In Tanzania Town, Leslie's fief. The tall and thin Viscount Andrew walked up the city wall and looked in the direction of the dock area from the vantage point of the city wall.
The newly built dock tower stood on the bank of the Whitewater River. The beautiful spire of the tower reflected the dreamy brilliance of the sun. Below the tower, thousands of sails sailed on the Whitewater River. Ships of all sizes came and went like busy ants. The whole river was bustling.
This busy and lively scene only started last year.
A cool breeze blew. Viscount Andrew's throat, which had become sensitive due to excessive consumption of magic potions, suddenly felt uncomfortable. He could not help but cough violently. The butler standing beside him immediately came forward and put a warm long fur coat on his master.
The newly recruited butler was a little worried. "My lord, you should go back and rest."
"The cold wind helps to calm down," Andrew said casually. He looked away from the dock and glanced at the newly built warehouse, mill, and the West District. He suddenly sighed. "That was fast."
The butler did not hear him clearly. "What?"
The newly hired butler was reliable and quick-witted, but after all, he had only been with him for a short period of time and lacked tacit understanding with him. Viscount Andrew sighed slightly in this regard, then shook his head and threw some unpleasant memories out of his mind. "It's nothing. Is the messenger still waiting in the castle? "
"Yes." The butler nodded. "Count Hosman is waiting for your reply."
Viscount Andrew was silent for a moment and suddenly asked, "Who do you think will win this war?"
"… Duke Gwen Cecil is not in a good situation," the butler hesitated and whispered. He knew that his master was very close to Duke Gwen, but loyalty required him to tell his true thoughts at this time. "Even if he is a legend, he only has a few thousand people in his hands. But Count Hosman has organized an army of tens of thousands of people …"
Viscount Andrew did not comment. "An 'army' of tens of thousands of people …"
With the mobilization ability of this era, coupled with the desolate and decadent situation of the Southern Territory, it was indeed a very impressive number to be able to summon tens of thousands of troops. After all, the biggest aristocrat here was only a count, and there was a limit to the number of private soldiers that could be maintained.
After pondering for a few seconds, Viscount Andrew glanced at his butler. "It seems that according to you, I should respond to Count Hoffman's call as soon as possible so that I can stand on the side of the victor as soon as possible."
The butler lowered his head deeply. "My advice is insignificant. I'm just a butler. I don't have enough ability to understand your career."
Andrew felt a little bored. He curled his lips at an angle where the butler couldn't see, and then looked at the trebuchets on the city wall. Those trebuchets were facing the direction of the White Water River. A century ago, the ancestors of the Leslie family had relied on this section of the city wall facing the river to resist bandits and fleeing soldiers attacking from the water. That was not long after the civil war in Ansu, and the Southern Territory was not as safe as it was today. Now, a hundred years had passed. The trebuchets on the city wall had been replaced several times due to their decay and fragility, but they had not been used for a long time.
Another gust of cold wind blew. The wind on the city wall seemed to be particularly irritating to the lungs. The viscount wrapped his clothes tightly and coughed softly. "Let's go back. Count Hoffman's messenger has been waiting for a long time."
The butler immediately followed. "Yes, sir."
"Also, find me a few copies of the 'newspapers' that Cecil publishes, and some information about the 'Aristocratic Reform Act' and the 'Land Allocation Law' that they have implemented. Get me some of them … I need to know more about them."
A large army was gathering in the Northern Territory.
In addition to the 20,000 soldiers that were assigned to Count Peibo, the 50,000 soldiers that were the main force had mostly arrived after more than ten days of mobilization and gathering. Continuous tents and flags were spread out on the plains in the southwest of Calore. It was as lively as an unprecedented huge market.
The army of dozens of local nobles from all over the Southern Territory, from barons to counts, had gathered here. All the honorable and orthodox bloodlines had gathered here. Each noble had brought less than a hundred soldiers with them, and some had brought as many as a thousand soldiers. They set up their own camps according to the size of their army. First, they were assigned a large area according to the rank of the nobles they were loyal to. Then, they were assigned a second time according to the order they arrived at the gathering point. In the end, they formed a crisscrossing, extremely chaotic, and diverse garrison.
Dozens of different flags fluttered above the huge camp, and between each camp was a maze of winding roads. Messengers in various uniforms, armors, flags, and accents were running around in the maze-like camp, shouting orders that only their own people could understand (or not). Chaos broke out due to wrong orders from time to time, but it was quickly stopped by the Knight who rushed out with force.
The equipment worn by the soldiers in the camp was as chaotic as their own. It was like a lively exhibition. From the simplest half-body leather armor to the finest full-body steel armor, they were all gathered in the same place. The way they identified themselves was also completely different. Some relied on robes with emblems on their bodies, some tied strips of cloth of different colors on their heads, some relied on the symbol on their shields, and some did not have any symbol at all. It was just that the soldiers from the same village remembered each other's faces. This made people worry that this "army" would be disbanded on the day of their return journey and run to another territory. In fact, this kind of worry was entirely possible and had even happened.
