The Glorious Revolution - [Isekai Kingdom Building]

Chapter 183 - Lead - Gareth 12


Gareth pressed a gauntleted hand down on the table. A map of the Hetnia–Nevielle border lay unfurled, pinned at the corners by spare swords and a dented helm. The lines denoting the "neutral zone" showed an expanse of farmland and abandoned hamlets that no one had dared to inhabit since the frontlines shifted.

Leonard's orders echoed in his head: "Amelia's intel suggests the Royal Army is on the move. Take a group of outriders and eliminate them."

It was more brutal than what he had come to know the man for, but he understood the rationale behind it. If the Royal Army had completed its preparations, their next offensive could be only days away. With Hassel's reconstruction still ongoing and the wards reliant on crystals for power, the city remained fragile. A determined push from a better-equipped enemy could fracture everything they had worked for.

I doubt it will come to that, but it's never wise to put all your hopes in a single person, no matter how great he may be.

Straightening up, Gareth stepped outside to get things started. The sky overhead was a wash of pale gray, tinged with the faint hues of morning. He made his way toward the northern gate of Hassel, where two dozen riders awaited him—steel-clad knights atop warhorses, accompanied by half a dozen orcs and their owlbear mounts. Together, they formed the outriding party that Leonard had entrusted to Gareth.

One of the knights, a man named Rudolph, who Gareth knew from a tourney almost a decade ago, glanced at the orcs uneasily. "General, if I may… are you sure about taking them?"

It wasn't the first time Gareth had noticed that flicker of doubt. He paused, allowing his gaze to sweep across the orcs. They stood near their broad-chested beasts, adjusting their tack and armor. During the Incursion, orcs had been allies of happenstance, and it was only recently that they had been brought into the fold.

Gareth folded his arms, ensuring he met the man's gaze. "I fought alongside these orcs against the armies of the dead. I trust them with my life. That should suffice for you."

Rudolph stiffened, then lowered his eyes respectfully. "Yes, General."

That settled, Gareth swung up onto his own horse—a sturdy black mare named Nightdrinker. He could feel the tension in the air. The watchers along the battlements, the masons rebuilding the crumbled walls, all turned to observe. Some gave encouraging shouts; others merely stared, worry plain on their faces.

"Move out," Gareth called. The gatehouse mechanism groaned as the portcullis rose, revealing the Harvest's Road. In the distance, farmland unfolded like a patchwork quilt, much of it abandoned or wilting. Behind them, the gate shut once more, leaving Hassel's half-repaired skyline behind.

Morning mist lingered over the fields. Gareth maintained a brisk canter, careful not to tire the horses too early. They hoped to find the enemy soon, but he knew that sometimes these pursuits could take days, and they needed to be at full strength for battle.

He tried not to dwell on how battered the land still was. Instead, he focused on the subtle undercurrent of magic that tingled at the edge of his awareness. Ever since he had channeled the Faith to tear down the wards during Hassel's liberation, something in him had changed. He sensed magic more keenly and could navigate through illusions, even when they were well disguised. It wasn't exactly comfortable, being so bombarded with noise, but it gave him an edge: no ambush glyph or hidden runic trap would easily slip past him.

They found no signs of life in the first few miles. The occasional scattering of crows took flight, cawing irritably at the disturbance. At one point, they passed a stray dog sniffing at a collapsed barn, but it fled when the orcs drew near. The hamlets they passed were deserted, with doors ajar and windows boarded or smashed. The farmland lay fallow, with once-tilled soil now overtaken by weeds.

After nearly three hours, Gareth decided they should take a break. He raised a fist, signaling a stop by a dried creek bed. The riders dismounted, allowing their horses to drink from the shallow puddles that remained. The orcs began scanning the area with practiced vigilance—some peering, tapping the ground for vibrations, others sniffing the wind.

Rudolph approached, brow creased. "General, any idea where we might find them?"

Gareth shook his head. "No, they'll have moved. But Amelia was certain there would be advance groups."

An orc warrior stepped forward, a scar-laden female with a single metal pauldron. "Chief," she asked in a low growl, "something is tracking us."

Before Gareth could answer, he noticed something odd: the shadows beneath his horse's hooves seemed to ripple, as if water had replaced them. Then, two yellow eyes blinked, luminous in the gloom. The horses stamped nervously, and several men muttered curses.

