Steel, gunpowder, and spellcasters

Chapter 210 Embers
Click, click.

The sound of a flint striking flint.

The ashes, which had been without fire, ignited once more, and Winters awoke from his coma.

His body ached and felt dizzy. He tried to open his eyes, but everything was blurry.

His vision was blurred, and his consciousness was equally blurred, but he smelled a pleasant milky scent.

Winters' nostrils flared as he drowsily wondered, "Could heaven really exist? And taste like milk?"

His vision gradually returned, and a strange thing became clear in his eyes: it was a wheel made up of dozens of thin spokes, covered with a cloth that faintly let in light.

How weird.

Winters' thinking ability gradually recovered, and he began to be able to think.

He concluded that this was not heaven—unless even the gods lived in tents!

What he was lying inside was not a wheel, but a tent dome.

Winters immediately became alert and moved his body to observe his surroundings.

Suddenly, a tearing pain shot through his left calf, causing him to break out in a cold sweat.

Winters clenched his teeth and didn't make a sound.

He was certain he had fallen into the hands of the Hed people, and his instinct told him to hide.

It hurt so much! It hurt so much that it felt like his left leg and below no longer belonged to his body!

A filthy medical clinic... mud mixed with blood and dirt... mounds of sawed-off arms and legs... "Don't let them saw off my arm!" Andrei cried out in despair, "Winters!"...

These images flashed through his mind, and an immense sense of fear gripped his heart: "Could it be that I...?"

Winters had never been so afraid; he desperately reached out to touch his left leg and left foot.

Fortunately, they were all still there. Winters breathed a long sigh of relief and couldn't help but smile wryly.

It seemed someone outside heard the commotion inside the tent, and the tent flap was lifted.

"Oh no," Winters thought.

A young woman wearing an embroidered Hart narrow robe walked in.

Seeing Winters open his eyes, Miss Heard smiled, her eyes crinkling: "You're awake?"

Her smile made the tent brighter—it really did become brighter, because someone had removed the skylight's cover.

Winters had expected to be greeted by heavily armed guards, but instead he was met with a young woman.

He stood there, stunned, unsure how to react.

"Are you thirsty? Are you cold? Do you want something to eat?" The unfamiliar girl approached Winters, took another blanket and put it under his back so that he could support himself while sitting.

Winters was tense and on high alert. He didn't know the other person, and he perceived the other person as acting on their own.

He stared intently into the stranger's eyes, like a wounded wild animal that had fallen into a pit.

But the unfamiliar girl seemed very familiar and natural in taking care of Winters.

Taking advantage of the moment when the other person turned around, Winters carefully examined the felt tent with his eyes.

The wooden frame was covered with leather—a typical felt tent structure, only much smaller than the sacrificial felt tents he had seen before.

The floor of the felt tent was covered with a thick blanket, and he was lying on the blanket at that moment. It seemed that the Hed people did not sleep in beds.

An iron furnace stood in the center of the felt tent, and Winters could hardly believe his eyes.

In the center stood an iron furnace, and Winters could not believe his eyes—it was the "Sawyer Furnace" forged by Berrian.

It wasn't newly made, but old; it still bore traces of Winters's use.

He and his friends used to cook noodles and pass around a bottle of strong liquor around this iron stove.

A copper pot sat on the iron stove, bubbling away inside, emanating a milky aroma.

Miss Heard picked up the copper pot, poured a bowl of steaming milk, and placed it on the small table beside Winters' pillow: "Don't drink it yet, it's too hot."

A gold plate was also placed on the small table.

On the gold platter was a piece of cooked lamb spine, a small dish of salt, and a silver-handled, gem-encrusted knife for cutting meat.

Knife!

Miss Hart turned and walked to the stove, put a few pieces of dried cow dung into the firebox, and stoked the fire to make it burn even brighter.

Winters wanted to take the knife, but his limbs were too stiff.

Before he could reach out, Miss Hart suddenly turned back.

Miss Heard moved a small stool over and sat down next to Winters. She held the bowl of milk and gently blew on it.

"Do you like to eat milk skin?" she asked with a warm smile.

“You…you speak Common Tongue?” Winters asked hoarsely.

Miss Hart spoke in Common, and with almost no accent.

Miss Hart nodded gently.

"Where did you learn that?" Winters asked again. His vocal cords seemed glued shut after not speaking for so long.