In the stories of some bards, there was a story that was vividly described: A soldier named Tom, who could be a Alpine or a Konsican, participated in a grand war, but when he returned in triumph, he recognized the wrong commander's face and followed the wrong army to a place far away from home. He married and had children in a foreign land for eight years, and then in a new war, he followed the wrong army again and returned to his hometown. This story was widely spread in the south and was even regarded by many Knight as a symbol of "romantic life on the battlefield".
Dressed in a golden-red count's cloak, Karloff Hosman was riding on his favorite purplish-red warhorse. Accompanied by several viscounts and barons, he passed through the huge camp. The closest to him was Viscount Calor, who was wearing a neat black coat.
Count Karloff Hosman had a relaxed and pleasant smile on his face. The astonishing scale of the camp and the 50,000 soldiers in the camp were built and gathered under his supreme prestige. This magnificent scene proved that the Hosman family was still glorious in his hands, and this was the best reward he could get as a member of the Hosman family.
"Look at this. I really don't know how our ancient hero is going to defend against such a large force," Count Hoffman said, pointing his whip in front of him. He could not help but raise his voice. "To be honest, I almost regret it now. Maybe I don't need to gather so many people. Every flag here has to be fairly divided among the spoils."
"This is a testament to your generosity, my lord," one of the barons said with a smile, his tone respectful and admiring. "Not only have you stood up to uphold the laws and traditions of Anjou, but you have also generously taken care of everyone in this land."
The others around him echoed. While the nobles were talking, some noises suddenly came from nearby.
Count Hoffman looked up and saw a group of soldiers in chain mail or half-body armor scuffling around the tent. It seemed that they were fighting for the right to draw water first. But not long after they started scuffling, a knight in bright armor came out and knocked all the scuffling men to the ground.
"Look, the Knight is doing his duty to maintain order. This is the duty and meaning of the nobles," Hosman looked at the scene with satisfaction and could not help but sigh. "I can't imagine how chaotic this place would be without the power to maintain order. So I can't imagine what our ancient hero wants to do after depriving the Knight of his privileges and destroying the role of the nobles in maintaining order."
"I'm afraid only the gods know what he wants to do, but he must have experienced the consequences of doing so himself," Viscount Carroll said, shaking his head and sighing. "The insulted Knight and the mages destroyed his alchemy factory and blew up his warehouse. He destroyed order, and now order has disappeared from his land. It can only be said that he reaped what he sowed."
Viscount Carroll's face was full of regret and regret. Of course, he felt regret. Since last winter, selling potions to the Holy Spirit Plains and collecting high taxes from Cecil merchants entering the city had been his main source of income. Now, the alchemy factory in Cecil's territory had been destroyed, and the supply of potions had plummeted. How could he not feel regret and regret?
What made Viscount Carroll even more annoyed was that he had no choice but to look for the alchemists in his territory. He wanted to use traditional potions to temporarily alleviate the shortage, but he couldn't find a single alchemist.
Had it not been for this blow, the neutral Viscount Carroll would not have joined Count Hosman's camp so quickly and offered the large plains on the edge of his territory for the army to station.
"I don't know how Count Peibo is doing," a viscount in the team suddenly said. "Andrew Leslie is very close to Cecil, and he did not respond to your call this time. Maybe he will ignore your letter."
"I wrote a letter to ask him to stay in the castle and not stand in Count Peibo's way. This is already the greatest courtesy and tolerance," Karloff Hosman snorted softly. "It doesn't matter if he deliberately ignores it. Count Peibo has 20,000 people, and it will take less than two days to take down the small Tanzania Town. Even if the invalid of the Leslie family goes to Cecil for help, it will be too late to put out the fire in his castle. So as long as his brain is not completely destroyed by the magic potion, he will know what to do."
Hearing this logical analysis, the followers around him all agreed with him.
Count Hosman raised his head and looked at the messenger rushing toward him in the distance.
He smiled and said, "We seem to have received a reply from the 'ancient hero.'"
When the messenger handed him a familiar lacquer tube, Count Hosman could not help but raise his eyebrows. When he saw that the letter in the lacquer tube was the parchment scroll that he had written with his own hands, he looked confused and a little angry that he had been fooled.
This anger reached its peak when he fully unfolded the parchment and saw the word at the end of the letter. But it turned into a burst of laughter.
Someone next to him was puzzled. "My lord, are the words in the letter a rebuttal?"
Count Hosman stopped laughing and snorted softly. The parchment scroll in his hand caught fire and was quickly burned to ashes. "No, it's' war. '"
(Damn, it hurts to use up the manuscript.)
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