From the heart of his own shadow, a wisp-thin figure rose, featureless except for those bright eyes. "General Gareth," it whispered. "The Mistress sends word."

Gareth found it almost comical to be addressed as "General" by a blob of shadow, but necessity overcame any amusement. "Speak," he commanded.

The shade bowed. "Royal Army scouts and a knight Corps have been sighted roughly ten miles northwest of your current position. Likely a forward unit, numbering a hundred."

Tension spread among the riders. So it was true. Gareth nodded to the shade. "Lead us."

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With a silent dip of its head, the messenger glided away, drifting across the farmland like a sentient shadow. The riders quickly mounted and urged their horses on, following in a loose formation.

They traveled swiftly, with the messenger guiding them along winding dirt paths. Eventually, they arrived at a small cluster of buildings. A signpost indicated that this had once been a minor village. Now, the area was engulfed in a disquieting silence. Several structures had collapsed roofs or walls charred by old fires.

They'd go this far to deny us any resource.

It wasn't empty, though. Faint glints of metal could be seen if one knew where to look, though most of the attention was taken by the knights waiting for them. "There is more hiding hiding," Gareth warned

The Royal Army scouts had indeed arrived, occupying what remained of the village. About a hundred men, from the quick glance he managed, and they were no green recruits. Their formation was orderly and disciplined, with no ragged lines or sloppy gear. Swords, spears, and shields gleamed, while a few archers stood behind makeshift cover.

One of the orcs inhaled sharply, baring its tusks in a hungry grin. Another knight eyed them warily, likely recalling how much worse their previous enemies had been equipped.

Gareth surveyed the scene, weighing his options. A direct confrontation with a hundred skilled soldiers could be bloody, but allowing them to roam unopposed might jeopardize Hassel. He reined in, scanning for any vantage point or opportunity for diplomacy. The Royal Army soldiers stiffened, clearly noticing the outriders.

No one tried to parlay. Gareth lifted an arm. "Ready yourselves."

The riders split apart. Knights guided their mounts into a wedge, while the orcs clustered tightly at the center. On the enemy side, lines of spearmen and swordsmen moved swiftly, forming a disciplined, bristling front. A trickle of unease slid down his spine.

No time to waver. Trust in His plan. He drew in a breath and felt a spark of Faith flicker in his blood. "Charge!"

They surged forward. Hooves thundered across the dusty ground, echoing off the ruins. Gareth heard the whistling hiss of arrows and shouted a warning. Three or four knights raised shields; one arrow released a preemptive explosion, taking down the defensive skill, and found a seam in a man's armor; he toppled from the saddle with a cry. The orcs roared, pressing on.

As Gareth closed in, electricity crackled around his spear, arcs dancing across its steel shaft. He thrust it outward, sending a bolt of lightning toward the approaching line. Two Royal soldiers convulsed and fell, smoke curling from their charred armor.

The thrill of victory was short-lived: a tall figure in chain mail lunged to meet him, deflecting his next strike with a bright flash of steel. Gareth grunted, forced to reevaluate. This man moved with confidence—clearly a Master-tier warrior.

All around, the roar of combat echoed. The orcs struck the center of the line with savage force, shattering shields and splitting pikes with their monstrous strength.

Yet these soldiers didn't falter as easily as previous foes. They pivoted skillfully, flanking the orcs in small squads. The knights on Gareth's flanks found themselves caught in chaotic skirmishes and the thunder of hooves mixed with screams.

Lightning flared from Gareth's spear again, but his chosen opponent angled his sword, absorbing the brunt of the energy with the glow of a defensive skill. The man's stance was poised and skilled. A real Captain, Gareth thought, parrying an overhead slash. Not the dregs we've faced so far. Sparks flew as steel collided, each blow resonating with an aura-laced intensity. The Captain's eyes narrowed, his jaw set.

They exchanged a rapid series of blows. Gareth's spear provided him with reach; the Captain's sword allowed for fluid counters. At times, Gareth caught glimpses of the man's aura flaring unexpectedly—either from an enchanted item or perhaps a buff from a distant caster. Regardless, it urged him to fight with stubborn ferocity.

He knows he can't overpower me, so he must be trying to stall.