Just as Miss Hed was about to speak, a rough male voice from outside the tent interrupted her.

"[Hede] Qing'er, is that boy dead?"

A burly man with a ruddy face burst into the yurt, bringing with him a gust of cold wind.

The burly man with the red face met Winters' eyes, and both of their pupils suddenly dilated.

"Monkey butt face." Winters' thoughts raced: "Have I fallen into the hands of the Teldon forces?"

The person warming themselves by the fire turned even redder, so red it looked as if blood could drip from it.

Because he saw that "Palatubalatuer" was not only not dead, but had also woken up from his coma.

Because he saw "Qing'er" holding a bowl of hot milk, sitting next to the other person.

The man warming himself by the fire reached for the knife handle.

“[Herd] Mother! Mother! Go and call the little lion!” the strange girl shouted towards the outside of the tent, spreading her arms to protect Winters: “[Herd] What kind of skill is it to bully him at this time?”

Winters tried to enter a spellcasting state, but the intense phantom pain prevented him from concentrating.

He wasn't surprised by this situation; he had been mentally prepared for it as he repeatedly pushed himself to the limit.

The inability to use magic does not mean he will simply give up and wait to die.

Taking advantage of the distraction of those warming themselves by the fire, Winters discreetly took the knife from the plate and hid it in his palm.

Given the condition of his left leg, it was impossible for him to dodge the opponent's attack.

Winters was ready to grab the man's arm and slit his neck as the man pierced his abdomen.

His only worry was that being bedridden would make his muscles too stiff to mount a counterattack. So he gently moved his wrists, slowly regaining his strength.

Winters himself was unaware that his mindset had undergone a tremendous shift.

His body left the battlefield, but his spirit remained. He considered himself as good as dead; losing even one person was a bonus.

The man tending the fire and the strange girl were arguing fiercely.

Winters listened carefully. He couldn't understand what the two were saying, but he could tell that the strange girl was protecting him.

He also heard the girl say the word "Yahachi".

“Little lion?” He quickly analyzed the situation and concluded, “This is the territory of the Red River Tribe.”

The man tending the fire lost ground in the argument. He gripped the hilt of his knife, kicked open the tent flap, and stormed off in a huff.

Miss Hed sat back down on the little stool, picked up the milk bowl, and gently blew on it.

As she played the flute, tears began to fall.

"Why are you crying?" Winters didn't know what to say.

“It’s nothing.” Miss Hed wiped away her tears and brought the milk to Winters’ lips: “It’s drinkable now, you can have some.”

Winters raised his stiff arm and nervously took the milk bowl: "I can do it myself."

"Okay, you do it yourself."

Winters' muscles were particularly stiff and sore, I don't know how long he had been bedridden. He didn't even get a sip of milk, but spilled half of it.

Miss Hart then brought him a handkerchief to wipe his face.

Just then, another person entered the tent.

The visitor spoke in the Common Language, but his accent was much more stilted.

The visitor smiled and asked, "Busy, huh?"

Winters recognized the newcomer's face, his expression gradually softening until he became calm: "It's you?"

"It's me." The person nodded.

Winters wouldn't be mistaken; how could he forget someone who almost killed him?

Although the other person was taller and stronger, and wore better clothes, his stubbornness in his bones had not diminished in the slightest.

It was as if a transparent glass door in his mind had been shattered, and Winters was awakened: the slave boy in the dimly lit longhouse on Red Iwo Jima, who was also the little lion—the white lion's younger brother.

"What should I call you?" Winters simply lay down.

The little lion sat cross-legged next to Winters: "Whatever you want, hey, you, kid, it's all fine."

"Then I'll call you Little Lion?"

The little lion scratched the back of his head: "I get ashamed every time I hear that name. I'm not worthy of being a lion." Winters was eager to know what was happening outside: "Where am I?"

"Where else could it be? The vast grasslands."

"How many days have I been unconscious?"

"Six days," the little lion added, "from the time I found you."

Winters pondered: Six days? The Red River tribe didn't cross the river to pursue them?
These questions were too sensitive, so he cautiously refrained from speaking.

The little lion pointed to Winters' abdomen and said, "You were shot here. The stitches came undone, so we sewed them back up."

He then pointed to the back of Winters' head and said, "You also got a blow to the back of your head, which knocked you out, but the bones are fine."

