Chapter 88: Hastings' Defenses

Shaya had been unconscious for more than half an hour. When he awoke, he found himself lying inside a tent. His armor and outer garments had been removed, and his not-so-loyal retainer, the mage Dodoro, was wiping blood from Shaya’s body with a damp cloth.

As soon as Shaya opened his eyes, the disgruntled expression on the mage’s face instantly transformed into one of obsequiousness. He lowered his eyes and forced a smile, “Master, would you like something to eat? Or perhaps some water?”

Shaya struggled to turn over, feeling as though his whole body had been shattered, as if struck hundreds of times by an iron hammer. His bones seemed ready to fall apart, and every muscle relayed pain. He groaned twice, yet managed to sit up.

A rare look of contemplation appeared on Shaya’s face. He exhaled softly, then suddenly asked, “Dodoro... tell me, how does a man become strong?”

“Uh...” Dodoro’s face remained respectful, but inwardly he grumbled (If I knew, would I still be bullied by you, you country bumpkin...)

“Well... once a man becomes strong, what happens then? Does he gain the heart of a true warrior?”

This was Shaya’s second question.

(If I really became strong, the first thing I’d do is stomp you under my feet, you oaf.)

Thankfully, Shaya wasn’t expecting answers from the mage. He fell silent for a moment, then let Dodoro help him to his feet and lead him outside.

Dodoro’s thin legs quivered under the weight of Shaya’s heavy body, but he managed to bring him to the central command tent, where Slett was fiercely arguing with a group of officers.

When Shaya entered, the heated debate subsided into silence. Unconsciously, it seemed Shaya had gained a measure of authority—though only among these lower-ranking officers of auxiliary units.

Today, Shaya had shown extraordinary bravery in the first wave against the Odin invaders. Even more astonishing, he had challenged Hastin—the scourge of Byzantium for many years—in single combat. Though his methods were somewhat shameless, he had miraculously wounded Hastin on the battlefield!

It was nothing short of a miracle!

Hastin—the War God of the Odin! How many years had it been since he suffered injury in a one-on-one duel?

So, to these junior officers, Shaya now appeared very different.

Slett approached with concern, personally helping Shaya sit down. The mage seized the chance to slip out.

“How are you?” Slett frowned at Shaya.

“Not dead yet,” Shaya gave a bitter smile, glancing at those in the tent, “What are you arguing about?”

“Counter-charge,” Slett’s answer surprised Shaya.

“Counter-charge?”

Slett nodded at the others, “We still have two hundred cavalry. The idea is, during the next Odin attack, we’ll send them out for a counter-charge. Well... since we’re all doomed anyway, we might as well strike hard and bite a piece out of the Odins!”

Indeed, the Thirteenth Legion, even in its auxiliary units, retained the fierce and courageous spirit of Rhodria.

“No,” Shaya shook his head vigorously, but soon straightened up, which exacerbated his headache.

“...Why not?” Slett’s face darkened. “We can’t hold out, so at least we die making them pay.”

“No means no,” Shaya raised his head, a bitter smile appearing, “I think we’ve all made a mistake.”

“Mistake?”

“Mistake!” Shaya nodded heavily. “Damn it, I was wrong before, and so were all of us. We’ve made Hastin out to be too terrifying! We all think we can’t hold, but in truth, we’ve overlooked Hastin’s weaknesses right now!”

“Weaknesses?” The officers were astonished.

“Weaknesses!” Shaya affirmed. “Hastin... lacks sufficient forces! He doesn’t have enough troops to take our position!”

His words were met with disbelief, even Slett wondered if Shaya had suffered a head injury during his duel with Hastin.

Insufficient troops? Ridiculous! Outside the walls, Hastin had over ten thousand men, while they had barely over a thousand left!

Shaya’s smile was weary, but he forced a grin, “Think about it... Hastin routed the Second and Ninth Legions by what means?”

“Speed,” the answer was obvious. The greatest advantage in surprise attacks is speed.

“And what does speed mean? Cavalry!” Shaya exhaled, his lungs still hurting, making his breathing labored. Slett and the others, being experienced soldiers, began to grasp his meaning.

