Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence - Chapter 745 - 415: The Demon of the Northern Territory
The command car was filled with a blend of smells.
The sharpness of low-quality tobacco, the stench of wet sheep wool soaked by rain, and the damp cold brought in by iron boots stepping on the muddy ground, all compressed in the narrow space, making one’s chest feel heavy.
Several older Northern Territory commanders leaned against the sides of the carriage, smoking pipes with lowered heads.
Smoke rolled slowly under the dim light of the oil lamp, like an indelible mist.
The sound of the rainstorm hitting the car roof was continuous, crackling, dense, and urgent, as if countless shards of stone were being poured down from above.
The car door was suddenly pushed open from outside.
Cold wind along with rainwater rushed in, as a drenched scout stumbled into the compartment, leaving a trail of muddy water.
He was barely able to stand, yet forcefully held on, without saluting, he just gasped quickly a couple of times.
His fingers were pale from the cold, but his movements didn’t stop.
The scout took off the waterproof oilcloth cylinder from his back, roughly tore open the seal, and pulled out a hastily sketched drawing with charcoal pencil, along with a report soaked and creased by rain, spreading them on the table.
The paper slapped onto the oak tabletop with a dull thud.
“Report.” His voice trembled, “Blackstone Gorge… The road is blocked.”
The compartment fell silent for a moment, several commanders simultaneously leaned in.
The sketch was very rough, with chaotic lines, but it clearly conveyed its meaning at a glance.
The narrow canyon entrance was filled with dense human figures, charcoal lines stacked into a chaotic black mass.
Those people wore no armor, just old clothes, deliberately drawn small and chaotic.
Behind them were several heavy strokes representing chevaux de frise and temporary sentry posts.
Further back were a few shadows holding knives, standing scattered, yet noticeably taller.
The scout pointed to that area, speaking quickly: “The number exceeds fifty thousand. Kael Remont ordered the refugees to be herded into the canyon, saying it was to arrange winter shelters for them.”
He paused, his Adam’s apple bobbing, “Once everyone is squeezed in, the road is sealed. The supervisory team is right behind, anyone who retreats dies.”
After a brief moment of dead silence, a loud noise broke the quiet.
“Bang!”
Count Albert slammed his fist into the sheepskin map on the oak table, the surface shook violently, the ink bottle wobbled twice, almost tipping over.
This old noble who had fought battles his entire life in the Northern Territory stood up straight, his beard trembling from exertion, eyes bloodshot.
“Beast!” His voice was deep, yet suppressed with anger, “Kael Remont is a skinless beast!”
He took a deep breath and continued cursing: “We Northern People are rough. Used to not seeing serfs as humans, being ruthless in collecting grain, because everyone needs to survive!
But we never used the old, weak, women, and children as cannon fodder! That’s not war, that’s…”
The old man’s words stopped, because he couldn’t find a way to describe such beastly behavior.
A burly Northern Lord couldn’t help but cut in, his tone urgent and hard.
“I used to fight the Barbarian Race for territory, battled until blood was drawn, but never did such heartless deeds!”
“Driving tens of thousands onto a dead end road? What the hell kind of nobility is this?” He spat, his face extremely sour, “That’s throwing the dignity of nobility into the mud to be trampled!”
A low voice of agreement echoed in the compartment.
These men usually spoke roughly, acted fiercely, believed in the law of the jungle, but had a tacit line – not to use the old, weak, women, and children as shields.
Kael’s approach stepped right on this line, crushing it hard.
Someone gritted his teeth and whispered, “Gray Rock Province claims to be the center of civilization. Unexpectedly, their heart is blacker than ours, the ’savages’.”
After speaking, no one responded, the heavy rain sound filled the gaps again.
Lambert slowly exhaled, his face was also gloomy, but his emotions were deliberately suppressed.
He reached out and picked up a pen, drawing a striking red line across the spread-out map, slicing through Blackstone Gorge.
“Charge through.” He did not raise his head, but his tone was exceptionally clear, “If our steam war vehicles roll over them, it’s not a push, it’s a slaughter.”
The charcoal pencil landed heavily on the red line.
“Plus fifty thousand people. Beneath the tracks are people, inside the track seams will be all minced meat, making it financially impossible.”
He looked up, facing everyone: “Besides, the Northern Army’s reputation for not killing civilians will collapse completely in fifteen minutes.”
No one objected.
Lambert’s fingers pointed to the side of the map, densely drawn with contour lines.
“Bypass. Take the western side’s winding mountain paths, where heavy war vehicles can’t pass, only disassembled and transported. At least ten more days.”
He paused, his voice lowered somewhat.
“Gray Rock Castle has these ten days to complete the defense line. Then we’re not attacking, we’re hitting a wall, and winter is coming, we’ll be out of supplies…”
The pen was placed back on the table, the compartment fell completely silent.
Only the rain beat the roof, along with the oppressive breathing of everyone.
This was a deadlock.
Kael was merely placing conscience in the middle of the road, forcing you to step over it yourself.
Count Albert’s hand had been gripping the sword hilt, knuckles white. His chest heaved a few times, but ultimately he released it.
But even if Kael was torn to pieces, it wouldn’t solve this canyon.
Just then, the wooden door of the command car was pushed open once more.
Chilling wind wrapped rainwater gushed in, making the oil lamp flicker.
Louis walked into the compartment.
He wore a neat black military dress uniform, the collar buttoned meticulously, and his boots barely stained with mud.
