Horizon of War Series

Chapter 240: Bound by Honor

Bound by Honor

Roderic

The sudden arrival of thousands of men had driven the animals deep into the jungle. A violent battle erupted beneath the tangled canopy, with sword clashes, shouts, and screams. Unlike the fleeing animals, insects were drawn to the sweat, blood, and guts, swarming the place as if summoned to a feast. The fighting turned brutal when one side unleashed the alchemists’ green miasma, spreading havoc through the ranks and igniting panic. Men were trampled, columns split, and entire groups broken as the terror deepened in the claustrophobic, tight, maze-like terrain.

But then, bit by bit, the clash of steel on steel began to vanish. The war cries, the shouts, the screams—everything faded. The shift was so subtle that no one sensed it at first. It was as if the jungle had swallowed every sound, leaving an eerie stillness behind.

The jungle’s tall ancient trees, thick shrubs, and low-hanging vines made it difficult to see. Every moment was harder to track, every movement harder to place.

At the command column, the top figures of the Mountain Clans had gathered, busy handling the stream of messengers. They brought tidings from the front and received fresh instructions for their staff group attached to the Nicopolan mercenaries. Only when the rush of footfalls, the rattle of ringmail, and the clink of plate armor fell completely silent did they begin to realize something had changed.

"Why have they stopped fighting?" Roderic muttered to the nearest messenger, who could only glance toward the front with no answer to give.

Roderic turned to his staff, but they wore the same look of confusion. Some were only now realizing how still everything had become.

No one had an answer, and that uncertainty gripped them all.

Roderic walked to the forward slinger units, who had a direct line of sight toward the enemy’s center column. The men there had nothing to report, only puzzled stares and furrowed brows.

Narrowing his eyes, Roderic stared across the jungle while his staff spread forward, eager to uncover the truth.

"Did we win?" one of the staff murmured, half in jest.

A few smiled. Some chuckled. But none of them were certain. More men broke away to investigate. The silence wasn’t just strange. It was wrong. The battle cries hadn’t trailed off. They had simply vanished.

Still, many who had never fought a battle like this were elated, convinced the fighting had ended in victory. After all, the enemy had been weakened, disorganized, already worn down by hunger and weeks in the jungle. And the clans had not fought clean. They had ambushed them with overwhelming numbers, mercenaries, and a barrage of alchemist bottles. A fast victory seemed entirely possible.

Now, the threat of the Shogunate army and the Black Lord felt exaggerated. It was fear stoked by fools. The tension in their shoulders eased. Their thoughts drifted toward spoils and the glory of their eventual triumph in Three Hills City. And this time, they were better prepared than they had been at Corinthia. They had more ballistas, and unlike before, they planned to spread them out along Three Hills’ vast walls and towers. Not even a suicidal airship would break their defenses.

With Three Hills firmly in their grasp, the other clans would be eager to offer support. Roderic could count on some of their best men who had magical gemstones, and if the rumors were true, even mages.

Suddenly, without warning, screams echoed faintly from unseen directions. Once. Twice. Then again. Brief clashes of steel followed, then muffled footfalls across the jungle floor. There was movement, uncertain and scattered, but not enough to confirm the return of battle.

Then they saw them. Groups stumbling back from the front lines, bloodied and gasping, followed by stragglers in various states of shock.

"The Nicopolans... The Nicopolans..." one man kept repeating in terror.

More clansmen appeared, running as if fleeing for their lives. "Treachery!" one of them shouted as they spotted the command column.

Everyone nearby turned at once, alarm spreading through the ranks.

Roderic pushed forward and intercepted one of the fleeing clansmen, his armor, face, and hair streaked with blood and dirt. "Man, what happened?"

"Blades," the man tried to explain. "The Nicopolans turned on us. We're ruined. They're in league with the Black Lord."

Roderic and his men froze. Before he could react, another man stumbled toward them, shouting, "The Nicopolans betrayed us!"

Then another appeared, weaponless, torn armor slipping from his shoulder. He cried out, "Bring me to my clan! There's no time. We need to escape!"

