The mercenary captain crossed one leg over the other and lit a cigarette. He was used to this by now. Maybe the enemy had lost their nerve, maybe they had a new tactic—whatever. His only job was to hold the manor.
That didn't mean the mercenary captain didn't care who won the war or what became of the people in the Imperial Territory. Quite the opposite: he had come here at a time like this because of his strong sense of national identity and duty to his country.
He stayed quiet because he thought there was no point in worrying over nothing, and that tossing out random suggestions would only make things worse. More importantly, even he, an old soldier, couldn't find fault with any of the arrangements so far.
The crippled militia commander was named Erik Lange. A Prussian, he had been among the earliest wave of immigrants. His past service in the Prussian army was why he had been recommended as militia captain.
He later showed excellent command skills in several battles and eventually became the commander-in-chief of New Silesia.
Erik Lange thought the staff officer was worrying too much. For years, bandits—or Hungarians, as they were called—had always been like this. Kill a few of their leaders and the rest would scatter like startled birds and beasts.
Still, he understood the concern. There really were a lot of Hungarians this time. But they only had to send someone out to check the battlefield to find out whether the enemy had truly fled or merely retreated for the time being.
At Erik Lange's command, the militiamen got to work. First, they checked whether the enemy were dead. The bodies would be gathered and burned, while the wounded would be treated—whether they survived was another matter.
Before nightfall, they