I Became the First Prince: Legend of Sword's Song
chapter-70

What You Lost, What You Forgot (1)

To declare a fresh start would sound quite the pleasant prospect under normal circumstances.

However, such pleasure could only be felt if the north was not facing such a dire situation.

If the Orcs were not dealt with, the nobility would have no time to normalize and tend to their holdings. The monster horde would trample over them all by then. Whatever the perils of the future, the prime directive at that moment was to drive out the Orcs. Fortunately, the First Prince had already conceived a countermeasure.

“We don’t fight these Orcs.”

This solution was radically different than any that the lords had thought up.

They blinked dumbly upon hearing Adrian’s words. The First Prince had clearly stated that he would not abandon the north, and now he said that he would not fight the monsters that had invaded it?

They could not comprehend his intentions. How does one drive the Orcs away without fighting?

“The Orcs do not employ a logistical system of baggage trains that operates outside of their forces. Their procurement of food is simple: They battle and win, then fill their stomachs with the flesh of their foes. That is their way, and it has always been this way.”

So Adrian began to explain his viewpoint to the befuddled lords.

“So, in other words, if there is no battle, and no one to kill, they must either starve, retreat, or eat one another.”

Those who understood the true implication of the prince’s words groaned. Among them was Baron Cardane, a man known for his strategic mind.

“Do you plan to create a tomb of green fields, Your Majesty?”

Adrian nodded at the Baron’s question. Count Shurtol had been unable to follow the conversation up to this point. “I feel quite stupid, yet I cannot grasp the will of His Majesty. What is meant by not fighting, and what are these… these green field tombs?” He asked hesitantly.

“His Majesty plans to starve the Orcs to death. That is how we can attain victory without unsheathing our blades or using up our arrows,” Baron Cardane explained on behalf of Adrian.

“These are called Cheongya tactics (淸野戰術), a policy of scorched earth where everything the enemy needs to survive is destroyed or removed.”

It was an extreme military strategy where all possibilities of locally procuring resources are denied to the enemy by ravaging one’s own lands or stealing everything away before the enemy had even entered an area.

“It is indeed an obscure doctrine and very difficult to implement. Even if this strategy succeeds, it will have an immense impact on the northern economy for years, if not decades.”

So it was that that the maximum amount of material was gathered to the rear of the lines. That which could not be safely carried was destroyed on the spot. Most of the goods destroyed were food, including fields of grain that could no longer be harvested. Whether the scorched earth policy was successful or not, famine was sure to follow after the war.

Baron Cardane had pointed out his concerns about a starving populace.

“Orcs are very picky eaters,” Adrian responded without hesitation. Except for a few special cases, most monsters were carnivores. They could only sate their hunger through hunting and plundering, their only fare being meat dripping with blood. They had no interest in grain stored in barns. So, the crops did not have to be burned or the grain stores destroyed.

These sacrifices would not be for naught, yet many lords were ashamed that they were forced to give up the castles and lands that their families had kept for generations. Still, none of them dared voice this aloud. The blood of the slaughtered nobles still encrusted the floor of the hall. No one dared go against the First Prince’s commands, for they had seen the extent of his wrath. And to confound the matter, there were men of Winter Castle in the halls, men who had only lost their castle after much bloodshed. To confide such thoughts in front of them would be pitiable indeed.

The lords now fully understood their situation. They had committed sins that they could not deny, yet their help was still needed. Still, they could not properly grasp the situation. They just wanted to lay low and survive this harshest of seasons. They kept their silence, yet the meeting went on around them.

“The Orcs aren’t weakened enough to just retreat once they are denied their food source,” Vincent objected. Even if the scorched-earth tactics weakened the Orcs, it would make them angrier than ever before, for there are few things as dangerous as a hungry beast.

The commanders of Balahard were all now speaking at once.

“After all, we can’t avoid battle, whether it is now or later, they will come to us.”

Adrian nodded at Vincent’s words.