Roderic, not tall but solid and athletic, seized the last man by both arms and shook him hard. "Do not play games with me. Look at me. Do you know who I am? Speak clearly. Explain yourself!" 𝘙𝒶Ｎồ𝔟Ɛŝ

“I know you!” the man snapped, his eyes bloodshot, a gash across his shoulder causing his arm to hang limp. “These wretched Nicopolans were your idea. Just like they did to our ancestors, they turned on us again. You've brought us to ruin.”

Roderic wanted to strike him, but others were watching.

Another survivor arrived, pale and trembling but more composed than the rest. “We don’t know why,” he said, voice weary. “The Nicopolans started shouting about Blue and Bronze. Wouldn’t answer when we pressed them. They dragged their feet, ignored commands... then they turned. Started killing us. If not for our men's screams, we’d all be dead."

"Impossible!" Roderic shouted, suspicion clawing at him. "Impossible!" he roared again, voice raw with fury.

They had been careful, avoiding even former members of the Gray Skull Legion. Yet they underestimated the risk that many of the Nicopolan rabble they recruited near the mountains were fond of the Shogunate, even if they had never served in its ranks.

Even with a few former Legion members among them, they believed most Nicopolans—captured on the fields of Korimor—would naturally harbor animosity toward Lord Lansius, who had forced them to fight without pay in his southern campaign. They also knew about the failed coup in the Umberland mountain pass and assumed these men would hold a serious grudge. Even now, no one in Roderic’s ranks could understand why the Nicopolans switched sides.

It took time to process the news, and the command staff were slow to brace their line. Before they knew it, war cries erupted. The Nicopolans had launched their assault.

"We're doomed!" shouted the survivors of the Nicopolan betrayal, further panicking the already shaken line.

Of the three Mountain Clan columns, numbering fewer than five hundred, they were now surrounded and struck hard by six Nicopolan columns. The betrayal was swift and real.

"Slingers, do your worst!" Roderic roared, taking charge of the slingers who quickly responded with a volley of fire and green miasma.

Burning flames and choking gas disrupted the Nicopolans' momentum, but more kept coming from different angles.

The clansmen had mocked them as nothing more than rabble, mercenaries in name and thugs in disguise. Only now did they see the Nicopolans’ hardened gazes and steely determination, the kind born from countless battles and bitter survival. Even better armed, the clansmen’s lines were battered and pushed back under the weight of the Nicopolans’ masterful assault. Their dopplesoldner, wielding longswords, broke through the clansmen’s ranks with such mastery that their very appearance struck fear into those who stood against them.

Then, for the first time, the Shogunate army joined the fight. Led by the Crimson Knights, they crashed into the Mountain Clans’ disorganized line. A brutal, violent clash followed. Where the Nicopolans were swift and precise, the Lowlandians were bold and stubborn. The clansmen gave their all and managed to blunt the first wave, but a second came down hard on the slingers.

Armed with oddly shaped crossbows, the new attackers infiltrated their line and fought savagely from within, showing no regard for ranks or formation. Only then did the clansmen realize they were facing the infamous Black Bandits, the same fighters who had foiled their plans during the last Three Hills coup. They fought with brutal purpose, as if driven by a deep grudge.

Roderic could only cover himself and flee as his men were cut down by bolts, his face twisted with shame, fear, and anger.

Watching him, every clansman understood that it was over. Their column could not withstand the combined assault of the Nicopolans and the Shogunate.

"We're doomed!" the survivors cried again, and this time, everyone listened.

The line broke and fled toward the tunnel, a day's distance away. The battle turned into a desperate flight.

As the clash of steel crept closer to their last position, Roderic saw his dream crushed. His ambition died in the blood and screams of his people. His clansmen seized him and dragged him back through the undergrowth as the line collapsed around them.

Behind them, his lieutenant was forced into a final stand, cut off by the emergence of a new column. He and his men held the rear with grim resolve. Bolts struck him, one after another, until he could barely remain standing. Still, he fought on, though his chances of survival were already gone.

A Nicopolan condottiere spotted Roderic's command banner. "O dear Honored Patron," the condottiere shouted, "with respect and regret, we must remind you that the terms of our agreement bind us to service only within the borders of Nicopola. As we now stand beyond those bounds, the contract no longer holds and is considered void."

