The moment her eyes opened and found him, her body tensed, shuddering involuntarily.

He stopped before her as she shrank lower, pressing herself into the floor as if asking it to swallow her. Her grip on the ladle tightened until her knuckles turned white.

"This was supposed to be a joyful homecoming," he muttered bitterly.

The woman did not dare challenge his words, but her sharp glare betrayed her defiance. Like a wounded flower, she bared her thorns.

Roderic exhaled heavily. "Before me, how many men have you served? And yet, I still married you. Is that not enough?"

Her lips parted as if to deny his words, but she stopped abruptly.

"Great," he scoffed. "Now I have an expensive Midlandian wife who is mute." Then, his voice grew colder. "Make yourself useful, or I’ll sell you to the slavers."

He expected his threat to break her, but instead of fear, he saw the faintest smirk.

"You would rather be sold than be my wife?" he hissed, seething.

She did not answer, yet her bruised face carried an expression of quiet satisfaction. She had insulted him without uttering a word.

Fury surged through Roderic. He raised his hand as if to strike her but halted mid-motion. The frail woman recoiled, shoulders trembling, the blunt ladle clutched tightly in a desperate defense. Her eyes squeezed shut and her entire body tensed in fear.

That expression alone was enough to soothe his wounded pride.

Roderic turned toward the window, noting the sun already high in the sky. The woman-servants outside were likely waiting, and he had no intention of alarming them with the sound of beating his wife. Besides, there was business to attend to. The elders had kept him waiting for too long.

"This is a new day," he said with forced patience. "We can make amends. Let the servants tend to you, and later we will dine together."

The wife said nothing, her gaze fixed on the wooden floor.

"There will be another campaign soon," he added. "And this time, you're coming with me. That should lift your mood."

She almost responded, but the movement pulled at her injuries, making her wince.

"Listen to me," Roderic told her slowly, like a snake watching its prey. "You would do well to learn respect. Otherwise, the years ahead will be painful." His tone grew heavier. "If you think I will sell you back to my uncle, you are mistaken. You will bear me plenty of half-Centurian children, whether you will it or not."

...

With fifteen of his allies, both old and new, Roderic was smuggled into the deadlocked council. He entered as dozens of old men bickered from their elevated seats, their platforms separated from the speakers' floor in the center.

"Honored Council, I beg thee your ears," Roderic's ally called out as they stormed the floor, while the pretty-faced guards struggled to contain their advance.

All eyes turned toward them, but it was clear they were not welcome. Half the elders, mostly the oldest among them, immediately tried to shut them down, while Roderic’s allies pushed back, just as determined to be heard.

It was a stalemate. No one yielded in this glorified shouting match.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

It was no better than peddlers outbarking each other in the marketplace.

Roderic watched the spectacle with a bored expression. He recognized several powerful elders seated comfortably amidst the verbal chaos, watching from above. They were the real power behind this mess. The rest were nothing but their dogs.

Ignoring the barrage of rejections, Roderic advanced toward the dais. The guards, the only ones allowed to carry weapons inside the council chamber, stepped in to block his path. Made up of effeminate men born to non-Nicopolan mothers, they had been chosen more for their appearance than their skill, selected to please the elders’ eyes. Even armed, they hardly looked threatening compared to a group of battle-hardened veterans.

When one reached for him, Roderic struck without hesitation, sending the young man sprawling with a reddened cheek. The others froze. They knew who he was and hesitated to draw their weapons, instead scrambling to help their fallen companion.

Outrage erupted. The elders hurled insults and demanded his capture, but Roderic remained standing at the dais, silent and waiting, as his men blocked more guards from even trying to reach him.

At last, his allies gained enough momentum to secure him the chance to speak.

The chamber quieted as the elders finally relented, their throats parched and tempers worn. Roderic knew they would pretend to listen only to send him away, feigning deliberation. But he would take the opportunity to make a statement.

"Gentlemen and honored elders, I am not here to beg for command or ask for permission. On behalf of the young men, I am here to bid you farewell. With or without your blessing, we are going to Three Hills."

A moment of shock followed before the chamber exploded into uproar. Undeterred, Roderic raised his voice. "We have been patient, willing to follow your lead, but you keep fumbling, one disaster after another. Even before the Corinthia debacle, your strategies repeatedly failed. And from what I see, you've punished everyone but yourselves."

Half of the elders rose, shouting and throwing whatever they could. Black ink splattered across the floor. One blot even struck Roderic’s bright tunic and smeared it, but it only fueled him further.

"Your ignorance cost us Three Hills. Your greed and unpreparedness lost us Korimor three times. Your constant hesitation lost us Nicopola. And now, your half-hearted plan in Corinthia has backfired completely."