“You are correct. If you want to drive out the Orcs, you have to eventually face them.”

A short while ago, the prince had said he would not fight. Now everyone could guess even less at his true intentions.

“We will not be fighting the monsters,” Adrian said. “That duty will not fall into our hands.”

“Surely, Your…”

“No, it is the troops south of the Rhinethes that will face these Orcs.”

It was only then when the prince’s intentions were made clear. The commanders groaned.

“They should face a real winter, at least this once,” Adrian continued, his gaze fixed upon the gathered lords all the while. “Let us never forget the harshness we have faced.”

Since they had committed veritable crimes, these lords had no excuse, even if their punishment was harsh. They lowered their heads in shame. Adrian now looked toward the men of Balahard.

“How foolish they were, and how much they lost in their folly.”

The men who left the hall all wore different expressions. Some looked aggrieved and wracked by self-doubt, while others evinced emotions of relief and anticipation. Maximilian admired the scene as he studied the complex disparity in expressions. It was a rare sight to see.

A boy who had yet to reach adulthood had gotten wounded in battle, falling comatose. This boy had just woken up and was already unilaterally leading the other men. And it wasn’t just that he led the proceedings; no, he controlled every aspect of the northern realms. At his words, the cockier nobles were humbled, and the anger that blazed in the eyes of knights became righteous purity.

“We will need troops to lure them to the river.”

Many voices rose, then, defeated men who wished to regain a semblance of honor.

“I shall goad them into following me!”

“No, I will lure them!”

There no longer was the sorrow of defeat upon the faces of these men. Even without the huge tree that had upheld the north, Bale Balahard, these men were lively. They looked like young warriors who had returned to their hearths and homes just before the onset of winter.

It was a marvelous sight. This sixteen-year-old boy was filling the boots of an old man—a man who had guarded the north for over a half-century.

Who could have imagined it?

What would the nobles of the capital say if they saw this sight?

It wasn’t difficult to guess at the answer. Not so long ago, the central nobles would have stated that these northern lords were competent, these men who now bowed before a boy. They viewed him with mixtures of fear and expectation. Someone clapped their hands, and this sound shook Maximilian from his reverie.

“The meeting ends here.”

Just like that, it was all over. Maximilian felt ready to collapse.

He gave little input in the daily meetings that followed. While the northern men’s strategies deepened and expanded day by day, the Second Prince couldn’t even decide whether he belonged here or with his father. Maximilian felt like he was tugging at a knot that could not be loosed. Still, he knew that Adrian could easily untie this philosophical knot for him. The Second Prince breathed out his pent-up frustration. It felt as if everything had become perfectly normal once more.

* * *

When the northern lords left the hall, only a few knights remained. Vincent and Maximilian were there as well. Many different emotions emerged upon the faces of those gathered.

“Your Majesty.”

They had uttered his title, yet could not bring themselves to ask their questions.

“If you call to me, do not hesitate. Say what is on your mind,” Adrian instructed all those around him. Despite his exhaustion, his tone and expression were different than usual. Still, Vincent and a few others did not note this change. His eyes, normally boring into someone else’s as if their eyes were a gateway to their souls, now wandered back and forth. He felt as if he did not know who to look at and who to turn to.

“If no one has anything to say, I shall leave. I cannot waste any more of my time,” the First Prince continued. Nothing in his voice or on his expression suggested that this young man had massacred so many nobles. The leader who had overpowered men through his sheer force of will no longer existed. In his place sat a youth who was determined to make the strategies of the northern realms work.

“Your Majesty,” Vincent called out once more. “How many men in the Balahard line have chosen to die in their beds?”

Upon the mention of death, panic came to Adrian’s face.

“I need to rest. My body has not yet recovered.”

“Only five are known of in records,” Vincent pressed on, taking a step forward. “It is not unusual for a Balahard to end his life on the field of battle. No, it rather honorable for us to die in such a fashion.”

Upon hearing this, Adrian surged from his seat.

