Insufficient Troops

Night had fallen over Tyrol Fortress, which had just been baptized in the fires of war. Most of the fortress still lay in ruins, and only a few relatively intact buildings had their lights on. The most conspicuous among them was the command post once used by Bragi, the former Sauron commander.

It had now become the temporary headquarters of the Carnford Army.

The atmosphere inside the command post was tense.

Torchlight burned steadily and brightly, illuminating the faces gathered around the rough wooden table. Karl sat at the head, with Brendan and Roland on his left, both wearing the fatigue of fierce battle. On his right were Lyon, Kellan, Thorsten, and Richter, the intelligence chief.

At the very start of the meeting, Karl did not bask in the joy of victory. He went straight to the most practical—and most urgent—question.

He looked at Brendan, who was in charge of military supplies and logistics, and asked in a grave voice, "Brendan, first, and most importantly, how long will the food we brought with the army last?"

Brendan had clearly prepared for this. He straightened up, his tone filled with obvious concern. "My lord, I've finished taking stock. If we only supply our own combat personnel and ration carefully, our army's provisions can last about half a month."

"But..." He paused, his brows drawn tightly together. "There's a major problem. Nearly four thousand slaves left behind by the Saurons are still in Tyrol Fortress. They've all expressed their willingness to submit to us, and we can't simply ignore whether they live or die."

"If we count those four thousand mouths as well, our stored provisions... will last seven days at most! If no new food arrives after seven days, the entire army will run out of food!"

That grim figure weighed