Night fell.
The fierce winds of the Nairodan Corridor whipped sand and gravel into the tent, as if a hand were slapping at a military map, forcing Paul Gleman to hold down the four corners of the drawing.
This narrow passage, nestled between the Rocky Mountains and the Southern Ridge, is like a sharp sword piercing the heart of the continent, with towering snow-capped peaks on both sides gleaming with a cold, chilling light in the twilight.
"Please take a look, sir."
Count Hal Duke's finger jabbed heavily at a spot on the map, the old knight's fingernails still bearing traces of gunpowder from the last battle. "Abal must be fleeing towards Watcher's Fortress—the place of glory that we should have protected with our lives!"
Paul stared at the fortress symbol marked on the map—it guarded the narrowest eastern side of the Nairodan Corridor, beyond which lay the vast interior of the continent, a true choke point.
From the sand table, this stone fortress is backed by a vertical cliff, with a narrow pass in front that can only allow five horses to ride abreast—a natural barrier that should be easy to defend and difficult to attack. But now, the white wolf banner of the grassland kings flies on the walls.
"Our scouts report," Chief of Staff Owen Schroeder said, pointing to the contour lines on the eastern section of the corridor. "Abal has destroyed all the beacon towers along the way and is forcing prisoners to build fortifications."
Hal suddenly knelt on one knee facing Paul, the clanging of armor startling the birds outside the tent: "Marquis Grylls, please allow the Watchers Legion to be the main force in retaking the fortress!" The count's voice was hoarse but firm, "When we were forced to abandon the fortress, every survivor swore a blood oath on their shield."
The sound of orderly footsteps echoed outside the tent—the Watchers, whose strength had been further expanded, were conducting night training, which was precisely why Hal Duke was so confident.
Paul's gaze shifted back and forth between the sand table and the old knight.
The Nairodan Corridor is not only a strategic geographical point, but also a vital link between the Aldor and the interior of the continent. Without it, the Aldor would be like a giant with its trachea being choked.
That fortress, however, is a scar on the dignity of the entire kingdom.
"I agree!" Paul finally said.
...
When Hal Duke's warhorse crossed the first boundary marker of the Nairodan Corridor, the count's knuckles were already white from clenching his fists.
On the weathered stone tablet, the words "Land of the Watchers" were slashed with swords and axes by the orcs, but it still stood stubbornly in the morning light.
"Look! It's Silverpine Town!" his adjutant suddenly shouted, pointing to the smoke rising from the chimneys in the distance.
Hal squinted—three years ago, when he last visited the town, the mill windmills were painted a bright red, but now only charred skeletons remained, standing crookedly like withered corpses.
As the group approached the town's entrance, a lame old man suddenly rushed out of the ruins, revealing a wolf's head mark left by a branding iron under his dirty hemp clothes—clearly the work of an orc.
"Lord Duke!" The old man collapsed before the horse's hooves, his withered fingers gripping Hal's boot chain tightly. "I knew... I knew you would come back..."
As Hal dismounted, his armor clanged heavily.
He recognized the scar on the old man's face—it was the old blacksmith from Silverpine Town, the skilled craftsman who used to forge horseshoes for the Watchers.
"Get up quickly, where are the orcs?" The count helped the old man up, his voice more hoarse than expected.
"They fled east three days ago." The old man spat out a mouthful of saliva as if venting his anger, pointing to the gallows in the center of the town. "Before they left, they also hanged twelve people who refused to pay taxes."
The townspeople emerged from their buildings and saw the familiar flag. A woman holding a baby suddenly burst into tears.
"We're back!" Earl Duke said guiltily. "It is our fault that you have suffered for so many years."
The surviving veterans who had followed the Earl also shouted excitedly and rushed up to chat enthusiastically with the townspeople.
A few boys squeezed to the front of the line, their dirty little hands holding up homemade wooden swords: "Take us with you! We know where the orcs set their traps!"
As the group continued eastward, Duke glanced back. The townspeople stood silently on either side of the boundary marker, watching them depart. There were no cheers, only countless tearful eyes that shone frighteningly bright in the morning light.
The adjutant whispered, "The scouts report that the Blackwater Village ahead has spontaneously raised our flag."
Hal simply nodded silently, his fingers unconsciously stroking the inside of his breastplate—where a fragment of brick he had brought from the fortress was sewn on; the place he had longed for was almost here.
...
As the last wisp of smoke dissipated through the breach in the western wall of Watchers Keep, Hal Duke stepped over the rubble and broken arrows and ascended the familiar battlements.
He ran his calloused hands over the mottled brickwork, stopping abruptly at a crack—a sword mark he had made three years ago.
"That day, Duke Morton was right here..."
The count's hoarse voice drifted in the morning breeze. Behind him, several veterans rushed toward the right-hand crenellation. Some knelt down and kissed the blood-stained bricks, while others trembled as they pried half a rusty arrowhead from a crack in the wall.
Soldiers were clearing the rubble after the explosion. As the last stone slab was pried open, the collapsed passageway at the back of the fortress was revealed. The west side was the back of the fortress, where the back wall was less than a third the thickness of the front. With the aid of improved gunpowder, powerful attacks from the rear quickly became a nightmare for the orc defenders.
"Found it!" someone suddenly shouted.
Several soldiers carried a tattered flag out of the warehouse; the crossed sword and shield pattern was still discernible on the faded blue background. When Hal took the flag, the fabric was torn into pieces in his hands, but he stubbornly pressed them to his chest, as if embracing a fallen comrade.
Sporadic sounds of fighting could be heard from the east side of the fortress. Abar's rearguard was still putting up a last stand, but it was quickly wiped out.
As a brand-new Aldor banner was raised over the highest tower, a veteran suddenly blew the bone whistle—the unique rallying cry of the Watchers Legion, echoing over the fortress for the first time in three years.
Hal dragged his injured leg to the main gate square. The altar erected by the orcs had been toppled, revealing the countless bones buried beneath. Many people were silently cleaning the barracks, scraping away the totems painted by the orcs bit by bit.
"I have some bad news, Lord Duke." Ser Colin walked towards them; he was also a veteran of the Legion who had escaped with Hal Duke.
"What's wrong."
Sir Colin's face darkened. "I tortured the orc commanders here, and they said Abar didn't come to Watcher's Keep."
Hal Duke frowned. "Perhaps they are too lowly to know Alba's whereabouts?"
Sir Colin shook his head. "Based on cross-verification of many people's testimonies, it's very likely that Abar really didn't come here."