Gareth saw flashes of the rest of the battlefield: an orc plowing through two soldiers yet getting stabbed in the leg by a third, a knight toppling from his horse beneath a swarm of spears, and the sight of an arrow embedded in a horse's flank.

They are attempting to whittle us down. Even if we are stronger individually, there are more of them, and their equipment allows them to absorb the losses better.

He ducked beneath the Captain's thrust, hooking the man's sword arm with the shaft of his spear. With a surge of lightning, he attempted to jolt him off balance.

The Captain grimaced but managed to shift free, his sword scraping against Gareth's mail with a screech. Pain lanced through his ribs, but Gareth gritted his teeth, ignoring it. He hammered forward, channeling the power of the Faith. Electricity crackled, and bright arcs scorched the Captain's chainmail. Another slash from the man forced Gareth back, though he deflected it enough to avoid a mortal blow.

Somewhere behind his duel, Gareth caught sight of orcs regrouping, fueling a renewed assault with savage roars. The knights circled in from a flank, driving lances through a weakening section of the Royal line. However, the enemy refused to scatter. Even outnumbered in certain pockets, they pivoted or called for reinforcements. Each small group supported the others, bridging gaps with disciplined footwork and shield walls.

The Captain seized Gareth's momentary distraction, lunging with a swift overhead cut. Gareth barely angled his spear in time, the jarring impact rattling his arms. He snarled under his breath—this couldn't drag on.

He concentrated, letting the lightning flood his limbs. A purple glow radiated from him, crackling over his warhorse's flanks. I will end this quickly.

He pivoted, feinting high, then ramming his spear low. The Captain tried to block, but Gareth twisted, releasing a pulse of electricity at point-blank range. The force slammed the man's sword wide, leaving an opening. Spearpoint flashed, piercing under the Captain's pauldron. The man gasped, an arc of lightning dancing over chain and flesh. He crumpled from his horse, as even his buffs couldn't keep him going through a ruptured heart.

Surprisingly, the energy that had buoyed the Royal side dissipated with the death of their Captain, and their formation sagged, though they still fought fiercely in squads. Gareth bellowed to his men, "Run them down!"

Roars of effort tore through the air. The orcs slammed forward again, unstoppable now that the gap in strength had been reestablished. The knights ensured that no one escaped, creating a kill box.

More of the enemy began to retreat or discard their weapons. Some fought to the very end, while others, trapped, attempted to surrender. The final outcome arrived swiftly—only scattered groups of Royal soldiers remained standing, but they too were soon overwhelmed by the united force of the outriders and orcs.

At last, Gareth wrested his spear free from a dying soldier's torso, his chest heaving. He scanned the battlefield. The stench of charred flesh and spattered blood weighed heavily on him. Several orcs lay motionless, brutal wounds marring their broad bodies. Knights, too, had fallen, some alive but groaning, pinned beneath injured horses or slumped against broken walls.

Damn, he thought, the rush of victory fading. They had won, but at a significant cost. The enemy Captain had been a powerful foe and, more importantly, had been able to empower his entire Corps. That was something he'd have to report back.

A ragged cheer from a pair of orcs rang out, triumph guttural in their throats. Some knights raised voices in relief or exhaustion. But the tension remained. Gareth dismounted, feeling a twinge in his side. He knelt by one of his fallen men, pressing a gauntleted hand to the knight's shoulder. The knight's breath rattled. "We… we got them, sir?"

Gareth nodded and offered the man a potion that would make him healthy enough to be moved. "Yes. Drink up. We'll get you back to Hassel."

He gestured to the orcs, instructing them to gather the wounded. A few Royal survivors crouched near the center of the hamlet, arms raised in surrender. One orc, brandishing an axe, snarled. Gareth intervened. "In the Revolutionary Army, we take prisoners, not trophies. Understood?"

The orc grunted in submission. Gareth turned away to search for Rudolph. The knight had a gash across his brow but remained on his feet, retrieving a battered comrade from beneath a collapsed wall. Gareth assisted him in lifting the unconscious soldier free.

"This new campaign, sir… it won't be easy," Rudolph said grimly.

Gareth exhaled. "No. They're well-trained and well-equipped. But we'll still win." That much, at least, was sure. The price they'd pay for such a victory was yet to be determined.

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