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Chapter 9: Day One
Before sunrise, the refugees traveling with Brandon fled into Silver Sparrow Hill. Just as Brandon had predicted, after they defeated the scouting cavalry of undead, the main army of the undead did not pursue them. The combat effectiveness of low-level undead and vampires plummeted during daylight hours, so Brandon surmised that the enemy wouldn’t dare to send their skeletal hordes marching openly under the sun until they had completely annihilated the White Mane Legion.
However, once the undead occupied the cemeteries of Ridenburg, their numbers would undoubtedly swell. It was rumored that by the time Targus reached Dragos in the north, his forces had already grown to over a hundred thousand—five times the total military strength of Goran-Elsun.
The number of refugees had swelled to around four or five hundred after absorbing stragglers along the way. The long procession stretched for half a mile through the hills, interspersed with wagons and mules laden with supplies. Some people wandered ahead and behind the line, searching for loved ones lost during the night. For a brief moment, the group of weary travelers seemed to regain some semblance of life.
Roma, unable to stay cooped up, had sneaked off her carriage in broad daylight. She now sat on a flatbed wagon piled high with goods, clutching her precious handbag while regaling a group of wide-eyed children with stories. Her storytelling was vivid and engaging, leaving the little ones utterly mesmerized.
She was just recounting how calm, collected, and heroic Brandon had been when she suddenly spotted a man and woman riding up from behind. Her face paled instantly, and she instinctively ducked her head.
Brandon, who had managed only three hours of sleep—the first rest he’d had in days—was still troubled by thoughts of Madara’s advancing army. He blinked in surprise upon recognizing the furtive young woman as Roma, then chuckled and shook his head.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked.
“I was bored,” Roma replied meekly, lowering her gaze.
“It’s dangerous out here, Roma,” Freya scolded, her brow furrowed with worry as she stared at her dearest friend. “If anything happens to you, how am I supposed to explain it to Aunt Jenny?”
“It’s not that dangerous. I’m telling them stories,” Roma said, her eyes lighting up at the mention of her favorite pastime.
The children nodded eagerly in agreement.
“This isn’t about what you’re doing right now,” Freya sighed. “Do you even realize how tense things are?”
Brandon couldn’t help but smile as he asked, “What kind of stories are you telling?”
“Stories about you.”
Brandon gestured for her to come closer. Without suspicion, Roma hopped to the edge of the wagon, only to be grabbed by the young man. He pinched her cheeks and gave them a firm rub as if teaching her a lesson. “Listen to Freya and take care of yourself, understood?”
Roma let out a startled squeak, struggling to push him away while raising her eyebrows indignantly. “I… umph… I know! Let go already!”
She quickly retreated to the far corner of the wagon, eyeing Brandon warily before patting her chest, clearly shaken.
Brandon smirked to himself; her skin felt soft, much to his amusement. Turning back, he noticed Freya watching enviously, though her face flushed red almost immediately. She turned away, muttering loudly, “Shameless! I’m done with both of you…”
With that, she stormed off, leaving Brandon baffled once again about how he’d managed to offend the young lady. As he stood there pondering, Mano and Retto approached him.
They sought him to discuss forming a militia from among the refugees. Since entering Silver Sparrow Hill, the terrain had grown increasingly treacherous. Dense patches of fir trees blanketed the hills, severely limiting visibility. Not only did they need to guard against potential undead scouts from Madara, but also bears and mane wolves lurking in the forest. Moreover, the refugee column continued to grow, and even deploying all thirty-odd riders Brandon had wouldn’t make much of a dent.
Adding to the challenge, Brandon had sent his riders ahead in a fan-shaped reconnaissance sweep, further stretching his already thin resources.
Fortunately, Eruin boasted many men who had undergone rigorous militia training and were willing to fight. With over thirty Black Void Blades confiscated from the skeletal cavalry, Brandon could arm and equip forty or fifty men without issue.
Retto and Mano stationed these recruits along the flanks and rear of the column, assigning them patrols to maintain order and security within the refugee ranks. Though simple in theory, executing this plan proved labor-intensive. They spent half the morning organizing it, and Retto had merely come to report their progress.
Mano, however, had another purpose. Together with Chael, he presented Brandon with fragments of armor salvaged from last night’s skirmish with the undead scouts.