A crude laugh followed, rising from the jungle like a chorus of jackals.

"You mercenary bastards!" one of the clansmen spat as bolts whistled past and struck the trees around them.

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Unbothered, the Nicopolan condottiere called out again, "If you wish to file a grievance, you may contact our parent company, the Gray Legion, or our allies and patron, Lord Shogun Lansius of Lowlandia and Midlandia."

His expression warped with fury. "Get the slingers on him! Burn that bastard! Choke him in green miasma!"

But his clansmen, slick with sweat and shaking with mortal fear, only tightened their grip on him and dragged him away. They had no strength left to reach the splintered group. Their lines were broken. The Mountain Clans were already in full retreat, desperate to reach the cavern while the dense jungle still offered cover.

***

Black Bandits

In the aftermath of the Nicopolan-led ambush, executed in tandem with the Shogunate, more than three hundred Mountain People were trapped and surrounded. Many died fighting, especially the slinger units, who were given no quarter for their use of green miasma. Of the three hundred, fewer than sixty were captured alive, most with a myriad of injuries.

While the battle died down, it was clear that several hundred Mountain People and their commander had escaped. Leaving Sir Arius behind to take care of the situation and the wounded, Captain Farkas' Black Bandits and several Nicopolan groups who could move quickly gave chase.

Guided by scouts and hunters in their ranks, as well as Nicopolans who had some idea where the cavern entrance was, they tried to overtake the fleeing Mountain People. In the first hour, they managed to capture several stragglers, but as time passed, they encountered fewer and fewer, and eventually, they seemed to lose the trail entirely.

Still, they did not give up and gave their best effort, even at the risk of getting lost in the jungle and cut off from their main army.

"Captain," one man called out, his voice hoarse and urgent.

Farkas turned to see his men gasping for breath. Behind him, Ted the squire collapsed, his legs giving out beneath him as they came to a halt.

“Water break,” Farkas said, his voice strained from exhaustion.

Only about thirty men remained with him. Twenty had returned to escort prisoners back to the main force, while the rest were too injured or too exhausted to continue the chase.

All of them dropped to the jungle floor, either sitting or collapsing outright.

“Crossbows loaded. Stay alert for ambush,” his lieutenant ordered.

“I can’t believe we couldn’t overtake them after all this,” one muttered, wiping his face after drinking.

“We lost them somewhere,” another replied.

After several hours of marching through dense underbrush, Farkas knew he couldn’t push them any further. Even if they managed to find the Mountain People, in their current condition, they would be in no shape to fight, let alone capture anyone.

Ted, the squire, looked dazed and pale. After taking a drink, he suddenly turned and vomited to the side.

“You okay?” Farkas asked, rubbing the young man’s back.

“The smell,” Ted muttered, still nauseous. “It sticks in the throat, in the back of the tongue.”

“Drink more,” Farkas said. It was the only thing that helped against green miasma. They hadn’t taken a direct hit, but the cloud had drifted wide, and everyone had inhaled some.

"Captain," his lieutenant called, concern on his face, after making his rounds. "Our scouts are exhausted. We've also lost contact with the Nicopolans behind us."

"Let the men catch their breath," Farkas said, recalling his experience under Sir Harold and Lord Lansius. "After that, take a few and try to reestablish contact—but be careful not to wander too far. The rest should cut a clearing, just in case. We've still got sun, but I wouldn't take any chances."

"I see," his lieutenant, about the same age, nodded.

"Fire and smoke will be easy to spot if we can’t link up. I doubt the Mountain People will try to attack," Farkas explained.

"Agreed," the lieutenant said, already choosing which trees to cut.

A bonfire was lit early, both as a signal and to avoid the trouble of starting one with wet wood.

With hunger setting in, Farkas let the men to prepare food with whatever they had on them. Many turned to foraging but found little more than a handful of tender young leaves, the only thing they trusted not to poison them. Contrary to what townsfolk might believe, a jungle like this offered little in the way of safe food. Fruits and berries were rare, and those that did grow wild were often dangerous. Mushrooms, too, could be deadly. A slight difference in color or shape could mean the difference between a good meal and days of vomiting.

