I Became the First Prince

I finally got used to the world (1)

Abandoning the fortress that their ancestors had guarded for centuries was no easy task for the men of Balahard. They had always believed that they would die protecting its walls; retreat was just not in their veins.

Nevertheless, they had no choice but to abandon Winter Castle with tears in their eyes.

The longer they stayed out of stubbornness, the more people would die protecting a position that was already lost, and the greater the victory of the Orcs would be.

So it came to be that both the reinforcements and the forces of Balahard forcibly left the castle walls.

The Orcs who had by now entered through the northern gate shadowed them as they retreated.

The situation was grim, as there seemed no way that the withdrawal could occur without further grievous losses.

It was then that the Silver Fox mercenaries came into play.

“Head this way!” Antoine bellowed, as his company had already managed to secure the retreat, as per Adrian’s instructions. Once the forces had made it through the southern gate, oil jars that had been buried under the ground were set alight. A great barrier of flame now enveloped the gate itself.

Still, the Orcs came rushing on through that inferno. Those that survived the searing temperature were easily picked off by Silver Fox archers that had already set up their firing lines to cover the retreat.

“That won’t keep the bastards long! Hurry it up!” Antoine urged the men who looked about them desperately. Even as he said this, more Orcs came pouring out, coming close to the rear ranks of fleeing men.

Still, even here, the mercenaries had laid traps, and every time the Orcs came too near, jars exploded beneath their feet. Still, the traps were crude improvisations and could not halt the Orcs indefinitely.

They did, however, gift the forces of Winter Castle the time to reform their ranks.

***

“How on earth did you get the time to prepare all of this?” Vincent Balahard demanded of Antoine.

“His Majesty the First Prince had instructed me to do so the day before the charge,” the mercenary captain said. He and others now glanced at a nearby cart. Twenty knights surrounded the wagon, upon which sat a woman whose face was streaked by tears. Next to her, in the bed of the wagon, lay an unconscious and wounded boy. Both the First Prince and Adelia Bayern had been brought in bloodied and wounded after the decisive battle.

It was now three days since the ill-fated charge, and Adrian was still in a comatose state.

He had a great many minor and major wounds, and his mana had been severely depleted without showing signs of regeneration.

If they did not make haste to find a place of healing for Adrian, he could be in serious trouble.

Unfortunately, the escape for their lives had just begun. The Orcs were persistent in their pursuit, and the traps the mercenaries had managed to lay had only halted them for so long. After an entire week on the run, some of the troops decided they had no choice but to face the oncoming horde.

During their desperate trek, Arwen Kirgayen had proved her worth many times over. She had strode into battle on behalf of the remaining command staff, all who were low on morale after the loss of their fortress and their Count. The Silver Foxes had supported her.

She had done all she could to save countless people from dying at the hands of the Orcs. The mercenaries fared well under her command, and if the time was right, they temporarily enforced a position from which to repel their pursuers.

Still, despite the running defense she and the Silver Foxes conducted so well, everyone’s steps became hard and slow. In the frigidity of deep winter, the escapees soon tired.

If the Rangers had not returned from the south, their morale would have withered away completely. As it was, the Rangers bore the news that the northern lords were setting up a defensive line to meet the monstrous horde. They pressed on, then, and finally reached the first line of defense.

Hope soon flared up, for the men of Balahard reckoned that once they reached the rear, they could reorganize and fight once more from the front lines. Surely, by combining their numbers with the other northern soldiers, they could crush the Orcs who had decimated Winter Castle.

At least, that was what they had hoped.

Their hopes were soon proven to be nothing more than optimistic illusions.

They had reached the northern lords’ final defensive line, forty kilometers into the lands of Shutrol.

And as they saw these lines, their anger flared up.

“Is this the collective might of five noble houses?” Vincent cried out in frustration.

A few months ago, Vincent Balahard had informed all these lords of the seriousness of the situation.

He had requested their aid. Even as Winter Castle fell, he had sent word out before him, telling these lords to ready themselves for the Orcish host.

The lands that they had arrived in were clearly not prepared for the war to come. The scant few barriers were of shoddy workmanship, and the trenches shallow. The soldiers were poorly armed and armored. Even if these nobles’ banners fluttered oh-so-proudly, they had no regulars that constituted their main forces. The soldiers stared at the men of Balahard with the same fearful expressions as the base peasantry.

Those troops gathered under the banner of Count Shurtol were more disciplined and better armed. However, their numbers were insufficient to field an effective defense against the Orcs.

“Your Majesty!”