Most pieces were broken metal rings, with only a few intact plates. Brandon held each fragment up to the sunlight, running his fingers along the inner edges of the rings. Soon enough, he found the familiar emblem—a single eye.
Handing the fragments back to Mano, Brandon remarked, “It seems we’re being followed by Magus’ forces, just as history suggests.”
Noticing Mano’s puzzled expression, Brandon cleared his throat. “Magus, also known as Corpse Grub, is a half-zombie. Among Madara’s generals, he excels at leveraging numerical superiority. He prefers to march at night, and when he does, you’ll see waves of zombies covering the hills.”
Brandon’s words prompted Retto and Mano to exchange glances. They didn’t understand how Brandon knew so much about Madara, but his tone carried no hint of exaggeration. Besides, the young man had no reason to boast—not after earning the trust of seasoned mercenaries like themselves following last night’s battle.
Brandon paused, glancing skyward. Several dark specks dotted the southeastern horizon—whether eagles from the mountains or Madara’s bone vultures remained unclear. But he soon dismissed the thought. Bone vultures, Madara’s standard reconnaissance units, were nearly impossible to evade. Their keen eyesight allowed necromancers to monitor every move on the battlefield.
During the final years of the First Era, which was from the Year of Flourishing Forests (Year 421) to the Year of Star Magic (Year 426), particularly in battles such as the Skewed Forest Campaign of Sifah, Madara’s bone vultures had blanketed the skies. Even wyvern cavalry dispatched to disperse them struggled to keep up. That period marked the zenith of Madara’s power, pushing their horde tactics to the limit.
Yet, prolonged warfare had taught them countermeasures. In dense, heavily wooded mountainous regions like Silver Sparrow Hill, bone vultures were significantly hindered. Their monochromatic vision made it difficult to discern complex terrains. Whether it was Brandon’s four or five hundred refugees or even one or two thousand hiding in Deer Hunting Forest, they might as well have vanished without a trace.
This was why Brandon had insisted on entering Silver Sparrow Hill rather than taking the easier route through Thornstone Valley. He hadn’t voiced this reasoning aloud, fearing dissent among the veteran mercenaries. Though he wanted to believe they still harbored noble intentions, caution dictated otherwise. After a moment’s reflection, he continued, “Magus favors nighttime marches, but he won’t idle during the day. His elite ghouls and wraith companies will drive the refugees, but his immediate priority should be crushing the White Mane Swordsmen Legion. Who knows where Luc Besson is now?”
What Brandon feared most was detection by bone dragons. He knew Targus commanded three of them. If spotted in an open area like a river valley, it would spell disaster. But Targus was likely recuperating in Ridenburg, consolidating his forces after seizing its cemeteries. With the largest obstacle removed, the path through Thornstone Valley to Dragos was clear.
As Brandon spoke, he glanced toward the river valley. By now, Retto and Mano regarded him with newfound respect, seeing him as either a rising star or a promising young commander. Their gazes subtly shifted, reflecting admiration.
Though mercenaries, they weren’t immune to dreams of serving noble houses. Only fate knew that Brandon was nothing more than a counterfeit noble. Despite correcting Chael’s address once, hearing the latter earnestly call him “My lord” sent shivers down his spine. He decided it was simpler to accept the title.
After wrapping up the morning’s affairs, the day passed uneventfully. The refugee column continued to swell, joined by another group catching up from behind and others fleeing from the river valley. These newcomers brought news confirming Brandon’s suspicions: Magus’ ghouls, wraiths, and skeletal legions led by three Kabirus were clashing fiercely with the White Mane Legion. A decisive outcome was expected by evening.
At one point, the refugee count neared a thousand. Brandon ordered a halt for a meal break. Fortunately, since Madara’s initial assault targeted the northwest and southwest districts of the city, most refugees escaping from the north had ample time to gather essentials, sparing Brandon immediate concerns about food shortages.
Still, the young man wasn’t unprepared. To him, Deer Hunting Forest was a natural larder teeming with wildlife. Beyond aggressive bears and mane wolves, there were wild boars, deer, badgers, and rabbits. Pine nuts abounded, and mushrooms and wild vegetables grew plentifully in the woods. With effort, sustaining one or two thousand people wasn’t luxurious living, but it ensured basic sustenance.
Around three in the afternoon, the riders Brandon had sent ahead finally returned with the first message. Surprisingly, it wasn’t about Madara—it was about someone wanting to see him.
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