He was hit on the back of the head? Winters had no recollection of it.

He tried to recall, but his memory only went as far as when he met up with Colonel Bode.

After that, it was all scattered fragments, and the overall structure was unclear.

The little lion patted Winters' left shin: "Bone broken, from a horse's hoof. We've got the best doctor for this kind of injury for you. Don't move around too much, just rest and recover. Hey, let's get better first."

"Let's heal our injuries first"—this statement is quite ambiguous.

Winters nodded.

Regardless of what others think, Winters doesn't intend to stay in the wasteland for long. But he only needs to know this himself; there's no need to say it aloud to provoke others.

“The most impressive part is here.” The little lion pointed with interest at Winters’ chest: “You also took a shot in the chest, a close-range shot, and your armor was completely pierced.”

"Then how come I'm still alive?" Winters raised an eyebrow.

The little lion took something out of his pocket and laughed, saying, "Because of this!"

The thing that saved Winters' life was the wine jug that Alpard gave him.

A lead bullet the size of a thumb was broken in half, with the remaining half embedded in the wine jug. The wine jug was completely deformed and had a hole in it.

Winters covered his face: "What a cliché plot!"

The little lion smiled and said, "Don't worry about that. As long as I save your life, that's enough."

"Where did you get this iron furnace?" Winters asked, pointing to the Soya furnace.

"This iron stove is a real gem. I brought it here especially for you to use." The little lion couldn't hide his excitement: "It saves fuel, has no open flame, and is easy to move. I traded twenty sheep for it, but it's a pity there's only one."

As a Venetian, Winters subconsciously calculated the profit of this deal. He knew all too well how much iron Belon had used; even ten sheep would have been profitable—but the key was the labor costs.

He looked at the lion cub and said with his eyes, "You made a bad purchase."

After exchanging only a few words, the two suddenly fell silent.

How can enemies who were fighting to the death one second suddenly become happy chatting the next?

Both sides were simply trying to maintain a pleasant atmosphere for the conversation.

Once the topics were exhausted, the atmosphere became heavy.

The little lion suppressed his smile, solemnly took out a small iron box from his bosom, and placed it beside Winters' pillow.

Inside the tin box was a tuft of gray mane.

Winters remained expressionless, seemingly unaffected by the sadness: "Thank you."

"According to our customs, nothing is wasted. We eat everything that can be eaten and use everything that can be used," the little lion said earnestly. "But he was your close companion, so I buried him properly. I buried him very deep, so that crows and vultures can't peck at him, and wolves can't dig him out. I'll take you there once you've recovered from your injuries."

Winters remained expressionless: "Thank you."

The little lion said sadly, "He... protected you until the very end. If it weren't for him, I wouldn't have been able to find you. He left after fulfilling his wish, and I'll tell you his story in detail later."

He pointed to the young woman named Heard and said, “This is my sister. She’s been taking care of you while you were unconscious. She’s been washing your wounds, cleaning your body, and feeding you. If you need anything, just tell her. I’m leaving now. You should rest well.”

After saying that, he nodded, got up, and left.

Winters fastened the metal box containing the strong-blooded bristles and placed it against his chest. The metal box was icy cold.

He had no tears; all his tears had turned into blood and flowed away.

He couldn't describe how he felt, because a part of his emotions seemed to have become numb.

Hede took the sewing basket and said while doing her handiwork, "My name is Erlun. If you find that hard to pronounce, you can call me Miria."

"What does 'Erlun' mean?"

It means 'green'.

“There are two more pieces of jewelry, which are also yours.” Erlun took out a gold pendant box and an exquisite Athena statue, and gently placed them beside Winters’ pillow: “You are safe here, and no one will hurt you anymore.”

"Thank you."

“But this is mine.” Erlun took the silver-handled knife from under Winters’ blanket: “You can’t just take a young lady’s knife.”

……

At the same time Winters awoke, the remnants of Plato's expeditionary force finally reached the border.

The mere sight of the boundary river caused many to kneel down and weep in prayer.

……

More than three months ago, when Plato's expeditionary force crossed the border river, there were a total of:
Three generals;

The Fifth and Sixth Army Corps consisted of 10734 regular infantrymen and officers.
An independent engineering auxiliary unit, with a total of 1175 officers and soldiers;
Fifty cavalry squadrons, 6172 light and heavy cavalrymen.

