The Crisis Of Fjorland (1)

Duke Vegard, Commander Seveldrun of the Heavy Armored Knights, and Olaf, leader of the lancer corps and guards, were swiftly reorganizing the local troops arriving at the castle.

As the troops were assembled to a certain extent, they were sent to Hedal and Modor Castles to initially defend against the advancing Norge tribe and prepare to form an encirclement.

High Priest Guillaume urgently selected a priest to inform the Papal See in Midlenheim of the situation, sending a letter requesting the dispatch of the Holy Protector Knights and Legion.

“As fast as possible, change horses as many times as needed and ride on. Do not sleep, eat, or rest. The fate of the Duchy and the glory of the Lord’s kingdom hang in the balance. Your efforts will be rewarded by the Lord.”

At Guillaume’s urging, the priest, with a solemn expression, made the sign of the Holy Cross, mounted his horse, and whipped it forward.

Amid the flurry of activity, reports of defeats and fallen strongholds gradually dwindled, signaling that the withdrawal of troops spread across the duchy was progressing.

Of course, this left the territory largely undefended, but that could be rectified once the Norger tribe was completely driven out and the lands reclaimed.

Vegard also employed various diplomatic measures, urgently sending envoys to the Nastrand Duchy, Bjoern, and the Grandelvald Duchy.

The letters, appealing to the “allied nations of faith” sharing the same god to be outraged by this crisis, subtly carried a request for military aid.

But on the second day after sending the envoys, Baron Molke, sent to the Nastrand Duchy, hurriedly returned.

Rushing through the gate like a madman, Molke collapsed before Vegard, Seveldrun, and Olaf, who were discussing over a roughly drawn map on a table, shouting as if spitting blood.

“Nastrand! Nastrand!!!”

“Molke! Calm down. You’re back already? Did the Nastrand Duchy’s border guards not let you in?”

Seveldrun, eyeing Molke’s disheveled state, asked sternly.

Molke, his face drenched in sweat, barely managed to reply.

“The Nastrand Duchy has crossed the border and invaded on a massive scale.”

“What are you saying!!!”

Vegard, enraged, leapt from his seat. Seveldrun and Olaf, shocked, stared at Molke as if questioning the truth of his words.

“It’s true. They’ve crossed the border, crushed all outposts in one sweep, and taken Omsden, Sevel, and Tjodalv. With no troops left, we’re defenseless!!!”

“Oh…”

Vegard collapsed into his chair with a hollow look. Seveldrun and Olaf urgently placed their hands on the map.

“Sevel and Tjodalv too! At this rate, they’ll reach the main castle in about seven days…”

“Should we split the troops and recall them to the castle now? What should we do?”

Seveldrun and Olaf looked at Vegard with urgent expressions, but Vegard only stared blankly at the ceiling.

“This can’t be, this can’t be…”

“Duke!”

“Please, come to your senses!”

At that moment,

Bang!

The gatekeeper burst through the door.

“There’s something to report!”

“What is it? Is it urgent?”

“Not just urgent… you must see this.”

“I must see it?”

“It was found at Hedal Castle, and they thought it best to bring it—no, escort it—to the main castle.”

“What are you talking about! Speak clearly!”

Olaf shouted angrily.

But the pale-faced gatekeeper could barely respond.

“Let’s go see, Sir Olaf. What exactly have they escorted here?”

Seveldrun tapped Olaf’s shoulder. Olaf stood, and their gazes turned to Vegard.

But even then, Vegard, still in shock, only muttered, “This can’t be.”

“Let’s go see for ourselves.”

Seveldrun gently pushed Olaf’s back.

Following the gatekeeper, Olaf muttered softly.

“He seems too shocked. At such a critical time…”

“It’s not just Lord Vegard—most commanders shine when the enemy is weak, don’t they? But a true commander keeps the troops intact through hardship and ultimately finds victory. We must keep our wits about us.”

“We need to decide whether to split and recall the troops sent to the two castles or prepare a defense with the forces available now.”

“Do not try to consider every possibility—it is urgent enough to rely on instinct. Has the Fjorland Duchy ever been in such danger? With everyone in a panic, deciding quickly and pushing forward is the best way to prevent chaos.”

“Indeed, Sir Seveldrun.”

Their steps reached the castle’s main gate.

The air was thick with the stench of decaying corpses. It wasn’t unfamiliar to Seveldrun and Olaf, who had spent many days on battlefields, but it was a smell never before encountered within Fjorland’s castle.

An ominous feeling swept over them.

The eyes of the guards at the gate were wet with tears. Some had barely stopped retching, rinsing their mouths with water, while others covered their mouths and noses with cloth.

“Who have they escorted here?”

“We didn’t know if they should be brought inside, so they’re waiting outside the gate.”

“Open it.”

The guards hesitated. The gatekeeper reiterated the order.

“Didn’t I say to open it? Show them this horror.”

Creeeeak!

The guards worked together to open the renowned sturdy gate of Fjorland’s outer castle. The stench grew stronger.

And then…

“O Lord, I will surely behead those damned heathens, rip open their bellies, and pour boiling oil inside! I will, without fail, chew their hearts raw!”

Devout Olaf’s eyes blazed red with rage, as if they might pop out.

Even Seveldrun, usually stoic, staggered at the sight of the horror, regaining balance and letting out a sigh.

Before them stood a cart pulled by two horses.