“He did not die from a regular Orc, he died while battling their king! He summoned flames around him so that his allies could escape!”

The prince almost staggered to the ground, and Adelia rushed to support him hastily.

“Huh… It seems that my father’s end was not worthy enough to elicit your sympathy,” Vincent spat out with force. “Do not insult his memory.”

The First Prince did not deign to answer, and Vincent said no more. Instead, he left the hall with his head hanging in shame. The others followed suit.

“I’m glad you woke up safely,” Adelia said as she ran her hand over his hair, yet she still looked at him with pity in her eyes.

* * *

During the night, a great number of soldiers were sent from the keep. The northern lords, including Count Shurtol, led their troops to garrison key areas. Hundreds of riders scattered in every direction bearing messages. While their destinations differed, their orders were all the same. They had to ensure the evacuation of the fearful citizenry.

It was not difficult to convince the people to leave their homes, for the rumors that the Orcs were planning to conquer all the world had spread far and wide by now. The refugees headed south, carrying only their bare necessities. The troops of the northern lords escorted them. The Orcs attacked some of these fleeing groups, yet on the whole, not many had faced attack.

It was because those who had survived Winter Castle had scattered over the land, luring the Orcs away so that the populace had time to evacuate. The refugees and troops heading south split from one another, for the soldiers headed to the keep in the east. The civilians kept on going toward to bridge that spanned the Rhinethes.

The Second Prince was tasked to lead them.

It was by order of the First Prince, who feared that the refugees would be denied a crossing by the central army if there was no one to vouch for them. All the way, Maximilian had feared an attack by the Orcs and the terrible carnage that would entail.

Thankfully, no such event occurred. The Second Prince completed his mission as the large host of refugees smoothly reached the Rhinethes Bridge. Maximilian was greatly relieved as he saw the kingdom’s troops on the other side of the river. Flags with the heraldry of various families fluttered all along the banks. At a glance, it seemed that the force was about 10,000 strong.

Some of these soldiers streamed out of their garrison, blocking the bridge.

“Cease this folly!”

Maximilian had come to the fore, flipping the hood of his fur cape from his head as he saw the soldiers barring the refugees from going further.

“These people have escaped the turmoil in the north. Clear a path for us.”

“Well… Your Majesty?” The commander of these men had recognized the prince, and he could not hide his shock. After this meeting, everything happened in a flash. The men might have been nervous upon seeing the great mass of refugees, yet they could not bar their passage.

Whether this was on his father’s command or due to his own presence, Maximilian did not know.

All he could say with certainty was that the people would be safe. They would be well protected, fed, and clothed, as the land was prosperous and the defenses tight. There was a great contrast here, for the other parts of the kingdom lacked resources. Their citizens were poor. For these refugees, entering the central kingdom was like entering a new world.

“Hail the Second Prince! Hail the savior of the northern people!”

Maximilian’s face flushed red as he received praise from nobles and soldiers who did not know the truth of things. Under other circumstances, he would have stopped the undeserved praise they heaped on him and explained to them the actual state of affairs. It was not the time for truth, though.

Now was the time for playing roles and acting the hero.

A seat had already been readied to celebrate his return from the north. The camp atmosphere was so hot and jovial that it did not fit the winter season at all.

“A large army of Orcs are heading toward the river,” Maximilian stated from the get-go, pouring icy water over the celebratory spirit of all.

“Well, I thought the northmen would have defeated the Orcs by now,” a noble loudly mused.

“You presume too much. The Orcs shall be here in a week, or two weeks at most!”

The sweet music that the bards were playing ground to an abrupt halt. Smiles vanished from the mouths of nobles, most of them having lifted their glasses in a merry toast.

“This party is over, and done with,” the Second Prince said.

The tone of his voice was gentle and warm, like the sunlight upon a maiden’s skin during midsummer.

In contrast, the emotions that flowed through his words contained a harshness within them, a harshness akin to the severe wind that blew over the mountains and through the valleys on cold winter nights.