Three days after receiving the summons, the courtyard in front of the Montserrat manor became busier than usual.

  Not the lively kind of bustle one might see at a festival or market. There was no loud laughter, and no one was drinking to celebrate. Instead, it was a more tense sort of activity: people carrying sacks from the grain store, others tying ropes around wooden crates, and a few standing nearby inspecting wagon wheels.

  Most of the sounds were simple ones—wood knocking against wood, ropes being pulled tight, and brief calls exchanged between workers.

  Philip stood on the stone steps, looking down.

  Twenty men.

  Objectively speaking, the number was rather small. For a noble territory to send troops to war with only that many… it was, frankly, a little modest. But for Montserrat, it was nearly the entire force that could be mobilized without leaving the territory defenseless.

  What caught Philip’s attention most was not the number of soldiers.

  It was the three supply wagons standing in the middle of the courtyard.

  He walked down to inspect them.

  The first wagon was filled with dried barley, hard bread, and sacks of beans. The bread was so tough that people tasting it for the first time often assumed it had gone bad. In truth, it only needed to be soaked in hot water before it could be eaten.

  The second wagon carried salted meat, dried fish, and several wheels of hard cheese. The smell was rather strong. One farmer standing nearby even covered his nose.

  The final wagon held water barrels, salt, cooking pots, and canvas sheets. There were also ropes, sewing needles, and a few small hammers—things that sounded trivial but were surprisingly useful during a campaign.

  Philip asked the steward,

  “How many days?”

  The steward opened his ledger.

  “If eaten normally… about twenty-five days. If rationed carefully, thirty.”

  Philip nodded.

  Thirty days was the number he had requested.

  Some people might consider that excessive. But given how noble armies operated in the Kingdom of Re-Estize, this level of caution was probably not unreasonable.

  Larger lords usually summoned troops from smaller territories. However, there was a detail young knights rarely mentioned: the count would not provide supplies for allied forces unless it was an emergency.

  The count’s soldiers ate from the count’s granaries.

  The soldiers of allied nobles had to provide their own.

  If a campaign dragged on—or if the granaries in Re-Robel simply proved insufficient—smaller units could find themselves in a rather uncomfortable situation.

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  After checking the provisions, Philip moved on to inspect the equipment.

  A separate small wagon carried weapons and armor.

  Contrary to the popular image of farmers going to war with nothing but hoes, Montserrat had managed to prepare a fairly respectable set of equipment.

  Twenty simple chainmail shirts hung from a wooden rack.

  They were not knightly armor. There were no polished plates or elaborate designs. But chainmail still had practical value: it could stop weak slashes or deflect arrows fired from a distance.

  Philip lifted one of the shirts.

  It was quite heavy.

  A nearby farmer looked at it nervously.

  “My lord… do we have to wear that the whole way?”

  Philip shook his head.

  “No.”

  He pointed toward the wagon.

  “Tie it to the wagon. Wear it when we’re close to the battlefield.”

  The man visibly relaxed.

  To be fair, walking all day in chainmail was an efficient way to exhaust someone before the battle even began.

  Baron Montserrat stepped into the courtyard at that moment.

  He stood looking at the three supply wagons for quite a while. His expression was thoughtful, as if calculating something.

  “I see you prepared more than I expected.”

  Philip replied calmly,

  “I think wars tend to last longer than people predict.”

  The baron did not argue.

  In truth, he knew that as well.

  Small territories like Montserrat did not have many chances to correct mistakes. A poorly prepared decision could cost the entire family dearly.

  The twenty soldiers had already formed two rows.

  Today they looked different from a few days earlier.

  Each man wore chainmail, though it was obvious some were still unaccustomed to its weight. One man even tugged at his shoulder strap as if the armor were trying to slide off.

  Spears stood upright.

  Shields were strapped to their backs.

  From a distance, they no longer resembled farmers who had just left the fields.

  At the very least, they looked like a light unit belonging to a noble territory.

  And sometimes, Philip thought, appearances alone had value. On the battlefield, people often hesitated a moment before attacking a force that looked organized.

  Before the group departed, Baron Montserrat looked over the formation one last time.

  Twenty soldiers.

  Three supply wagons.

  One equipment wagon.

  One horse for Philip.

  Not much. But not insignificant, considering the size of Montserrat.

  He exhaled slowly.

  “I still don’t like this.”

  Philip nodded.

  “I understand.”

  The baron looked at him for a moment before speaking again.

  “If the situation turns bad… withdraw.”

  He paused briefly before continuing.

  “No one in Montserrat needs you to become a hero.”

  Philip smiled faintly.

  To be honest, he had never intended to become one.

  “I don’t plan to.”

  The group left Montserrat territory just as the sun was climbing higher in the sky.

  Three supply wagons and one equipment wagon rolled slowly along the dirt road.

  Twenty soldiers walked on both sides, maintaining a fairly tidy formation. After several days of training, they had at least grown used to marching in lines.

  Philip rode at the front.

  At the rear of the column, one farmer whispered,

  “At least we have armor.”

  The man beside him replied,

  “Yeah… let’s just hope we don’t have to find out how good it really is.”

  A few people chuckled quietly.

  Philip heard them but said nothing.

  About an hour later, they encountered a merchant caravan.

  Two wagons carrying wool and grain were traveling in the opposite direction.

  The caravan leader raised an eyebrow when he saw the formation of twenty armored men.

  “Montserrat troops?”

  Philip nodded.

  The merchant glanced at the formation behind him.

  “You’re heading to Re-Robel too?”

  “Yes.”

  The man gave a thin smile.

  “The road’s been full of soldiers lately.”

  Philip asked,

  “Other territories sending troops as well?”

  “Yeah.”

  The merchant nodded.

  “Two days ago I met a group of about fifty men from the west.”

  He pointed at the supply wagons.

  “But they didn’t bring nearly as much as you did.”

  Philip did not explain.

  The caravan moved on.

  The road returned to silence.

  Philip looked toward the south.

  If many small territories were sending troops, the area around Re-Robel would soon become crowded.

  And when too many soldiers gathered in one place…

  Food would be the first problem.

  Philip gently pulled the reins of his horse.

  Behind him, twenty farmers and three supply wagons continued steadily along the dirt road.

  Thirty days of provisions.

  Perhaps a bit heavy.

  But in Philip’s experience…

  Having too much was always better than having too little.