Fernandez had devoted himself to an intensive study of warfare, so he was no longer a complete novice. Standing at the observation point his officers had carefully selected, he raised his riding crop toward Birch Fort.

“This is roughly five hundred paces from the wall. Even the strongest archer can shoot only a little more than four hundred, so it is the best observation distance. You placed cavalry to respond and an infantry square on standby, so we need not fear a raid. Am I right?”

“Your Grace is exactly right. There is no great mystery to such matters in an army; they come down to experience. Once you have seen them for yourself, you will understand them all.”

“Enough flattery. I still have far too much to learn.” Fernandez laughed despite himself. At least all that grueling study had not been wasted.

On Birch Fort’s wall, Adrian saw the party. It was obviously a major target, perhaps Fernandez himself. The Holy Cross commanders were not idiots; under ordinary experience, the distance was safe. Birch Fort’s Elite Knights could shoot only about four hundred and twenty paces even at full draw.

But Derek's crossbows could reach an astonishing seven hundred paces. The weapon had never before appeared in this world, which meant the Holy Cross officers' hard-won experience was suddenly useless. Five hundred paces remained well within lethal range. Crossbows were not yet easy to manufacture, but they were far simpler than the powerful war bows that could take years to produce. Adrian had a full company of one hundred crossbowmen at his disposal.

“Aim carefully. If you kill Grand Duke Fernandez, I will personally seek your reward. Even a knight’s fief is possible.”

The promise of a fief sharpened every crossbowman's concentration. Fernandez did not recognize the danger, and his ducal banner still marked his position. If Adrian succeeded, the entire war might change.

The movement atop the walls was faintly visible in the distance, but no one paid it any mind. What could the Locke men possibly shoot from so far away? Only when the crossbowmen settled into their aim did a few officers feel the first prickle of unease.

“Down!”

A quick-eyed knight threw Fernandez to the ground, ripped a small arm shield free, and covered his vital points. Crossbow bolts arrived an instant later with a vicious whine. Steel rang, flesh thudded, and men and horses screamed together. The unarmored advisers suffered worst of all. Another volley followed, then another.

In a gap, surviving knights dragged Fernandez away at full speed. Rear cavalry rushed forward. “Your Grace!” “Where are the shieldmen?” Flags tilted, and panic spread. If Fernandez died here, everyone present would need to flee abroad.

The worst had been avoided. Fernandez was badly shaken and bore several superficial wounds, but not one bolt had struck him directly. His guards' swift reactions alone had prevented a disaster. More than a dozen knights and advisers were not so fortunate.

He had barely arrived at the battlefield, surrounded by the protection of a vast army, and already Fernandez had tasted blood and fear. The bolts carried a simple warning: never take war lightly. This game could swallow anyone who joined it.

Before crossbows, all men were equal.

Blood still stained him, but Fernandez controlled himself. His heart raced, yet he could not panic before subordinates.

“I am fine. Reward the loyal and brave knights. Now establish camp. Northern knights deserve their name, and Viscount Derek has given me a lesson.” He laughed, then added, “Rest three days. Send someone to Viscount Derek. If he becomes my vassal, I will accept him as my count and grant land and people worthy of his rank.”

Fernandez had never seriously considered recruiting a Locke noble; the price would be vastly higher than the lives of a few commoners. But brushing shoulders with death had taught him how valuable an exceptional commander could be. That was the privilege of strength: only the strong were worth recruiting.

No one expected success. The envoy was sent back exactly as he had come, the Viscount refusing cleanly.

“Go again. Tell him my promise remains open.” Fernandez had recovered his royal poise. Perhaps when his army advanced deeply, Derek would change his mind.

Adrian rejected the envoy a second time, though even he felt a flicker of temptation. If the offer had been made to him instead of Derek, he could not honestly say whether he would have refused. A landed count! How many nobles of such rank existed in the entire kingdom? Acceptance would place House Augusta among the leading houses of the southern kingdoms, with every chance of enduring for centuries—or even a thousand years—unless its descendants destroyed it themselves.

But he had refused it on Derek’s behalf. “I hope the Viscount does not kill me when he learns,” he joked.

Fernandez did not take offense at the refusal. After resting for three days, he directed several probing attacks. Birch Fort had stopped Count Connor's western advance for good reason; none of the probes uncovered a usable weakness. Fernandez therefore abandoned a direct assault. He ordered fortified camps, wooden palisades, and watchtowers built in a complete ring around the fortress. Birch Fort appeared to hold several thousand men, so he would use ten times that number to keep them trapped.