Fixed to the cart were the bodies of Sketil and a knight, nailed to a plank with massive spikes through their eyes, mouths, hearts, palms, thighs, and ankles.

The corpses had begun to decay, swollen like balloons. Pecked by eagles or crows, the exposed bones on their faces were too gruesome to behold.

A sign with carved words was nailed above them. Olaf’s eyes turned to the inscription.

[Behold, this is the visage of the god you worship.]

Midlenheim.

This vast territory, stretching west of Nordenheim, unlike the mountainous and fjord-laden Nordenheim, was a fertile land of wide pastures and gentle hills, harmoniously interspersed with lakes and rivers.

In Midlenheim, composed of six duchies, there was an independent region not far from Nordenheim: the Papal See and its direct territory, the Holy Empire.

Within that territory, a massive church and castle, commanding the surrounding area, was the seat of the Papal See.

And within, Pope Orshas III, ruler of the Papal See and overseer of all ecclesiastical authority in Midlenheim and Nordenheim, sat on an ornate chair, reading a letter from a sweat-soaked priest.

“The Lord will deal with those who brought this calamity according to His will! Raise your head, brother.”

Moved by the Pope calling him “brother,” the haggard priest lifted his face.

The Pope, his face a strange blend of solemnity and kindness, posed a question.

“Is not the Fjorland Duchy the largest in territory and strongest in military within Nordenheim? Even in full mobilization, it should far surpass those barbarians—how has this happened?”

The priest first admitted his lack of military knowledge, then explained as best he could the sudden, massive attack, the concentrated assault from one direction, and the disadvantage of being unable to secure numerical superiority across vast territory.

To the Pope’s side, Commander Erikson of the Holy Protector Knights and Commander Hegeldson of the Legion, nodded quietly as if understanding the situation.

The Pope, after a long pause, continued his questions.

“Have you also requested aid from Nordenheim’s brothers, Nastrand, Bjoern, and Grandelvald?”

“Yes. However, I do not know the results or responses. As written in the letter when I hurriedly left the castle, Fjorland has lost significant southern territory. Even if the duchies resolve to help and prepare, I cannot say how long it will take.”

Tears fell from the priest’s eyes. The Pope sighed.

“Do not weep, brother. I, too, feel Fjorland’s pain and will pray. But I do not consider this urgent enough to draw the Lord’s blade from the Papal See. I will urge the other three duchies to join in the Pope’s name.”

“We would be most grateful.”

Commander Erikson raised his hand to speak, and the Pope nodded.

“Likely, the Fjorland Duchy plans to annihilate these barbarians in one fell swoop through a massive encirclement. Commander Seveldrun of the knights and Olaf of the lancers are skilled in strategy and tactics. Duke Vegard is no foolish ruler either.”

“A massive encirclement?”

“If we march from here to Fjorland’s west, and the other duchies—at least Nastrand and Bjoern, as Grandelvald is too far to act immediately—march from the east, we can encircle them on three sides.”

The Pope, looking at the map, nodded as if understanding.

His brow furrowed.

“Brother, go rest for now. I will discuss this carefully with the commanders.”

The priest made the Sign of the Holy Cross, bowed, and left the office.

The Pope spoke.

“Even so, this alone cannot be considered a holy war. It’s merely a territorial invasion by heathen barbarians. If we send the Lord’s army for such matters, how many duchies will request aid from the Papal See every time they clash with heathens?”

Hegeldson cautiously offered a counterargument.

“However, if the heathens’ territory expands and they descend from the mountains to establish something resembling a nation, that will become a long-term problem. Eradicating them now would also bolster the Papal See’s authority.”

“The Papal See’s authority, yes. But sending the Lord’s army directly carries immense weight. There must be no defeat—only victory or death. Do you understand its significance?”

To the Pope’s piercing gaze, Erikson proposed a compromise.

“Then, rather than a full holy war, why not send a modest force to bolster Fjorland’s prestige while applying pressure?”

“A modest force?”

“Form a special unit of 50 Holy Protector Knights and 150 Legion soldiers, but set up multiple encampments. Station them at the western border without moving. This signals our participation while pressuring the Norger tribe by showing we’re watching.”

“Isn’t that too few?”

“It’s enough to reveal the presence of the Papal See’s main army behind them. That alone will be a solid barrier. A single arrow fired at us would be a declaration of war.”

“Hmm.”

Hegeldson clapped sharply, as if it were a brilliant idea.

“From the perspective of forming an encirclement, that should suffice. No matter how strong the Norger tribe is, once Fjorland’s forces gather and Nastrand and Bjoern march from the east, they’ll have no choice but to retreat. The numerical disparity ensures they cannot win.”

“Good, that will pressure the Norger tribe without escalating too much. After the war, order all Norger prisoners sent to the Papal See. We’ll hang and burn them, their smoke rising as clouds to fall as rain across the land.”

The Pope, uttering terrifying words, ordered the resting Fjorland priest to be summoned.

When he entered, the Pope explained the size and method of the reinforcements. The priest could only wonder if this was enough and if it truly counted as participation.

“Convey it as such. As promised, I will urge Nastrand, Bjoern, and Grandelvald to join swiftly. The Pope’s command reaches the ends of the earth, so Fjorland’s turmoil will soon subside.”

The priest stood, acknowledging the order.

Everyone was gravely misjudging the situation.