As the survivors neared the final line, nobles rushed from the keep. They frettingly affirmed Maximilian’s well-being and thanked God again and again that he had survived.

They also gave words of consolation to Count Vincent of Balahard. Not one of them inquired as to the condition of the First Prince.

“My brother is in a critical condition,” Maximilian told the nobles as he asked them for aid. Only then did they ask about Adrian’s well-being, their faces falling into masks of sadness. It was clear that none of them were truly concerned. Maximilian had seen the brief flaring of hate that had been written so clearly upon their visages.

They all seemed to believe Balahard had fallen due to the presence of the young man.

In their small minds, they reckoned that Balahard had been perfectly fine until Adrian had arrived, so he must have been the cause for the current calamity.

Strong emotions flared up in Maximilian, then.

His brother had gone to Winter Castle and fought alongside its soldiers. His brother had planned their retreat, and even then, he had charged into certain death. Truly, it seemed that Adrian’s mindset was one of a man who knew that death was inevitable and that the only worthy labor in life was the construction of a fine coffin.

It must be a terrifying existence to see life along such lines.

Even then, his brother had done what needed to be done. He had prepared their retreat, ambush spots, and numerous other plans without the knowledge of almost anyone. Due to Adrian’s foresight, so many troops had been able to survive and reach safety.

The First Prince had achieved so much, yet these nobles hated him as if he was a bearer of plague and pestilence.

Ehrim Kiringer swiftly acted as he grasped Maximilian by the arm, preventing the prince from assaulting the gaggle of nobles that had so fawned at him. Ehrim shook his head, and Maximilian calmed himself. Now was not the time to be driven by emotion. The priority was to bring everyone together and plan a cohesive defense.

That would be no easy task.

The troops sent by the five noble houses numbered 3,200. That was no small number, yet the adage of quality over quantity came into play. There were four-hundred elite warriors under the banner of Shurtol. The remainder of the force were all conscripts who had received the bare minimum of training. There were only twenty knights, and they served as the personal guard of their respective lords.

The future seemed grim and dark.

Maximilian knew that these conscripts would do more screaming than fighting once the Orcs came upon their lines.

“We are currently recruiting mercenaries with all our available funds. Please, Your Majesty, grant us some time,” Count Shurtol said when he got the chance. His promise of more troops was a comfort, at least.

Unlike the other northern nobles, who still did not seem to have come to their senses despite the proximity of war, Bert Shurtol was a mindful man. He had spared no effort in welcoming the survivors and providing them with some much-needed succor.

Unfortunately, time was the greatest enemy.

The news came that the Orcs had been sighted in the northernmost tip of the province.

The startled lords hurriedly divided their troops and set out in all directions, eager for battle.

Maximilian also tried to muster troops and march out. He conferred with the other surviving commanders.

“There are too many wounded soldiers for us to march out now. We must first reorganize, as swiftly as we can, and then we shall finish this war,” Ehrim Kiringer stated as he faced off with the Second Prince. Maximilian had tried to sway the knight many times, yet Ehrim had cut him down with a curt dismissal every time. Count Vincent Balahard also expressed his intention to hold the position and reorganize his battered forces.

“These feckless nobles are just trying to use us. Should our soldiers, who have barely survived, die so soon for them?”

So it came to be that the Orcs engaged only with the allied nobles on the northern border.

After the meeting was over, Ehrim calmly explained why the Second Prince was so very frustrated.

“Alas, we cannot stop the Orcs in our current state. Even if it does harm to the north, these nobles must be made to understand how dire the situation truly is,” the knight added. Maximilian could not refute the logic of this argument. He knew that some sacrifices needed to be made for the greater good. Even the young prince could see that the northern lords had not yet fully shook awake.

Nevertheless, Maximilian so stubbornly wished to march because he had personally experienced how terrible and persistent the Orcs were. If such ferocious beasts were allowed to spread through the kingdom, it would be worse than a disaster.

It would be a calamity on the greatest of scales.

“By the way, Sir Ehrim,” Maximilian sighed as he spoke to the knight.

“Yes, Your Masjesty?”

“Whose doctrine were you preaching during the meeting?”

Ehrim gave a hearty laugh.

“Don’t you already know the answer, Your Majesty?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Is there anything else you wish to ask me?”

“Not for now, thank you Sir Ehrim.”

“When do you think your brother will wake up?”

Feeling uncertain about the inevitable sacrifices that would occur, Maximilian knew that the only answers he sought could come from his unconscious brother.

