Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence Chapter 746 - 415: Demon of the Northern Territory (Part 2)

Compared to the palpable tension, anger, and humidity filling the carriage, he exuded an almost unnerving cleanliness.

In his hand, he still cradled a freshly brewed cup of black tea.

Wisps of white steam curled lazily from the cup, a delicate contrast against the chilling air.

His eyes swept the interior, passing over several strained faces before settling on the crumpled charcoal sketch resting on the table.

"What troubles you all?" he inquired with practiced ease, "To greet the morning looking like wilted eggplants."

He directed his gaze towards Albert, his lips curving slightly, "Count, your mustache appears to be aiming for the heavens."

Albert immediately stepped forward, his voice thick with palpable urgency.

"My Lord! Have you perused the scout’s dispatch? That lunatic Kael… he is employing refugees to obstruct our path!"

Louis raised a placating hand, signaling for him to cease.

He lowered his head, gently blowing at the foam atop his teacup as if assessing its temperature. His tone remained as detached as one discussing the day's weather, "I have. A mere matter of tens of thousands of souls and some rudimentary explosives, is it not?"

For a heart-stopping moment, a profound silence descended upon the carriage.

Several commanders exchanged uneasy glances, unsure if they had truly comprehended his words.

Louis proceeded to the main seat and reclined, placing his teacup on the surface before him. He tapped the tabletop rhythmically with his fingertips, "There is no longer any need to deliberate on alternative routes."

Lambert’s brow furrowed, unable to contain his interjection.

"My Lord, we speak of tens of thousands of people… we cannot simply steamroll over them."

Louis’s gaze lifted.

His eyes seemed to pierce through the confines of the carriage, past the falling rain, and fix upon the Black Stone Canyon, a distance of dozens of kilometers away.

"I am aware. That is precisely why you need not concern yourselves with it." He paused, his calm demeanor unwavering. "While you were all engaged in your table-pounding, I had already dispatched an individual to manage the situation."

Following this declaration, an absolute quiet enveloped the occupants.

Had anyone else uttered such a casual assurance of resolution in their current predicament, every soul present would have undoubtedly challenged the claim.

Yet, the speaker was Louis, the nobleman who had risen from the icy embrace of winter, his record untarnished by defeat.

Louis, no longer content to let the speculation fester, leaned forward slightly, divulging a few of his meticulously crafted plans in hushed tones.

The very air within the carriage seemed suspended, as if holding its breath.

The commanders instinctively straightened their postures, drawing in deep breaths, yet no one dared to utter a word.

A sudden, stark realization dawned upon them: this seemingly insurmountable deadlock did not truly exist.

After concluding his strategic exposition, Louis reached for his teacup once more, "Proceed with the arrangements as I have outlined."

......

The throng currently massed within Black Stone Canyon hailed from diverse origins.

Three significant northern townships and over a dozen scattered hamlets had been progressively displaced, driven by relentless torrential downpours and biting cold winds.

Some possessed carts with fractured wheels, others bore unconscious elders upon their backs, and a significant number had arrived with nothing but the sodden, threadbare garments clinging to their frames.

Prior to their forced evacuation, Kael’s forces had systematically annihilated any means of subsistence.

Dwellings were consumed by raging fires, their timber frames collapsing into the inferno.

Granaries lay smashed open, their precious stores trampled into the mire.

Wells had either been sealed shut or defiled with putrid flesh and poisonous ash.

With winter’s imminence and the ceaseless deluge, these civilians were left utterly exposed in the desolate wilderness.

And before the forced migration commenced, a insidious whisper had already begun to spread.

Propagandists, clad in gleaming armor, had been dispatched to the thresholds of every town and village. Perched atop wooden crates or ancient wellheads, they loudly proclaimed official decrees.

Their message hammered home a singular point: the Northern barbarians were descending southward.

These invaders were painted as monstrous entities, depicted as creatures who slaughtered without mercy and showed particular cruelty towards women and children.

They wove tales of witnessing Northern war machines obliterate entire villages, their treads stained with the crushed bones of the fallen.

Accusations were levied of Northern knights impaling victims upon door panels for their perverse amusement, each grotesque detail delivered as if personally witnessed.

Subsequently, an alternative path to salvation was presented.

Beyond the ramparts of Grey Rock Castle, a winter sanctuary had purportedly been established.

Promises were made of steaming soup, warm tents, and competent healers.

The condition for this salvation was simple: abandon their homes with all haste and traverse Black Stone Canyon to escape the impending Northern carnage.

To lend an air of legitimacy, the propagandists distributed paper certificates, emblazoned with official insignias, directly into the hands of the assembled populace.

"Grey Rock Citizen Certificate," the script read.

These, they were informed, served as the sole passkey for entry into the sanctuary and acted as a crucial differentiator, marking loyal citizens and exposing insidious Northern spies.

Possession of this document was paramount; its absence would render one liable to be treated as an collaborator.

Thus, both abject fear and desperate hope were simultaneously instilled within the beleaguered throng.

