A Difficult Choice

"How many men fit to fight do the tribes have left?"

Tumen commander Jeremiah asked in a grave voice.

As the commanding general, the only force he could truly command at will was the Seventh Tumen directly under him.

The tribes in the allied army were a temporary coalition brought together to deal with a common enemy.

He had only a rough idea of his allies' strength.

There was little change in ordinary times, but now, with the plague raging, large numbers of soldiers were falling ill every day.

The number of men fit to fight in each major tribe was constantly changing.

"The Black Bear Tribe has only a little over fifteen hundred men fit to fight now."

Lancaster's face was ashen as he answered.

Of the three thousand warriors who had set out, barely half could still take up arms and fight.

Although only a little over five hundred had actually become battle casualties, that did not mean the more than nine hundred laid low could be saved.

If they chose to break out with the entire army, the wounded and sick were bound to be abandoned.

With a powerful enemy blocking their way outside, they would be lucky if a thousand made it safely back to the tribe.

Worse still, many members of the Black Bear Tribe served in the Seventh Tumen, and they too had suffered heavy losses.

The decisive battle had not even begun, yet the Black Bear Tribe had already lost half its fighting strength.

It took time for the population to grow, and no matter how much booty they captured, they could not hope to make up the shortfall anytime soon.

"Our White Fox Tribe is even worse off. We have only a little over twelve hundred men fit to fight."

Sanders spoke in a hoarse voice.

They too had sent three thousand men, but their losses were far greater than the Black Bear Tribe's.

It was clear at a glance who was stronger and who was weaker.

"The Black Wolf Tribe isn't much better off. There are probably only a little over sixteen hundred who can still lift a spear."

Tristan rubbed his nose as he spoke.

Happiness was relative.

He was deeply grieved by his own heavy losses, but seeing that his neighbors had lost even more, he suddenly felt better.

If everyone's strength had suffered greatly, it was as though no one had suffered at all, and the regional balance could still be maintained.

If outside tribes tried to muscle in, they could still join forces to stop them.

To maintain stable rule, the royal court had always suppressed large tribes and supported small and medium-sized ones.

Once a tribe's population exceeded five hundred thousand, it would attract the royal court's attention and become a target for special scrutiny.

Forget about annexing small and medium-sized tribes; if the royal court got anything on them, they would be forced to split up.

Of course, even if the royal court did not force them to split, tribes would still divide once their populations grew to a certain size.

Pastures had limited capacity, and it was almost impossible for hundreds of thousands of people to gather in one place to graze their herds.

The tribes that had grown large had done so because they had mastered basic farming techniques and successfully cultivated farmland in certain areas of the great grasslands, feeding large populations on grain.

For purely nomadic tribes, it was difficult even to exceed a population of one hundred thousand.

The era of mixed farming and herding had significant limitations as well.

There was little land suitable for cultivation on the grasslands, and the Tuwu tribes that controlled those areas had relatively backward agricultural techniques, placing a limit on the population they could feed.

When they raided south, besides seizing scarce supplies, they went after craftsmen, farmers, and artisans.

In a sense, the development of Tuwu civilization was sustained by these people.

Because they had been taken by force, many bore a blood feud against the Tuwu People, and naturally did not work hard.

On top of that, the Tuwu nobles were accustomed to treating people inhumanely and used all the skilled people they seized as slaves.

At the slightest displeasure, they would beat or curse them; the captives had no status whatsoever.

As a result, once these people reached the grasslands, they all learned to shirk their work and focus on getting by.

Advancing technology was even further out of the question.

Technological innovation had costs and could fail, and no one wanted to gamble their life on their "master's mercy."

Under these circumstances, it was hardly surprising that Tuwu productivity had long lagged behind that of the southern nations.

The Golden Horde Khanate, however, did not regard this as a fault of its own. If productivity was low, they could simply raid south. Developing it themselves was far too much trouble!

"The Black Panther Tribe has men fit to fight..."

As the tribes reported their numbers one after another, Tumen commander Jeremiah silently did the arithmetic.

On paper, he had a total of twenty-three thousand troops under his command, but only a little over fifteen thousand were fit to take the battlefield.

That number sounded fairly good, exceeding the strength of one full enemy army.

It seemed they could still hold an overwhelming advantage in a battle against the enemy Third Army.

But war was not a simple numbers game; the fighting strength of the soldiers under his command also mattered.

Of the more than fifteen thousand fighting men, only the six thousand-plus of the Seventh Tumen could truly fight; the rest of the grassland coalition fell somewhat short.

Worse still, after suffering two heavy blows in succession, the army's morale had been devastated, and no one in the entire force wanted to fight.

"Pass down the order: the entire army is forbidden to draw drinking water from the pool!"

"Immediately send men along the mountain paths in all directions to find a route out."

After pacing around the tent six or seven times, Tumen commander Jeremiah issued his orders.

Breaking out head-on was impossible.

When any unit lost more than half its men, the blow to its morale was devastating.

He had not lost his mind, so naturally he would not lead a force with no morale against elite enemy troops waiting in comfort.

"Tumen commander, we can withdraw through the mountains, but what about the wounded and the soldiers who have fallen ill?"

Sanders's words brought the problem into the open.

In the earlier discussion, everyone had tacitly avoided the subject, not because they lacked the resolve to face it, but simply because there was no solution.

Whether they broke out head-on or in another direction, they could not travel with a group of sick and wounded.

The plague patients in particular were a risk in themselves.

If they traveled with the army, the force would be swallowed up by the plague before the enemy even needed to attack.

They could not take them along, but simply abandoning them was even more out of the question.

Politics mattered on the grasslands too. Whoever proposed abandoning the sick and wounded would have to bear responsibility for the proposal.

Regardless of whether they won or lost the war, nothing good would come of it when the empire called them to account later.

"I don't know!"

"If you have a better idea, hurry up and say it.

Speed is essential in war. We don't have time to waste here!"

Tumen commander Jeremiah spoke as he struggled to suppress his displeasure.

What he hated most was this sort of fool who only found fault with others but could offer no solution himself.

If everyone behaved that way, there would be no point fighting the war.

"This needs more careful consideration..."

Sanders answered hesitantly.

He had only wanted to make an appeal for the wounded and sick in his tribe. He had never expected to land himself in such trouble the moment he opened his mouth.