Spending tens of thousands to hold Derek and the northern knights was worthwhile. While reorganizing troops beneath Birch Fort, Fernandez established posts and reserve grain stores along the route. Villages and towns were swept separately to declare his rule, with former Saint Miller nobles working hard to redeem themselves.

Fernandez spent half a month ensuring that Birch Fort was completely contained. Only then did he send one army inching toward Pran while he marched on Augusta Domain with the main body. Conquering the region would give him another two hundred thousand subjects, enough to squeeze out tens of thousands of fresh expendable soldiers. Those who survived the war could be reorganized into permanent troops, while the Church supplied new people to replace the losses. What cost was there to fear?

Fernandez possessed every aristocratic virtue, including treating lives as worthless. Raised above everyone, he lacked even the pretense of pity for commoners. To him, lower people were tools and steps beneath his achievement. Few people qualified as human in a noble’s world.

When the first town barred his path, Fernandez's commanders swept through the surrounding villages and seized more than two thousand civilians. Branded "guilty subjects," they were driven toward the walls beneath the gaze of the entire army. They wept, screamed, and begged for mercy. The soldiers answered with naked steel. To retreat was certain death. Ahead lay only the faintest chance of survival.

Fernandez watched from a specially made war carriage behind a wooden screen against Locke arrows. He watched flesh create a road. Then more serf soldiers, encouraged by priests to shout God’s glory, surged against the walls.

The Holy Cross officers understood the fundamentals of siege warfare, but the untrained serfs were hopelessly clumsy. At times they crowded together so densely that they choked their own advance; at others they attacked in scattered handfuls and wasted every opening. Their numbers compensated for incompetence. In half a day, sheer weight of bodies forced the town open.

Fernandez entered after officers inspected it. His army sat in the center while smaller units cleared resistance. His rule was to advance steadily without greedy rashness. With numerical superiority, use more against fewer; when numbers were equal, hold for support. Spend more time and drive Locke out.

...

“Those butchers. One day I will hang every last one of them,” Simon shouted after hearing of the atrocities. Born a free commoner, he felt the victims' suffering more keenly than most noble sons.

“If you want to hang them, control your anger,” Derek said, equally furious. “First, we teach Fernandez a lesson. Everyone follow orders: you may lose, never win.”

He asked about heavy cavalry, sacrifices, and reminded them, “I will make the Holy Cross repay everything. Be as fierce in battle as you are angry now.”

Derek recognized the army for what it was: a novice commander's first campaign. There were countless ways to exploit inexperience. A steady advance demanded tight control, yet front-line officers made the immediate decisions while every report to Fernandez arrived late. He had veteran generals to advise him, but far too few competent officers at the working level. A few painful lessons would be enough to force him to abandon his many-pronged advance.

The land and local support favored Derek. He needed only the right moment to turn those advantages into victory.

A Holy Cross detachment beneath a baron's square banner advanced at a measured pace, its five or six hundred men accompanied by several triangular knight pennants. A force of that size could complete independent assignments and hold out for some time if attacked. Other detachments operated within a few miles. For the moment, Fernandez's strategy was being followed to the letter.

Yet the flags still had their swallowtails uncut: court nobles, not landed nobles, commanded them. Men without land were not considered true nobles, and they hungered for achievement.

When a village appeared ahead, the two sides stumbled into a contest of mutual incompetence. The local militia possessed weapons and a little training, but there were too few of them. The Holy Cross soldiers were even worse—yet numerous enough to win. A small group of Locke troops fled in apparent disorder, dragging their weapons behind them. The Holy Cross officers hesitated only briefly before pursuing. Every severed head meant military merit.

The fleeing men seemed trained, not deliberate cannon fodder, matching information that Locke troops had trained six months to a year. Friendly troops were nearby; why fear? Similar scenes repeated. Militia hastily trained for one or two months were scattered everywhere, convincing the enemy they were regulars. Each small retreat tempted pursuit, and every moment of hesitation was answered by another lure.

Units that had begun scattered gathered together around the fleeing men. With more men, they grew bolder and delayed their clearing missions for achievements.

Derek watched from concealment. When four or five Holy Cross detachments had converged, he ordered the heavy cavalry forward. “That is enough. Any more and we will not be able to swallow them. Their command will realize what is happening soon.” Headquarters would quickly order the detachments to separate and return to their assigned objectives. Clearing the region mattered more than collecting a few heads. Since the same trick would work only a handful of times, Derek intended to extract the greatest possible harvest from its first use.