FL - Chapter 64: The War Council

Louis closed the intelligence panel, washed, and prepared for the war council.

He changed into a formal noble tunic embroidered in dark gold, slung his sword belt over one shoulder, and polished his boots.

The occasion called for a proper appearance. At the very least, he needed to look like a young hero.

He left the tent and walked toward the center of the camp.

Knights and young officers noticed him along the way. Awe and curiosity filled their eyes as they bowed in greeting.

News of his victory over the elite Snowsworn unit had spread throughout the Fifth Legion after the previous night's banquet.

Louis soon reached the central command tent.

Guards stood at attention outside. Two rows of military banners bearing the crests of Snowpeak County's noble houses flanked the entrance as familiar and unfamiliar faces filed inside.

The tent was broad and spacious. A circular sand table covered with tactical maps and models stood at its center, surrounded by several rows of high-backed wooden chairs.

Thanks to his performance the night before, Louis had secured a seat in the innermost circle.

Count Firth sprawled in the chair at the head of the room, his face flushed and his eyelids drooping as he drifted toward sleep.

He had clearly enjoyed the previous night's wine too much.

A vigorous silver-haired man presided over the council in his place.

He wore an old-fashioned military uniform of black cloth trimmed in blue. His frame remained powerful despite his age, and he stood with his hands clasped behind his back.

This was Viscount Webster, the oldest and most influential vassal of House Firth—a northern noble through and through.

He was also the only Supernal Knight in Snowpeak County. Age had weakened him, but he remained far stronger than any Elite Knight.

His presence brought immediate solemnity to the council.

"Nobles, officers, and honored envoys, welcome to the Fifth Legion's war council for the campaign against the Snowsworn."

The nobles had divided into obvious factions. The old northern nobles wore hard expressions, while the southern colonization lords whispered among themselves.

Officials and military advisors with less obvious roles also mingled in the crowd.

Louis recognized several of the Governor's secret envoys observing in silence.

Viscount Webster studied each noble and officer before unrolling a scroll.

"His Grace Duke Edmund has established the following military merit rewards for the campaign against the Snowsworn.

"Anyone who kills an enemy leader or annihilates a main-force unit will receive First-Class Merit: five thousand Gold Coins and a grant of roughly one hundred and sixteen square miles of Northlands territory."

Silence engulfed the tent.

Viscount Webster continued without changing tone.

"Anyone who captures an enemy stronghold or takes the head of an important officer will receive Second-Class Merit: two thousand Gold Coins and roughly thirty-nine square miles of territory.

"Anyone who provides effective support to the main battlefield or distinguishes himself in reconnaissance will receive Third-Class Merit: five hundred Gold Coins, warhorses and armor, and priority access to supplies.

"There is also Special-Class Merit, whose reward will depend upon the achievement. That is not something anyone here needs to consider yet."

His voice turned cold.

"Anyone who retreats from battle or obeys in words while defying orders in practice will forfeit all rewards. Further punishment may include the confiscation of his territory."

The tent remained silent for a moment before whispers spread around the table.

"One hundred and sixteen square miles of Northlands territory... That's the size of an entire barony."

"Five thousand Gold Coins could sustain a barony for a year."

"The Duke is spending a fortune. He means to end this."

Greed entered many nobles' eyes. Their thoughts had already turned to the military merit and territory they expected to win.

Louis tapped his fingertips against the armrest, his expression calm.

Inside, his thoughts churned.

One hundred and sixteen square miles would double Crimson Tide Territory's holdings.

If his surprise attack succeeded and he created the appearance of turning a desperate situation around, he should earn Second-Class Merit at the very least.

With several more victories, First-Class Merit was within reach.

Viscount Webster set down the scroll. "Next is the intelligence briefing on enemy positions."

He pointed to the map of Snowpeak County on the sand table. Three locations had been marked in red.

His finger tapped the table's edge.

"These rats—no, these cockroaches—always hide in the shadows.

"Find one, and there are usually more nearby. Show the smallest weakness, and they crawl from the cracks to bite you."

His measured tone made the unpleasant comparison even more vivid.

"We have confirmed three major zones of Snowsworn activity in Snowpeak County."

He indicated the three red marks in order: one in the northern mountains, another along the northeastern ridge, and the third near a northwestern mineral vein.

"The first is near the Snowshadow Highlands. We know they're in the mountains, but not which valley shelters them.

"The second is around Clearfeather Ridge, where scouts often disappear.

"The third is near Icetooth Mine. An abandoned mine there began showing unusual activity half a year ago."

He looked over the assembled nobles.

"That is the extent of our intelligence. The Snowsworn don't fight openly. They can survive in caves, hollow trees, or anywhere else that hides them.

"We have found no clear sign of a large-scale offensive, but they move often at night and hide during the day. They favor feigned retreats and luring enemies into traps.

"Their numbers aren't overwhelming, but they strike precisely at weakness.

"Their suicidal arts make every warrior considerably stronger than an Apprentice Knight. Several may even approach the Supernal level. In a fight to the death, no one can say who will suffer more."

His gaze moved around the tent, and his voice dropped.

"If you expect them to form orderly ranks and fight you honorably, prepare your coffin first."

Silence followed.

The older nobles who had lived through the Northlands' years of chaos looked grave. Several nodded, remembering events they preferred to leave buried.

The younger southern nobles appeared less impressed.

"They're only mountain bandits. There's no need to make them sound so frightening."

"A whole legion frightened by a few lunatics who skulk around at night?"

Their dismissive whispers ended when Viscount Webster's sharp gaze swept across every speaker.

The silence even stirred Count Firth. His eyelids twitched, and he raised his head to look around blearily.

He still appeared half asleep, but at least managed to pretend he was listening.

Louis studied the second enemy position on the map.

It was the stronghold mentioned in the third intelligence report that morning.

A rough plan formed in his mind.

Clearfeather Ridge was a natural mountain pass, easy to defend and brutal to assault.

But the hidden path would allow Louis to avoid a frontal attack, strike the stronghold from the flank, and ambush any Snowsworn forces rushing back to defend it.