As the day darkened by black clouds, they managed to reconnect with several pursuit groups who had spotted the smoke from afar. Unfortunately, once gathered, it became clear that their prey had slipped through the net.

Soon, the wind carried the scent of rain, and the newly arrived Nicopolans hastily made shelter with whatever they could. Bent branches covered with broad leaves and woolen coats made a passable four-man shelter, where they huddled close together.

The rain began to fall, and it was clear the day had come to an end. The ground would turn soft, the paths washed out, and any tracks would vanish. The Mountain People's command remained elusive, but morale held firm. The Lord Shogun had drilled into them that expecting quick results was the surest path to disappointment. And for an army, it would lead to utter destruction.

***

East Nicopola Mountain

It was their second morning on the mountain path, and Servius' legion had launched its assault against a bulwark. Despite multiple attempts, the effort yielded little. However, the attack was not meant to break the barricade but to draw attention. It took half a day for the legion’s best climbers, armed with crossbows, to secure a higher vantage point and launch a coordinated strike. Only then was the barricade taken, and the legion rushed toward their second empty village.

Weary and with several injuries among his ranks, Servius was forced to allocate his men to search for hidden traps before daylight waned. He would need this village as his forward camp. As he had expected, his advance troops had already found another barricade not far from their current position.

Gambling that the barricade was not yet complete, Servius gave his captain permission to attack. But, unknown to them, enemy reinforcements had arrived. The mountain people now fought with greater ferocity and improved weapons. Alchemist fire rained down on the legion, and Servius quickly ordered a retreat to preserve his forces.

By the following morning, scouts who had climbed through a different route reported that the path ahead would be a hard fight. Several defensive barricades had been spotted. The way they were built suggested a level of preparation none of them had expected.

Hearing the report, Servius sighed deeply.

The Third Front entrusted to him would be costly. The terrain made his cavalry nearly useless, and his heavy infantry struggled with narrow paths and uneven footing. Meanwhile, his lightly armored skirmishers were constantly threatened by crossbow fire.

"I couldn't believe it. There's another group that favors crossbows even more than Lord Lansius," Servius muttered, kicking a wooden chair with his good leg in frustration.

His staff had nothing to offer but exchanged glances in silence.

The only saving grace was a small group of nomadic archers. Since last year, hundreds of them had helped transport the horse the Lord Shogun used to pay for his airship to Lord Avery, along with supplies from the Umberland villages. A few dozen had joined Servius’s legion out of curiosity. Their skill with the bow was giving the legion a slight edge in the fighting.

It was ironic that while the villages and the path to the summit were not hidden, the road to reach them would be paid for with pain and sacrifice.

Worse, a report had just come in. An unidentified group had attacked nearby towns and set fire to their granaries, along with several buildings. Morale took a blow as the news spread, but Servius, in a stroke of brilliance, addressed it by laughing hard.

"I have to admit, our enemies are resourceful. But they’re also blind. The granaries—," he laughed, catching his breath amid his men as they prepared to eat breakfast, "they're empty. They're burning nothing but rat nests. If we had enough to fill those granaries, we’d be eating more than watery gruel. Listen to me, there’s more food in here than down there."

Servius held up a basket filled with large pieces of cheese and salted meat, showing them to the men before tossing them into the bubbling cauldron.

His confident response calmed the men. After a breakfast of watery gruel, now improved with looted cheese and richly flavored salted meat, they redoubled their war efforts against the mountain people’s barricades. Since the defenses were as sturdy as small fortifications, they would now need to be answered with siege engines.

***

Lansius

While the conflict in Three Hills and Nicopola dragged on with all its brutalities, South Midlandia enjoyed the final month of summer in peace. As the dry season passed, there were no more threats of fire, and the fields turned golden with ripening grain. With the promise of a good harvest after such a costly war, the people looked to the future with cautious hope.

In such a situation, the Midlandia Office of Works and its growing army of scribes uncovered a damning case.

Evidence and witness testimony suggested that the previous administration had allowed corruption to fester, not through negligence, but by design. The former seneschal of the realm, Bengrieve, had used it as leverage, extorting the guilty and amassing favors. This practice secured his House as the wealthiest in the region, but ironically, it also contributed to his downfall.

