Crow's Nest

Erwin thought for a moment. "Nilfgaard did consider wiping him out in the early stages of the war, but later they changed their strategy. They stopped sending troops to attack him and tacitly accepted his rule, instead demanding that he hand over supplies regularly."

"They're steadily draining him."

"Yes, but not for supplies." Erwin lightly tapped the edge of the table with a fingertip.

"The Nilfgaardian Empire has well-established supply lines by both sea and land. Their fleets can sail north along the coast, then travel inland via the Yaruga River.

"They never need to pass through any combat zones. Their land supply route stretches from the southern provinces all the way to the front lines, with garrisoned supply stations along the way."

He raised his eyes. "Velen's supplies are nothing to the tens of thousands of troops they have stationed at the front. But demanding regular tribute is meant to divide and restrain him."

"Control the baron's forces," Ron said.

"Weaken them bit by bit," Erwin added.

"The baron's core force consists of Temerian veterans, but he has no stable rear territory. He can't levy taxes, and without pay for his soldiers, he can only tolerate them looting on their own.

"Looting makes the local civilians see him as an enemy, while bandits and brigands pin every one of their crimes on him. The worse his reputation gets, the harder it becomes to collect taxes. The less tax he collects, the more he has to indulge the looting.

"At the same time, Nilfgaard regularly bleeds him. The pressure of handing over supplies forces him to loot more often, which means more infamy and less support from the people.

"When the Temerian veterans first joined him, they thought they had come to defend their homes and country. Now they've discovered they're no different from bandits. Those with connections will find ways to leave, while those with backbone will fall silent.

"More and more of those who remain are real desperadoes. The army's most vital fighting spirit and cohesion are gradually falling apart," Erwin said.

"Nilfgaard doesn't need to defeat him. They only need to trap him in the muck of Crow's Nest and bleed him once in a while. The rest will rot on its own."

"Now the quartermaster has ordered him to send troops to wipe out a 'rebel force.' He agreed and sent a small squad to wander around south for a while. They got lost and never found their target."

Ron folded the letter and tucked it beneath his cup. "He sent a few men to wander around aimlessly in the south, then told me he was waiting for me."

"So he doesn't want to do the quartermaster's job. He'd rather keep the initiative in his own hands."

Ron stood up. The water in his cup had long gone cold, and the letter lay pinned beneath it.

Beyond the courtyard, shouted commands and the clash of iron carried faintly through the air. Miko was drilling the recruits in formation.

"To Crow's Nest," Ron said. "We go through the front gate."

The next day.

Ron decided to take Karl to visit Crow's Nest. Erwin remained behind at the camp, responsible for its defense and daily affairs.

The camp now had nearly a hundred people. Every day brought more chores than battles—rationing food, assigning watches, repairing the walls, settling disputes. Without someone capable left to manage things, the place could turn into a complete mess in half a day.

Erwin's slate was already covered in densely packed writing. Ron took one look and left.

Before they departed, Brom emerged from the smithy carrying a coat of chainmail.

This chainmail was completely different from the makeshift piece Todd had cobbled together before. The iron rings were uniform in size and tightly interlocked. The links at the seams were dense and even, with barely any sign of the joins.

The collar had been reinforced, with padding threaded inside on leather strips. Brom turned the chainmail over.

Two triangular leather pads had been added beneath the arms, and two extra leather strips ran through the shoulder rings for reinforcement. Then he shoved it into Ron's hands.

Brom offered no introduction. He simply shoved it into Ron's hands. "Wear this."

Ron put on the new chainmail and jumped in place a few times. The shoulders fit just right, the hem hung to mid-thigh, and the reinforced rings at the collar rested against his neck without chafing or pinching.

When he moved his shoulders, the rings stretched, shifted, and slid with the motion. It fit far closer than the old one. As Ron moved, Brom circled halfway around him, pinched the seam at his waist, tugged at the leather padding beneath his arms, then grunted.

Without waiting for him to speak, Brom handed over another piece of armor. Its scales were a stern iron gray, each one repeatedly hammered, their curved edges fitted to the contours of the chest.

It was a half-cuirass reconstructed from Karl's old brigandine, resized from a full suit into something Ron could wear.

The extra plates had been layered twice over the shoulders. The straps were new, cut from beeswax-soaked cowhide, and gripped tight with a hard pull.

Ron pulled the brigandine over the chainmail and tightened the belts at his waist. He swung an arm, and the overlapping shoulder plates shifted smoothly against one another with a fine, dense scrape of metal.

Brom looked up at him, his beard twitching. His expression was not one of satisfaction—it was simply how the job ought to have been done, nothing worth praising.

Ron picked up the two-handed battle axe leaning against the wall and rested its haft on his shoulder.

"This will do."

The ten guards had already formed up in the courtyard, their full cavalry gear glinting coldly under the afternoon sun.

Only pairs of silent eyes showed through the slits of their visored helmets. Their horse armor covered them from neck to rump, its scale-like plates arranged in neat rows.

Karl wore a reforged suit of full plate armor, his lance held upright at his side, its butt set into the leather socket beside the saddle.

"Move out."

The group passed through the camp gates and followed the river north. Velen's marshlands steamed with pale gray mist beneath the sunlight.

Crow's Nest stood on a stretch of high ground in central northern Velen. From the camp, they followed the riverbank north through the swamps.

Once they crossed a low ridge, they could see the reddish stone buildings on the distant high ground. Several guards stood atop the walls, their crooked silhouettes visible from far away.

As the group approached the drawbridge at the village entrance, the sun emerged from behind the clouds. It cast the shadows of men and horses across the mud, long and heavy.

The guard at the village entrance had been squatting by the gate, clutching a piece of jerky and tearing at it with his front teeth. When they came close enough for him to see the scales of the horse armor clearly—

His mouth froze. The halberd that had been braced against the ground lay sideways in the mud. He had not even noticed when his hand had loosened.

The scales gleamed cold gray in the afternoon sun, like a metal beast breathing. The riders atop them were armored from head to toe as well, with only their eyes visible through the slits of their visored helmets.

They stared ahead, their lances upright at their sides, the spearheads forming a parallel line beneath the sun. When the horses' hooves struck the ground, every step landed to the same rhythm.

They looked forward. Ahead lay Crow's Nest's muddy main street, and the red-brick fortress at its end.

The first two rode side by side. The man on the left wore full plate over chainmail, with a raised ridge running down his breastplate from sternum to belt. By all rights, he should have been the most striking one among them.

But the giant beside him swallowed all sense of his presence.

Ron's brigandine was layered over chainmail, its plates cold-forged iron gray. The rings of his chainmail hung from his shoulders to mid-thigh. At seven feet two inches tall atop a warhorse, the top of his head nearly reached the eaves of the roadside houses.

Looking up from beneath those eaves, half the sunlight was blocked out, casting a broad shadow over the mud.

He carried a two-handed battle axe in one hand, its blade hanging toward the ground. His fingers rested loosely around the haft as though he were holding a branch.

The guard swallowed. The jerky was still in his mouth. He had seen routed deserters, Nilfgaardian patrols passing by, and mercenaries who came to Crow's Nest to trade.

No one walked like this. It was not the way they moved, but something deep in their bones. As they passed down the muddy road, even the sounds of their horses' hooves sinking into the puddles nearly overlapped.

Karl reined in before the gate and raised his right hand. The ten cavalrymen stopped at once.

He pushed up his visor, revealing the young face beneath. "The Calrad Mercenary Company has come, as agreed, to visit the baron."