Medieval: Kingdom Come: Deliverance

"Young Master! Lord Toth has successfully entered the Red-Haired Camp and has been treated with great courtesy!"

The messenger returned and reported the good news to young Master Borgo, who was seated high in the castle.

"A wise man, a strategist, a banquet? Hah, this viper seems to be quite adept at gaining the trust of others."

Jan von Polgar was leaning back in his high-backed chair, toying with a wine glass in his hand. He should have been happy that his plan had succeeded, but the thought of István's smug face made him feel anything but happy.

"However, the situation inside the red-haired camp is quite different from what Lord Toth described last time."

The twenty spies sent out this time were all reliable people handpicked by Borgo himself, and they did not hesitate to speak ill of István.

"Different?" Polgar scoffed. "How different? Did those peasants actually build a castle?"

After saying that, a mocking sneer appeared on his lips.

"No, not at all..."

The man swallowed hard and continued, "The camp wasn't the dilapidated refugee camp Lord Tors described at all. They'd built a wall around it, the militia were in formation and training, their morale was high, and there were piles of freshly baked bread. They had towers and sentry posts, and everyone was shouting 'Long live the Red Griffin!' The red-haired Peter explained that it was a test for Mr. Tors before, and the two deliveries proved his worth, so he showed his true colors, and that's how they became good friends."

The young master of Borgo was stunned at first, then burst into wild laughter that echoed on the stone wall.

"Hahaha! Good! Well done, Istvan! So he got played last time. Even though the information he brought back was a pile of crap, he managed to infiltrate and gain Red-Haired Peter's trust! That's enough!"

"But sir, that red-haired camp has over sixty bandits dressed in crude leather armor, and it's protected by walls. So what about us...?"

"How can a mere sixty men withstand my army of six hundred! I overestimated that red-haired Peter. Once we get past the treacherous canyon, this small camp can be taken in a day."

He stood up, walked to the window, and gazed at the distant mountain silhouettes, a flame of ambition burning in his eyes. "As long as that snake is still inside, even if every word he says is a lie, I can use him to throw Peter into disarray! When my army is on the front lines, attacking from both inside and outside, I'll see how that red-haired bastard dies!"

"Pass down the order—we'll march tomorrow! I want all of Trostich to know that I, Jan von Polgao, am the true master of this land's future!"

December 23st, early morning.

The gates of Trossky Castle were then flung open.

Lord Polgar, riding a white warhorse, wearing silver-plated plate armor and a longsword at his waist, charged towards the densely packed tents below the castle, protected by a troop of cavalry and heavily armored guards—the encampment of five hundred conscripted militiamen and one hundred mercenaries.

"Waaaaah~ Waaaaah~"

The horn sounded.

Sir Semi and Sir Nebakov, with their respective teams, lined up at the front.

Five hundred conscripted militiamen, clad in tattered cloth armor and a few rusty chainmails, carrying crooked spears and chipped iron weapons, lined up in a crooked and haphazard formation under the officers' shouts.

One hundred mercenaries stood proudly, clad in fine chainmail, with sharp blades at their waists and the insignia of their respective mercenary groups—"Vulture," "Wolf," and "Black Bear"—embroidered on their chests, like a pack of wild beasts that had caught the scent of blood.

The castle steward Ulrich and the church priest presided over the pre-departure prayer ceremony. After the prayers, the young lord of Borgo took the stage.

More than 600 pairs of eyes on the scene turned to the young man who was acting as the de facto ruler of the territory.

Jan von Polgar, mounted on a pure white steed, clad in a scarlet cloak, silver-plated plate armor, and a steel helmet adorned with golden feathers, resembled a king straight out of an epic, his face radiating arrogance and triumph. His left hand rested on his sword, his right hand raised high, and he roared, "Let's go!"

"Set off!"

"Set off!"

The commanders of each unit eagerly relayed the lord's instructions, and the army slowly set off towards Devil's Canyon in the west. Only Ulrich remained to guard the castle, filled with anxiety.

"Look! That's young master Borgo!"

"He's going to wipe out the Red Griffins!"

In the villages along the way, the men were conscripted, leaving behind the elderly, women, and children who peeked from behind fences, their eyes filled with both awe and deep fear. They knew that regardless of victory or defeat, it would ultimately be their fathers, husbands, and sons who suffered in this war.

News of Lord Troski's war had spread throughout the surrounding areas five days earlier, and caravans from the surrounding regions were attracted like flies to filth, following the army.

Peddlers pushing carts hawked cheap liquor, cured meat, and straw sandals; several scantily clad bathing women squeezed at the edge of the line, giggling and flirting with the mercenaries; there was even a bard carrying a harp, planning to compose a hymn for the victors after the war.

The lords surrounding Trotsky also turned their attention to this place. The territories of Turnov, Isin, Novopaka, and Khozhetse, which are closest to Trotsky, all sent scouts to observe the war. They were not concerned about the outcome of the war, but were worried that Trotsky's army might suddenly turn around and attack their territories.

The situation in Bohemia is far from peaceful right now, so it's always good to be cautious.

"Look!" Young Lord Polgar said proudly to Sir Semi beside him, "This is the grandeur a lord should have when he goes to war! Banners blot out the sun, the eyes of all people are on him, even merchants are willing to follow the army, which shows how great my prestige is!"

