A Cruel Victory
Should he continue the offensive? The thought flashed through his mind but was quickly dismissed.
The casualties among his troops have been extremely heavy, morale is wavering, and both his flanks and rear are under threat.
The elite reinforcements from Fran City were wedged into the southwest like a nail. Although Friedrich and Konrad had temporarily retreated into the castle, no one knew whether they would launch another attack.
Once they completely entangle us, and the bloodthirsty remnants of the Carnford City rush out to form an encirclement... the consequences will be unimaginable.
The 100,000-strong army that Harald brought may very well be lost beneath the Carnford City!
"A brave man cuts off his own arm..." He silently murmured these four words, a cold smile curving his lips.
He was the Great Chieftain of Sauron, not a rash and impulsive man.
Temporary victories or defeats are not important; preserving strength and surviving are the keys to ultimate victory.
Carnford has been severely weakened by this defeat and will not recover for several years.
As long as he leads his main force back to the Northern Territory, digests the spoils of this raid, and regroups, when he returns in the future, it will surely be the end of Carnford!
"Great Chieftain," Leon rode closer, his voice low, almost drowned out by the clamor of the fleeing soldiers and the distant sounds of battle, "General Asgeir and General Svein are still fighting hard, barely managing to hold the line on both the eastern and western fronts and prevent the chaos from spreading further."
"The supply train has begun its northward evacuation as you ordered, but... there's complete chaos, everyone's fighting for space, and abandoned supplies are everywhere; the losses are likely substantial. We... should move on. This place could be completely cut off at any moment; we shouldn't linger any longer."
Harald took one last deep look at Carnford Castle, which stood silently atop a distant mountain peak, bathed in the glow of the setting sun and its own burning flames; its dilapidated outline seemed to be inlaid on the blood-red horizon.
All the resentment, rage, and frustration on his face vanished instantly, as if covered by ice, leaving only an almost cold calm.
He nodded slightly, his voice calm and even. "Send orders to Asgeir and Svein, tell them that the fighting has gone far enough, and there is no need for further unnecessary sacrifices."
"Their mission is to disengage as systematically as possible, providing alternating cover, and bringing back as many of our Sauron warriors as possible to carry out rear guard duties and regroup at the designated location to the north."
"Yes, Great Chieftain!" Leon didn't hesitate and immediately waved to summon two capable messengers, quickly repeating the order in a low voice.
The messengers mounted their horses and, like two sharp arrows, shot off in the east and west directions, where the sounds of battle still echoed.
Harald glanced one last time at Carnford. The castle stood silent in the deepening twilight, like an ancient behemoth, battered and bruised, yet stubbornly standing tall.
He knew perfectly well that his rock-solid rival, Karl von Schmidt, was most likely still alive, watching his retreat from behind those ruins.
This time, beneath this damned castle, Harald truly lost half a move; an anticipated lightning raid turned into a devastating defeat.
However, this grand game spanning the Northern Territory is far from over.
He yanked the reins sharply, and his powerful warhorse neighed, turning the battlefield around and leaving behind the land that had brought him such heavy losses and humiliation.
"Let's go."
Before he finished speaking, he spurred his horse, and the warhorse shot off like an arrow into the vast twilight of the north.
The loyal guards immediately followed closely behind, their heavy hooves pounding the earth with thunderous roars, kicking up clouds of yellow dust as they quickly disappeared into the darkening night.
After an unknown period of fighting, as the setting sun painted the sky a poignant blood red, the ravaged land beneath Carnford City finally fell into a deathly silence.
The last small group of Sauron soldiers who tried to put up a last stand and seize the supplies were completely reduced to corpses as Lyon's cavalry pursued and slaughtered them like a whirlwind.
On the battlefield, there was no longer a single enemy standing and still able to wield a weapon.
Karl, leaning on a nicked sword, stood in the center of the ravaged battlefield, slowly surveying his surroundings.
As far as the eye could see, it was a scene of hell.
The earth was covered with layers upon layers of corpses in various poses, some human, some horse-drawn. Blood had soaked the soil into a dark red swamp, and the air was filled with a nauseating stench of blood and burnt flesh.
The battlefield was filled with the cries of wounded soldiers, the mournful neighing of stray warhorses, the muffled thuds of surviving soldiers finishing off dying enemies, and the distant figures of slaves fleeing in panic after breaking free of their bonds.
Large quantities of Supply Cart, which the Sauron had not had time to take or which had overturned, were scattered everywhere. Looted grain, cloth, and crude gold and silver artifacts lay scattered beside the overturned boxes, gleaming coldly in the setting sun.
We won.
Harald's army of 100,000 men was routed.
They successfully defended their territory and won this seemingly impossible battle.
However, Karl felt no joy of victory, only a numb chill and a deep-seated weariness, and an indescribable emptiness enveloped him.
He paid a terrible price for this victory. The land beneath his feet was soaked in the blood of more than two thousand loyal soldiers and innocent civilians. The city he had built with his own hands was reduced to ashes, the majestic castle was riddled with holes, and his once vibrant homeland was reduced to ruins.
Most of those familiar faces now lie cold on this land.
This victory was so bitter it was suffocating.
He was like a detached observer, calmly and even somewhat detached, watching the incomplete "victory" that had been bought with countless lives.
Just then, a steady, powerful footstep sound came from afar.
Karl turned his head slightly and saw a knight walking towards him.
The newcomer was dressed in a camouflage suit that should have been snow-white, but was now stained with blood, smoke, and mud. Even so, his posture remained as upright as a pine tree, exuding a calmness and fortitude forged in the crucible of battle.
When his gaze turned to Karl, his sharp, hawk-like eyes, though bloodshot and revealing undisguised weariness, still shone with an all-knowing light and an indomitable will.
Karl recognized him: the infantry commander of Fran City, an old acquaintance, Sir Laurent.
Karl's gaze met Sir Laurent's, and neither of them spoke immediately.
Karl extended his hand, stained with blood and dust, and Sir Laurent did the same, their hands clasping tightly together.
There were no many words, but this handshake contained all the gratitude, respect, and camaraderie of fighting side by side.
"Sir, thank you for your hard work. Carnford will never forget this timely help." Karl's voice was a little hoarse, but exceptionally sincere.
Sir Laurent shook his head slightly, his tone steady. "Lord Karl, you flatter me. The Count was extremely anxious upon hearing that Carnford was besieged. It is Laurent honor to arrive in time to fight alongside you all."
His gaze swept across the horrific battlefield, his tone filled with heartfelt respect. "Moreover, with such a small force, you held out in this isolated city for over half a month, inflicting heavy losses on Sauron's army of 100,000... You and your soldiers are the true heroes! I salute you!"
As he spoke, he once again solemnly performed a knightly salute.
Karl didn't say anything more polite, he just patted Laurent on the shoulder heavily.
Everything is understood without words; the bond between soldiers is often enough with just a glance or a gesture.