One of the powerful elders shot to his feet. "Enough! We will have none of this insult!"

"Arrest him!" another bellowed.

"And turn this into mutiny and coup?" Roderic laughed, even as a throng of guards began pushing in, nearly surrounding his allies.

The shouting swelled again, voices clashing in chaos. "Guards! Get him!" several elders cried, rallying their men to take action.

Roderic glanced at his allies. Without hesitation, they drew their knives. But instead of defending themselves, they rushed toward the armed men.

The elders had not expected this. They began throwing scrolls and sandals in frustration.

But Roderic and his closest allies had been waiting for this moment. They were hardened fighters, while their opponents were little more than pretty-faced young men, meant to be shown off in parades for the crooked elders.

A brawl erupted as dozens of elders jumped into the fray, but once Roderic's men seized shields, spears, and several swords, the room suddenly fell silent.

"Bar the doors!" Roderic ordered. His men obeyed without hesitation, displaying his effective command.

He turned his gaze back to the elders. "Gentlemen and honored elders," Roderic repeated, "you hold no power over us anymore. Do not force us to make this a coup."

An old, frail elder found his moment to speak, his voice calm but cutting. "Intent carries weight. What reason could you offer for this, if not the pursuit of power?"

"Did you not hear me?" Roderic tilted his head mockingly. "This is a farewell. We are leaving the mountains."

"What do you mean by that?" another elder barked.

A round-bellied elder added with forced authority, "You don't hold power over all the clans."

"You know what we're capable of," warned another. "You can march and win battles, but the mountain will not be so kind to your clan or to anyone who supports this charade."

Roderic burst into laughter, which only deepened their scowls. "Old men are predictable. We don't fear your threats. Can’t you see? We’re moving to Three Hills for good. Our clans, our families, our belongings; everything."

The elders' faces twisted in alarm. If a great number of the younger generation left, their way of life in the mountains would become impossible to maintain.

The frail elder found his chance to speak again. "It is a great sorrow to see our youth consumed by greed and lacking respect for our way of life. Here, we are protected by the mountains and the shadow they cast."

Roderic moved to reply, but his ally placed a hand on his arm and gave a slight shake of the head. Many still held respect for the elder, so he swallowed his words.

"You have everything a man could wish for here. Wine, silk, swords, servants, horses. Even a Centurian bride," the old elder chided. "You all can act like noble princes, commanding armies and all. Why can't you be satisfied?"

Roderic glanced toward his ally, who still stared at him disapprovingly, so he clenched his jaw in silence.

"The mountains protect. By leaving, you break their ward. You'll ruin us all. None of you are the Black Lord—"

"Screw Lansius!" Roderic shouted in fury. He could no longer hold himself back. "I'll destroy him. I'll take his city and his wife!"

His outburst, filled with raw hatred and jealousy toward a rising star, stunned the chamber.

He pressed on, voice rising. "Under your watch, we lost cities to a nobody like Lansius. In Nicopola, we gained less than an upstart like Servius. And now Corinthia is lost, all because you gambled on foreign talent. We, the young, have decided to stop turning a blind eye to your failures. We will no longer follow your shameful leadership."

Some elders recoiled, faces reddening with fury. Others, those aligned with Roderic, sat back in silence, smirking as the tension rose.

Several elders began shouting over one another, but Roderic's voice rose above the chaos. "We are now separate. You can keep the mountains. We choose the city."

With that, Roderic under his allies' escort stepped down from the dais and walked steadily toward the exit.

"If you're so adamant, then don't ask us for provisions for your army," one elder shouted after him.

Roderic merely laughed and waved his hand, unconcerned.

After this display of power, Roderic’s allied elders were well-positioned to influence the council. Faced with the threat of societal mutiny, the remaining elders had little choice but to appease him, knowing they needed the younger generation to preserve their hold on power and maintain their indulgent way of life.

Roderic had done the unthinkable. Just two weeks ago, he had returned home without enough coins to buy a jar of honey. Now, he was spearheading a massive campaign toward Three Hills. The elders, in their arrogance, had exiled or punished every capable leader and commander they once had. In the end, their own foolishness had made Roderic the only figure the younger generation could rally behind.

***

Strait of Three Hills, Hidden Cove

As the sun rose, most of the village by the cove had been reduced to blackened ruins. No one had tried to douse the flames, so gray smoke lingered in the air, curling into the sky where it could be seen for miles. But no one paid it any mind. Their focus was fixed on the path leading toward the mountain, where rows of wooden poles now stood. At the tip of each, a living man writhed in agony.

These were the sailors who had betrayed and kidnapped the Corinthian women. Now the roles were reversed. The women stood nearby, wrapped in wool, watching the torture in silence, their eyes cold and empty. The condemned groaned and wept, begging for a quick death, but no forgiveness was given.