* * *

After having deserted their clumsy defensive lines, the troops of the northern lords had scattered. Only the soldiers of Count Shurtol remained a cohesive force, for they had a castle to fall back to. The survivors of Balahard, as well as the Silver Foxes, now prepared for battle once more as they tended to their wounded and strengthened the ramshackle defenses of Shurtol Keep.

During this time, a messenger came from the capital. He bore word that the royal family and the central nobles were planning to send additional reinforcements. Maximilian could never forget how Vincent Balahard looked upon receiving this news. He had closed his eyes, and the anger that had contorted his face made him look like a vengeful demon.

Since that day, few words were spoken, and the atmosphere within Shurtol Keep had become one of foreboding silence. So intense was the mood that the soldiers of Count Shurtol could rest little, wracked by fear and anxiety as they were.

Maximilian could only sigh as he observed this state of affairs.

Due to the laxity in response from the capital, the northern nobility had not grasped the gravity of the situation. Too many valuable and talented people had died because of this.

A Count had lost his life, and knights who did not fear death had also died like flies. So too, Rangers and infantrymen had become naught but rotting carcasses on the snowy fields.

The sacrifice and dedication of centuries had come to nothing. The efforts of so many generations had been thrown into the abyss.

How much had the kingdom lost, and how much would it continue to suffer?

Whenever Maximilian tried to think upon such things, his mind became pained in protest.

“The Orcs have annihilated the forces of Count Ghurn!”

News of the defeat of northern lords streamed in from every quarter. These were not just defeats, no, they were cullings that had left few alive. Five of the six provinces that bordered Balahard had become naught but empty sagebrush fields littered with the dead.

The damage was increasing exponentially day by bloody day.

The news came that the central army had established a second defensive line, bordering the Rhinethes river, which ran across the central kingdom’s northern area. Reports also came in that the promised reinforcements had diverted their course to fortify the lines along the river.

“His Majesty the King strongly encourages His Majesty the Second Prince and His Excellency, Count Balhard, to fall back to the second defensive line along the Rhinethes.”

Count Shurtol contemplated the words of this latest messenger. The implication was clear: The kingdom was to abandon the seven large northern provinces and the many smaller counties north of the Rhinethes.

“It is a tactically sound course of action, as we will be compressing our lines and concentrating our power all along the banks of the Rhinetese. The problem is that the men of the north are, rightly, proud and far too stubborn to abandon their lands,” Ehrim stated, giving his honest appraisal.

“I… I should have sent my men to Winter Castle when the First Prince had asked me to,” Count Shurtol sputtered out.

Maximilian closed his eyes into a tight frown.

Regret had come too late into these halls, and these nobles were suffering the consequences of their complacency. The northern nobles now clustered around the survivors of Winter Castle, hoping that they would defend them.

It was a despicably selfish display and a shallow masterpiece of their conniving cowardice in so many ways. “When Balahard had asked for aid, who responded to our call?” Vincent berated the lords once more, his voice bitter. Having tired of the cold voice of Count Balahard, the nobles clustered around Maximilian in their churlish quest for succor.

“Your Majesty! Because of our ignorance on matters, we have made a great mistake! If… if you but give me a chance, I will contribute all I have to the stability of the north, to the renovation of our lands. Please, please lead us, we who have committed such stupid errors!”

So the nobles begged him, some even falling to their knees, their hands clasped before them like the lowliest of beggars. Maximilian was filled with conflicting emotions as he saw them prone upon the ground, praying for deliverance. They looked pathetic, weeping over blunders that they could easily have avoided.

“You disgusting whelps,” Maximilian spat out.

“W-well, Your Majesty?”

“You feckless excuses of noble men. You useless lumps of lard with not a grain of sense in your minds, and not an ounce of pride in your hearts! You beg before me, you custard-sipping teat-suckling pigs?”

The nobles were struck dumb, into a state of utter stupefaction as they heard these curses flow from a prince who had always been renowned for being a polite and gentle soul.

‘Clap. Clap. Clap.’

Maximilian heard this slow applause and all heads turned towards its source.

“Hah, you did a good job for once, brother.”

Everyone stared at the young man who had entered the hall, supported by a woman who looked like a maid. Vincent and Maximilian immediately straightened their backs, as one does in the presence of a respectable figure.

“Your Majesty!” Vincent cried out in joy.

The First Prince waved his hand at them, and then fixed his gaze on the cowering nobles.

A great fire raged deep within his sunken eyes.

“Well, I see all the guys I have been so eager to meet are gathered here,” he said with a feral grin, his gaze boring into the pathetic, prostrated figures.