The thin parchment, repeatedly creased and smoothed by the anxious touch of countless fingers, was then carefully secreted away in personal stashes.

Incapable of intrinsic value, it nonetheless held a significance greater than life itself.

Compelled, the populace began to move, herded like sheep into a confined pen, progressively pushed towards this solitary passage promising salvation.

For countless souls crammed into Black Stone Canyon, its breadth was minimal.

By the time the initial wave of people reached the halfway mark, the terrain beneath their feet had transformed entirely into a treacherous mire.

Stagnant water, thick with refuse, decomposing food, and spilled blood, swirled around their ankles.

Each footfall demanded a strenuous pull, and pausing meant an immediate imbalance, shoved by the relentless pressure of those behind.

The biting, frigid rain did little to deter the throng; they compacted together, their collective warmth generating a mist of dull white fog that enveloped the canyon.

This fog carried a repulsive, sour odor, permeating their faces, and with every labored breath, it felt as though foul water was being forced into their lungs.

There was a pervasive belief that this was merely a temporary bottleneck, that entry into the fabled winter sanctuary would be granted within a day or two.

A checkpoint was reportedly situated ahead, ostensibly for verifying identities.

This measure was purportedly in place to obstruct Northern spies from infiltrating their ranks, necessitating individual scrutiny.

However, as precious minutes bled into hours, the queue showed negligible progress.

Only a meager handful were admitted through each passing hour.

Those stranded at the rear remained oblivious to the situation unfolding at the front; their only perception was the infrequent sight of someone vanishing into the downpour, spurring them to push forward with greater desperation.

Individuals caught in the canyon's midsection were compressed with such intensity that standing upright or collapsing were equally impossible.

The oppressive silence was unbroken by cries of protest.

Instead, a sustained, low murmur permeated the air.

The faint sounds of chattering teeth, stifled sobs, and the ragged gasps of those teetering on the brink of death echoed throughout the confined space.

Within the dim, rain-swept visibility, people were pressed against one another.

Several elderly individuals had already succumbed but remained upright, their lifeless bodies wedged amongst the living, swaying with the crowd's morbid rhythm, heads lolling at unnatural angles, eyes vacant and unseeing.

Martha found herself amidst this grim tableau.

Once a respected tailor in a modest village, she now struggled to maintain her footing.

One hand shielded her three-year-old child, held close, while the other clutched her chest.

There, a sodden, disintegrating 'Gray Rock Citizen Certificate' was clutched tightly.

She recalled the sacrifice of her family's last sack of grain to obtain this vital document.

The official who had processed it barely glanced up, murmuring only, "With this, the child can have milk."

Martha lowered her head, her voice a mere whisper against her child's ear, repeating the same promise incessantly.

"Just hold on a little longer, darling. The checkpoint is just ahead. Once we pass, there will be milk."

It was a fragile lullaby, a tether of hope she clung to, or perhaps a mantra to anchor herself.

She dared not examine her child's face, nor did she perceive the alarming lightness of the small body cradled in her arms.

Abruptly, a disturbance rippled through the vanguard of the procession.

A grizzled blacksmith, empowered by his stature, surged to the forefront, granting him a clear vantage point.

It was no identity check at all.

Horizontal barriers were erected, shields formed a wall, and behind them stood soldiers with bows drawn taut.

"You're not checking identities!" the old blacksmith bellowed, his voice tearing through the canyon's oppressive atmosphere. "You're blocking our passage! Liars! There is no sanctuary!"

The crossbow string twanged ominously.

With a soft thud, an arrow discharged from the side, finding its mark in his throat.

Blood erupted, spraying into the relentless rain, swiftly carried away by the deluge.

The blacksmith's body was unceremoniously shoved aside, tumbling into a roadside ditch, face down, never to stir again.

A battle commander on horseback surveyed the despondent crowd, his voice devoid of warmth and utterly unwavering.

"Attempting to breach the checkpoint! This individual is a Northern spy! All citizens, step back! Anyone who dares to voice dissent will meet the same fate!"

Those at the very front were forcefully retreated by the glint of drawn blades.

Meanwhile, the masses at the rear, clinging to the delusion of imminent passage, surged forward with even greater ferocity.

At this critical juncture, the earth began to tremble.

A heavy, rhythmic pounding commenced.

It sounded like a colossal beast slowly drawing nearer.

Panic, raw and unadulterated, erupted from the rear.

"The war chariots..."

"The Northern cannibal war chariots are coming!"

Ahead lay the unyielding steel of their own soldiers and a suffocating blockade.

Behind them, the legendary metallic behemoths capable of crushing all in their path.

Trapped between these two forces were only the bodies of the suffocated and the gnawing emptiness of starving stomachs.

At this final moment, a devastating realization dawned.

The promised hot soup had never been a reality.

Duke Kael had no intention of providing them refuge from the winter's harsh embrace.

His sole purpose was to herd them into this narrow, unforgiving canyon.

Positioning them as mere fodder, human shields against the advancing monstrous machines.

And now, there wasn't even room left to flee.