A total of 18084 people—just combat soldiers.

The conscripted militia consisted of 103 teams of 100 men each, totaling 8563 officers and soldiers.

With the conscription of militia and the addition of laborers and merchants whose numbers could not be accurately counted, the total number of auxiliary troops exceeded ten thousand.

The total number of soldiers, including auxiliary soldiers, exceeded 28000.

This was an army that struck fear into the hearts of the barbarians of Hed, whose fighting prowess surpassed that of any other republic.

It possesses the strongest cavalry force in Cenas, two fully equipped standing legions, an indestructible warhammer, and an unbreakable shield.

In fact, it is already somewhat too large for the Republic of Palatour.

This should have been a typical short war: the army would sweep the Hed people across the wasteland, demarcate new borders with the various tribes, and then drive the herds there. Success would be achieved, and promotions and wealth would follow.

There may be sporadic small-scale conflicts afterward, but they are not a big problem; the Parat people have a well-established strategy for dealing with them.

Strong demand from the federal provinces and the Venetian wool textile industry meant that no matter how much wool Paratú produced, it would be completely sold out.

The large influx of immigrants from Monta, Van, the United Provinces, and even the Empire enabled Palatul to develop the wilderness at an astonishing pace.

Following his overall "salami slicing" strategy, Plato only sliced ​​a small piece at a time. He did this for thirty years without ever losing.

If someone told them they would suffer a bloody defeat this time, the Paratus would laugh and shake their heads as they walked away.

……

Seven days ago, more than a thousand Dussac light cavalrymen recruited from the newly reclaimed land secretly arrived on the east bank of the River Styx.

Nearly six thousand raiders crossed the River Styx, and on the day they set foot in Palatine, Army Headquarters issued a massive conscription order.

Long before the local militia had finished assembling, the main force of the barbarians had already left with a full load of spoils.

In addition, there are still more than a thousand barbarian cavalrymen stranded in Palatul territory—perhaps because they haven't plundered enough.

They engaged in a cat-and-mouse chase with the troops inside Paratú, tying up a large number of troops.

The invasion of the barbarian cavalry, thirty years after the last invasion, caused various rumors to spread like wildfire, and the country of Palatine was filled with panic.

The local councils of each city, town, and county tried their best to keep the troops in their localities in order to protect themselves.

The two regiments of over a thousand Dussac light cavalry were all the mobile forces that Palatine's army headquarters could deploy at the moment.

The number of light cavalry was also a carefully considered force.

If Palatus sends an army of 100,000 from his homeland, the barbarians won't even need to lift a finger; everyone will starve to death in the wasteland.

That night, as Plato's army on the west bank crossed the River Styx, Dussac's light cavalry also launched a surprise attack on more than four thousand Hed raiders on the east bank.

However, crossing the River Styx did not mean escaping death. In addition to the more than two thousand sheepskin bags used to bind the giant raft that crashed into the bridge, the barbarians had more than a thousand sheepskin bags in their possession.

Using these sheepskin bags, Hart's various tribes pursued Plato's expeditionary force relentlessly.

Until they joined forces with reinforcements, the Paratites and the Hed tribes fought thirteen battles. At the very least, the casualties were evenly matched, and they never lost a single battle.

However, of the more than 28,000 expeditionary soldiers, fewer than 11,000 survived to reach the border river.

The regular army suffered nearly half its casualties, and more than 8,000 auxiliary soldiers were either killed in battle, captured, or abandoned on the west bank of the Styx.

Apart from the remaining weapons, armor, mules, horses, and lives, everything else was left on the wasteland.

Has the war ended?

Both sides licked their wounds and retreated, and perhaps the war ended just like that.

But for the Republic of Palatine and the tribes of Hed, this was not the end, nor even the beginning of the end.

This is just the end of the beginning.

But none of this mattered to Winters anymore; he lay on the vast wasteland and fell into a deep sleep once again.

This volume isn't completely finished yet, but what's left is all dessert, so there are a few things I need to explain.

Because I was nearing the end of a volume, the writing process had been somewhat difficult for a while, and updates were not very consistent. I apologize for that.

Thank you to all the readers for reading, subscribing, recommending, voting, donating, and commenting. Thank you everyone.

Yesterday's thank-you list is combined with today's.

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(End of this chapter)