He looked up at the sky, the sunlight shining brightly on his silver armor, as if God himself were crowning him.

"God bless you, young master."

Old Sammy smiled and flattered him, saying that this young master was ambitious and loved grandstanding, but he didn't know how much money this mobilization would cost. In the end, all he did was wipe out a band of bandits hiding in the mountains; it was really a case of losing more than he gained.

"My father always said that true victory lies not on the battlefield, but in the hearts of the people. Today, I lead this great army in person to demonstrate majesty and order! To let those traitors who dare to challenge the lord's authority understand—ants will always be ants!"

The sycophantic followers shouted in unison, "Long live the young master! Long live Polgar!"

Even the conscripts who were unwilling to fight couldn't help but straighten their chests under this overwhelming momentum, even though they knew in their hearts that they were just meat shields to fill the trenches.

The journey from Troski Castle to Devil's Canyon normally takes no more than half a day. But this time, the march was noticeably slower, and the army didn't reach the entrance to Devil's Canyon until sunset.

To facilitate water collection, the troops set up camp along Shita Lake.

Due to a lack of unified planning, the campsites spread out like festering sores, with tents of all sizes haphazardly pitched between the lake and the canyon, almost blocking the only passageway.

The accompanying merchants immediately sprang into action, setting up stalls in the open space to sell wine, meat, herbs, and amulets; the bathing women solicited business behind makeshift curtains, and even at three times the price, mercenaries flocked to them; a few speculative dice players set up small stalls, and business was booming.

The mercenaries spent lavishly, exchanging their heavy purses for fleeting pleasure. They sat around the campfire, drinking heavily, boasting about their impending victory, and some even began discussing how to divide Peter's "treasure."

Meanwhile, the conscripted militiamen could only huddle in small, damp tents, munching on moldy black bread and muttering curses at this pointless expedition.

"We're here to fight, not to go to a market!" an old militiaman spat. "The battle hasn't even started, and our morale has already collapsed."

But in the eyes of the young master of Borgo, all of this was a perfect picture.

He stood on the makeshift command platform, gazing at the brightly lit camp, listening to the vendors' shouts, the soldiers' clamor, and the women's laughter, a satisfied smile always on his lips.

"This is what an army should be like," he said to Sir Semi and Sir Nebakov beside him. "Soldiers will fight bravely when they have wine to drink and women to comfort them. My father is too strict."

Old Semi and Old Nebakov, who had risen through military merit in their youth, shook their heads at the chaos before them, yet dared not contradict their newly appointed, headstrong young lord. They knew in their hearts that this army was undisciplined, demoralized, and unfit for important tasks. But they also knew that their young lord would not listen to dissenting opinions.

The next morning.

Inside the tent of the young lord of Borgo, Sir Semi, Sir Nebakov, five village sheriffs, and three mercenary captains entered in turn, their armor clanging, the atmosphere heavy.

"Gentlemen."

The young master of Borgo sat in the main seat, his voice booming, "Today is the day to end the Red Griffin!"

He unfolded a rough map, his fingertip emphasizing the location of Devil's Canyon.

"My plan is as follows: the three mercenary groups, with a total of one hundred elite soldiers, will climb the high ground on both sides of the canyon in three routes, and must occupy the high ground before noon to suppress the enemy from above; five hundred conscripted militia will advance along the central road, using their numerical advantage to force a breakthrough; Sir Semi and Sir Nebakov will lead their respective private armies as oversight teams, and anyone who retreats will be beheaded on the spot!"

"As for myself—" he declared, head held high, "I will sit here, overseeing the entire operation, and in the name of God, witness this victory of justice!"

The people inside the tent looked at each other in bewilderment.

The sheriff of Takhov Village finally couldn't help but speak up: "Young Master... Demon Valley has a treacherous terrain, narrow roads, steep cliffs on both sides, and dense forests, making it extremely easy to set ambushes. If our main force ventures in rashly and is cut off from our retreat, the consequences will be unimaginable... It would be better to first send small teams to probe the area, and then advance steadily after we have captured the high ground on both sides..."

"shut up!"

Lord Borgo slammed his fist on the table, his eyes blazing with fury. He had just proposed a military strategy, and someone dared to question it. If he didn't use a thunderous deterrent, who would respect him?

"Are you afraid of dying, or are you trying to undermine morale?"

The sheriff turned pale and quickly bowed his head: "God is my witness, I am not afraid of death, nor would I dare to undermine morale..."

"I have five hundred militiamen, a hundred of them elite! Peter has only a few dozen men guarding the mountains! What are they? A rabble of farmers, monks, and fugitives!"

He stood up, his voice booming like thunder:

"I am leading this campaign against the bandits in the name of my lord, blessed by God and protected by angels! With such a powerful army, we must press on with unstoppable momentum to demonstrate the might of the Borgo family!"

He surveyed the crowd, and no one dared to meet his gaze. Excellent, that's the kind of authority I wanted!

"Young Master is wise!"

The captain of the guard offered a compliment.

Others followed suit, and the tent was soon filled with compliments.

In their view, although the young master's plan was somewhat crude, it wasn't entirely wrong. With so many of them, it would be difficult for them to lose.