Two days after the battle
—From the battle of the Poitiers forest, at least an entire platoon of enemies is reported fallen in the vicinity of the woods; in life, they were tasked with interrupting the formation of the wagons into a defensive circle, with the aim of allowing an assault by the enemy from the rear, where the enemy's superiority in both weapons and mobility would make it easy to dispatch all the troops guarding that approach route.
—It was only a matter of luck that one of Sergeant Raúl's men, in charge of scouting and threat recognition, passed near one of the enemies and noticed their presence, starting a skirmish that would alert the entire unit and, consequently, the whole caravan. As soon as the enemy's pre-established plan failed, the rearguard units were revealed.
—An entire company of at least 200 enemies, composed of heavy and light cavalry, began their approach. Fortunately, emergency plans had been prepared, and the sergeants in charge, Francis, John, and José, acted in accordance with what was expected of them. They accelerated the process enough to have a complete defensive structure; despite leaving some wagons outside the formation, no person was left outside the protection of the line.
Miguel paused, looking at the vial of white powder resting on his improvised table before continuing.
—From the battle against this new threat, the great effectiveness of the gunpowder weapons incorporated into the convoy mission stands out, as does the fact that the enemy was unaware that these units existed or what their numbers were.
—Lastly, but perhaps most importantly, the enemy who was close to being captured for interrogation would take a strange white powder that ended the life of whoever ingested it within seconds. It is presumed to be a fast-acting poison of high lethality. Those who were not at risk of being captured fled toward the marquisate.
—Thank God we had the plans already established, and for the good reaction of the scout soldier. We have already entered the second village after clearing the entire battlefield; by the time this missive is received, we will have already left the second point of the mission and will be about to reach the third village. No further battles are foreseen, as the terrain does not favor ambushes.
—Furthermore, the planting season is about to begin, and the Marquis of Narico's levies will have to be dismantled, at least for a while. With love, your son, Miguel Cortés.
…
With a great sigh, Count Albán finished reading the letter that had arrived a few moments ago aloud to everyone present at the council table. The mood was generally good; the news of the peasants' survival was a balm for the tense atmosphere of the county capital, but some thorny issues remained that did not allow for a proper celebration of such a clear victory.
—I am mostly concerned about the presence of those mercenaries —said Captain Francisco, crossing his arms over his steel breastplate—. We have kept close watch over the Marquis's forces for several months prior to the attack, and never, in any part of the enemy territory, have we seen this type of fanatical troop. We always encounter local garrisons or the Marquis's personal army, but nothing more.
—Well, they are mercenaries for a reason —replied Omar, shrugging as he checked the accounting books of the war effort.
—Nah, I'm not buying it —the Count responded in a deep voice—. Honestly, they are troops from some other noble, at the very least; but, frankly, it doesn't seem far-fetched to me that they are troops brought from the empire or even beyond. There is no precedent in the kingdom's history of troops committing suicide to avoid capture. It simply isn't part of our country's culture.
—At least we have more information available without having suffered a defeat —Francisco intervened—. I would not have blamed the young strategist for losing that fight. If the enemy's plan had worked, the entire rearguard of the convoy would have been decimated, risking an attack on two fronts.
—That boy is destined for great things —the Count declared, with a mixture of pride and concern in his eyes.
…
A week and a half later —Finally! —said Miguel, stretching in his seat inside the central wagon, flanked by the knights of the guard.
—My lord, the last village is in sight —said Clayton Carmine, the eldest of the brothers who presided over Miguel's personal guard.
Miguel remained silent for a few seconds. The weight of the last few days felt on his shoulders as if he were wearing lead armor.
—My lord —Clayton continued in a soft but firm voice—, we have already talked about this. Anthony knew what he was doing when he threw himself against the enemy to plug the gap until the rest of us could reload to eliminate the enemy knights. He gave his life knowing his decision could save many more. Especially yours, my lord.
—And it is important that you are alive; all the people we have resettled in their homes will be grateful to you for life. You saved them from becoming beggars.
—I haven't done anything... —Miguel started to say, feeling the lump in his throat, but he was interrupted halfway.
—MY LORD, we both know that isn't true. Without your careful planning, the plan of the walking fortress, the reinforced patrols, and the discipline you imposed on us, we wouldn't be here. My brother didn't die on a whim; he died for the future you are building.
Miguel looked at the steel giant beside him. The loss of Anthony Carmine had been the hardest blow to the morale of the command core, but seeing Clayton's fortitude forced him to swallow his own grief.
—Fine, you win. I promise this is the last time I complain about what happened —Miguel finally said, forcing a half-smile.
—It is the right thing to do, my lord —Clayton replied, striking his chest in a military salute.
—Have the people organize themselves to enter the village, leave nothing behind. The orders for the guard are to establish an advanced camp on the outskirts of the village, facing the marquisate. We are going to put the static fortification plan into action. I have some plans for the marquisate that I need to set in motion. That damn Marquis won't even know what hit him.
…
As the convoy crossed the boundaries of the last village, the atmosphere changed drastically. The creaking of the wooden wheels seemed to sing a melody of relief. As the wagons came to a stop, a tide of human emotions in its purest state broke loose.
Women who had maintained an iron facade during the attacks collapsed to their knees, kissing the damp earth of their fields; fathers carried their children on their shoulders, showing them the ruins of their homes not with sadness, but with the promise of reconstruction.
Cries were heard that were not of pain, but of a collective catharsis that ran through every corner of the settlement. Neighbors embraced, some still with bandages stained from battle, celebrating the simple fact of breathing air.
In the midst of it all, the guard soldiers helped unload the heavy bundles, receiving blessings and handshakes from people who, only two weeks ago, saw them as distant and fearsome figures. Gratitude floated in the air like a golden mist under the afternoon sun; they had returned home, and they knew exactly to whom they owed it.
…
—Lieutenant —Miguel called, regaining his command tone—. Have the troops begin building the advanced camp. The rules are as follows: First, there must be a trench of at least two meters and, with the earth taken out, a wall is built to create another defensive layer. Second, the wagons are placed in the same defensive position with the ropes between them.
—We don't need that much space, as only about 30 wagons remain. Third, let the camp entrance be facing the marquisate, for we are moving to the offensive, gentlemen; obviously being careful with the defense. Additionally, contact Raúl, we follow the same scouting pattern, and have him come see me as soon as he has time; we have things to talk about.
—At your command, young master.
…
Late at night, under the mantle of a starry sky and with the camp organized at least in its most fundamental parts —the trench already surrounded the perimeter and torches lit the constant patrols— a meeting was held among all the commanders of the convoy mission. The tent was lit by a handful of candles that cast long shadows over the maps.
—Gentlemen, good evening —Miguel said when the last of the guests arrived, Sergeant Raúl, who brought muddy boots from his last patrol.
—Good evening, strategist —everyone replied, squaring up.
—As you already know, for it is not as if I have hidden my intentions, we are going to attack the marquisate. But it is not a normal attack; rather, we are going as bandits. It is no secret to anyone that by now Mr. Giuseppe will have reached the capital and the legality of the attack, its cessation, and the consequences must be about to be debated. But there is still no decision from the council.
Therefore, we are going to take this opportunity to give the idiot Marquis a hard blow to the nose, especially now that the planting season is about to begin.
Miguel pointed to a spot on the map, an area of granaries and vital supplies just across the border.
—If he cannot plant, he cannot feed his army. If they cannot feed their army, they cannot wage war against us.