With so few of the Dawn’s men available for the many tasks at hand, they could not spare guards. Instead, they handed spears to the women and left the choice to them. Only two chose to end the suffering, stabbing the men again and again until they bled out.

The women had learned the truth. The missing among them had been killed, which the sailors claimed were accidents, and their bodies had been thrown from the cliffs. Whatever mercy remained in the women was now buried.

They asked that the bluntest pole be used for the sailor who had harmed the youngest among them, to ensure his death would be the slowest and most painful. They even insisted he be given a hat, so the sun would not kill him before the pole did.

Two women used their spears to hold up a wet cloth to the condemned, feigning care, knowing it would only prolong his agony.

Though the sentence had been his idea, Lord Avery refrained from watching. He found it tasteless, intended more for the victims’ sense of closure than for punishment. Besides, he was busy. Red-eyed from sleep deprivation that only mildly bothered him, the old man sat at a fine wooden table inside one of the few remaining stone buildings farther inland, overlooking the coast and the burned-out village.

Avery and his assistant had combed through whatever documents they could find in the chieftain’s house. From the freed slaves, they had learned much about the people they once considered little more than nuisance smugglers. Their testimonies confirmed what had already been extracted from captured pirates in Corinthia: the mountain people were indeed a real threat.

But the most important piece of information came through interrogation. By using a dose of the rare Truth Nectar on a senior-ranking captive, Avery had uncovered something significant. The prisoner revealed that there had been plans to coordinate the Dawn’s arrival in Corinthia with a massive allied attack on Kapua.

This discovery proved that the smugglers’ far-reaching influence was nothing short of astonishing.

He also learned of a new King Nicodemus. The name meant nothing to him, suggesting the man was likely an opportunist or perhaps a foreign mercenary leader, not a true Nicopolan.

Even so, Avery was undeterred. As hard as it was to believe, the Lord of South Midlandia had already accounted for this possibility. His proposed three-pronged campaign had anticipated that Avery’s forces might end up exhausted, stretched thin, and too small to assault the mountain stronghold effectively. He had also warned that newly secured gains, like Kapua, could be threatened by the remaining Nicopolan factions.

“Heh,” Avery muttered in amusement, recalling Lansius’ last hawk-letter. The man’s foresight was disturbingly accurate.

As his assistant continued to comb through more documents, Avery began to write. Using the available ink and parchment, he drafted a basic report on the battle and his findings. Angelo would fly high before releasing the hawk at a safe distance, as there were still concerns about interception. After losing an airship, a little paranoia was understandable.

Avery signed the letter with his initials just as the captain entered. The man’s face looked tired but pleased.

“My Lord, our reinforcements have arrived.”

“Ah, well done,” Avery said, smirking as he rose from his seat. Together they stepped outside and looked toward the coast, where hundreds of their men were swimming ashore like seals, the kind often seen feasting on prawns and clams along their coastal waters and training grounds.

Before the attack, Angelo had spent days mapping the area and searching for routes, only to confirm that the cove was nearly unreachable by land without first climbing the eastern mountain. The mountain itself was likely the main lair, based on what had been learned from captured pirates in Corinthia. That left the sea as the only viable approach. But whether by day or night, the waters were treacherous. None of the Dawn’s men were locals, and they had no familiarity with the way the waves behaved along that coast.

Yet the Dawn were as resourceful as they were bold. True to their tradition of not overthinking, the men lathered themselves in fat and tallow to protect against the cold, then swam from the closest point their boats dared approach. With only wooden logs for flotation and their swords and clothing sealed in waxed leather bags, they covered the long, tiring distance without hesitation.

When they finally reached the shore, they frantically searched for large rocks that had absorbed heat from the summer sun. They clung to the warm stone to recover their body heat, mimicking the animals they had often observed.

Avery chuckled as he watched his men’s arrival. Glancing toward the captain, he said, “So our business here is done.”

Whether by fortunate coincidence or clever foresight, the plan proposed by the Lord of South Midlandia had allowed Avery and his elites to strike swiftly and withdraw just as quickly. Their mission had been little more than a diversion, staging the illusion of a beachhead and building a staging ground to draw the mountain people's attention while the other two forces closed in from other directions.

His newly arrived two hundred men would build a camp to hold their gains and maintain the illusion. Meanwhile, they used captured boats to study the waves and claimed them as war prizes to be taken back to Dawn.

The battle for the Eastern Mountain was now firmly in the hands of Sir Servius’s Iron Skull Legion and the shogunate contingent from Three Hills. Meanwhile, Lord Avery was preparing for the war of a lifetime against the newly proclaimed King Nicodemus of Nicopola.

***

PS: Link to Map is always on the footnote (post chapter note)