Now, with Bengrieve gone, Lansius' administration was left to untangle the mess. Despite the change in leadership, many noble Houses still tried to settle matters through bribes rather than by correcting their records. It seemed they knew no other way than to operate clandestinely and try to purchase his officials' loyalty.

In light of this, Lansius came to understand the struggle his nascent administration faced.

They had truly started from nothing, in a den of seasoned, corrupt nobles and cunning landowners.

Now completely sidetracked from his preparations for the special contingent in Arvena and the matter with the minters, Lansius burned the midnight candle, combing through reports alongside his most trusted scribes and clerks.

Reading the stream of fresh fraud reports filled him with silent rage. It was clear these were not isolated cases but signs of a practice so widespread it had become the norm among nearly every known House. While peasants, commoners, shopkeepers, and humble market peddlers were bound by law to pay their dues despite hardship, the landowning elite had rigged the system and evaded their obligation. At this rate, even a good harvest would barely refill the granaries.

The only redeeming reason was that their actions were driven not solely by greed but also by fear. Most nobles placed no trust in Lansius’ rule and clung tightly to their coin, preparing for conflict as threats loomed along Midlandia’s borders.

Lansius knew the rumors. In the streets, the taverns, even within the guard posts, it was whispered that someone would move against him sooner or later.

Yet he would not let fear dictate his rule.

He would rule on his own terms.

The next day, capitalizing on the climate of recovery as trade flourished and the common folk found steady work, Lansius dared to address the matter directly. He did not impose a shakedown or a new tax, knowing such a move would cause more trouble than it was worth, whether in the short or long term. With stability and even survival at stake, he chose not to burden his subjects. Instead, he offered a tax settlement.

The commoners welcomed the news, for their taxes remained unchanged. Quietly, they took satisfaction in seeing the Lord turn his attention to the nobles and wealthy landowners, whose tax fraud had long been an open secret.

Behind the scenes, the Midlandia Office of Works had gathered tips and reports, submitted both anonymously and in person. Informants were rewarded if their claims proved true, and those fearing retaliation were offered refuge in Ornietia or even Korelia. To Lansius’ surprise, many stepped forward with courage, and this, in turn, made many noble Houses uneasy.

In a measured act of rulership, Lansius issued a legal pardon. For a sum of fifteen gold coins, equal to the cost of a warhorse, a noble might seek absolution for past offenses. The condition was that the full account of the offense must fit on a single sheet of standard parchment. The offense would be recorded, sealed, and made known only to the Lord and the Office of Works.

To encourage participation, the process was made as discreet as possible.

Additionally, those who secured pardons would be reviewed last by the newly established Office of Works and its corps of land surveyors. If any minor errors were later discovered, caused by miscommunication or misreporting without ill intent, the pardon would grant leniency.

In effect, what Lansius offered was not punishment but release. A chance to make peace with the law and live without dread.

As expected, the offer was met with skepticism. However, the approaching deadline and the proven efficiency of the new surveyors soon pushed many nobles to quietly submit. None wished to risk the confiscation of their lands.

Though Lansius knew the policy was harsh, he believed the law must once again stand above favor and gold. Without that, his rule would be seen as something that could be bought or swayed, risking the rot of his entire corps of scribes, clerks, staff, and loyal retinue.

Law that bends for coin is no law at all.

However, he was not so naive as to believe the nobles would play fair. The pardon was cheap, but he knew it would send ripples across the surface and stir deeper currents below. But this time, he held the initiative.

With legal pardon finalized and the council left to see it carried out, Lansius visited the castle armory for the first time in some time and had his plate armor refitted. His body shape had not changed, and he resumed his training, this time under the best swordmasters the SAR and Audrey considered trustworthy. He knew assassins might still come, even with his ties to the Hunter Guild.

The silence from Edessa, paired with the Monastery's delay in offering a decision, was too precise to be taken as coincidence.

He let them pretend. He let them scheme. He welcomed it.

When the time came, Lansius would face any who breached his defenses with both hands gripping steel. With the vast power he now held, and the reach granted by his office, his enemies would find him prepared, lethal, and above all, willing to make the world bleed before letting harm touch his wife, his family, or their unborn child.

***