“He executed a rapid flanking surprise because his forces are all cavalry,” Shaya continued with effort. “To maintain speed, he had to split his troops to attack Wildfire Town, diluting his strength further. So now, here, he has about ten thousand men. These constitute his entire force—except... they’re all cavalry! He has no infantry! All cavalry! In today’s first wave, he used cavalry to storm the walls—dismounted cavalry as infantry! Hastin absolutely cannot afford to waste his forces like this.”

To send valuable cavalry to attack fortifications as infantry is something no commander with basic military sense would do.

“Second point,” Shaya massaged his chest, struggling to breathe, “According to our intelligence, up north, General Adric and General Ruhl have two legions, and the Odins they face are not as formidable—not up to Hastin’s elite standards. So tell me, with such a balance, could our generals possibly lose?”

Of course not! Every Thirteenth Legion soldier revered Adric and held a near-fanatical faith in their legion’s prowess! As long as they didn’t encounter Hastin, they believed they could face any Odin force head-on—especially with Ruhl’s infantry added.

“So, the north will surely see our generals return. They’re probably just delayed by the Odin corps in the valley. But that corps cannot truly threaten our generals. Once they break through, Hastin would never waste his precious field troops on a siege here.

So he lacks sufficient troops! He must keep enough cavalry to face our main force! No, it’s not just that... I... I even have a feeling—though I can’t prove it—that Hastin is preserving his strength. He doesn’t intend to truly break our defenses and take this place!”

His words again drew skepticism.

Hastin not break through? In the first attack today, they had barely managed to hold!

“I can’t explain this intuition,” Shaya scratched his head, searching for words to express his subtle feeling, “Look, if he launched a second wave, he could break us. But so far... he hasn’t moved.”

This statement finally carried some weight; a few officers wore odd expressions, thinking Shaya’s words absurd—would Hastin really go easy on them? Impossible! Yet, the reality was, Hastin hadn’t pressed another attack. A commander of his caliber could hardly misjudge their strength.

“It seems he never intended to take this place. In the first attack, he committed just enough force to push us to our limits—but not beyond. Unbelievable as it sounds, I think Hastin could easily do this.”

It was Slett who spoke, the only officer present who commanded fighting troops and had the most military acumen.

“But why?” a logistics officer cried, “If he takes us, he cuts the generals’ retreat, then he can destroy both the Thirteenth and Sixth Legions. Why wouldn’t he?”

Shaya shrugged, “How should we know? If we could guess, we’d be Hastin ourselves. But one thing’s certain—he must have a reason, and for him, it’s more important than destroying our legions.”

The officers launched into another round of debate, trying to deduce Hastin’s motives.

Could it be... he’s baiting reinforcements? So Hastin surrounds but doesn’t attack?

Absurd! If he wiped out our main force, we’d be finished—what’s the point of “baiting reinforcements”?

“So I don’t support sending out two hundred cavalry for a counter-charge. I sense... their true moment hasn’t come—those cavalry might be crucial later,” Shaya said with a bitter smile.

It was his intuition, honed in the wilds, that forewarned him of danger—something he couldn’t articulate or explain.

More importantly, Shaya harbored another suspicion, even he couldn’t fathom, and it was too bizarre to speak aloud.

Hastin... seemed... to be guarding against something.

Shaya’s reasoning was simple and direct, born of the wilderness.

Hastin was preserving his strength—plainly so.

Why? There are two reasons: first, to face some enemy. But he could eliminate our main force by taking our position, yet he holds back! Clearly, his aim isn’t to face another enemy.

Then, the second reason: if not to fight some enemy, then to guard against someone!

Hastin is guarding against something!

“Hastin, that man, will surely be guarding against me.”

Kerkoran sat upon a massive chair made of beast bones, which rested on a huge platform carried by twenty strapping Odin warriors. Seated, Kerkoran was as steady as stone. One hand rested on the armrest; the other held a small lyre, his fingers idly plucking the strings, producing a gentle cascade of notes.

Around him, the Odin army advanced slowly, surrounded on all sides by robust Odin fighters. The column stretched long down the road, footsteps and clanging weapons merging into a singular din...

“Hmm... the lyre’s sound is indeed lovely,” Kerkoran smiled, reaching out to take a golden goblet from a kneeling attendant on the platform. He sipped the crimson wine, then tapped his forehead, “Let’s see... Hastin will surely guard against me, so he won’t commit fully to taking the Thirteenth Legion’s camp. He has only ten thousand cavalry; if he plunges into the Byzantines’ camp and I intentionally let Adric return, he’ll end up besieged instead. Ha... how amusing. Our Odin pride, the greatest general, Hastin, his fate now rests in my hands... No, it won’t happen. Hastin won’t let that happen. Ugh, my headache returns.”

Listening to this noble prince brazenly plot against Hastin, the attendant’s face blanched, trembling all over.

It was torture! Whenever this prince uttered such blasphemous words, couldn’t he at least avoid doing so in front of us? Hearing this, we could be killed any moment to silence us...

Last time he spoke about the emperor’s many sons, saying it didn’t matter if some died. Now he’s plotting against Hastin...

How are we supposed to survive!

Kerkoran sighed, noticing the attendant’s pale, terrified face.

“Ah, poor fellow, there’s no need for fear,” Kerkoran shook his head, “Even if you repeat these words, it won’t matter. Whether it’s me, Hastin, or my mighty father, the emperor, we all know well enough.” He jumped off the chair, grabbed the trembling attendant, and smiled excitedly, “Don’t you understand? Come, let me explain... This war is nothing but a rehearsal for succession! Hastin is the crown prince’s close ally.

As for me... if I want to plot against my dear elder brother, I must target Hastin. And my poor little brother—he died in battle, didn’t he? I admit, inciting him to join that dangerous mission was my idea... Our father is truly ruthless, knowing all this and never stopping it. Must every new Odin emperor climb to the throne over the corpses and blood of their siblings?”

The attendant finally broke down.

A man as humble as he could not fathom why the prince would suddenly confide such outrageous words to him. Words like these spelled death! Such secrets were never meant for someone of his status—even a single syllable would mean instant execution.

He trembled violently, then cried out, “Your Highness! Please spare me! Spare me! I—I—I heard nothing! Nothing at all!”

The gentle look vanished from Kerkoran’s face. He glanced at the attendant, stood, and returned to his chair, all trace of interest gone, as if he were a disappointed child. He waved his hand, “Go. I won’t kill you.”

The attendant scrambled away, nearly crawling, while Kerkoran pressed his fingers to the lyre strings and sighed deeply.

“Lonely... Not even a soul to speak to.”

This Odin noble was filled with melancholy.

A reindeer cavalryman galloped from the front, dismounted, and knelt below the platform, “Your Highness, our warriors have engaged the Byzantine rearguard! We cannot break through; please order—”

“Order what?” Kerkoran yawned, raising his hand lazily, “You’re eager to fight Byzantium’s elite, are you? Well, if you’re so keen to die, this is as good a time as any.”

The cavalryman was stunned, mouth agape.

“All right, all right, let our warriors return. No need to rush after them. Hmm... Let those in front form up and watch the Byzantines depart. Yes, just so—form up and watch, and don’t forget to blow the trumpets, ha! Give them a proper send-off.”

Had the prince lost his mind?

The cavalry officer stared, dumbfounded. Form up, watch, and blow trumpets?!

“No more buts. Follow orders,” Kerkoran said impatiently, and the officer hurried off, his face grim.

Kerkoran lounged in his chair, bored, counting his fingers.

Hmm... Hastin, you must be frustrated now. You know I’m setting a trap, yet you have to walk right into it, for you are our ‘Odin War God.’ With such fame, you can only charge forward, like a horse whipped by its master.

Thus, let the Thirteenth Legion be your feast, Hastin. As for my own glory—I’ve already swallowed a banner from the Thirteenth Legion. That should satisfy my esteemed father.

Hmm... Never show more ability than you ought. Doing just enough is fine...

The Odin nobleman plucked gently at the lyre strings and yawned again.