Transmigration: Rise of the Iron Lord

Take the Count Alive

Chalk dust hung thick in the air, tasting like dry flour on Daniel's tongue.

Behind the fallen wall of rock, the muffled shouts of Count Brandon's trapped rear guard sounded faint and useless. The southern exit was sealed under six feet of jagged limestone boulders. Ahead, trapped in the narrow center of the defile, nearly eighty mounted men and two hundred levy footmen were jammed together like sheep in a pen.

The shock of the rockslide had broken what little discipline the enemy had left.

Warhorses reared up, their hooves striking the cliff walls as riders fought each other for space to turn around. Conscript footmen dropped their heavy wicker shields, scrambling over loose scree to find an escape route that simply did not exist.

Daniel stepped over the dirt rampart, his boots sinking into the bloodstained gravel. His iron broadsword hung loose in his right hand.

"Form line," Daniel commanded, keeping his voice calm and clear. "First rank, advance five paces. Keep the pikes leveled at chest height. Nobody runs forward to chase a fallen man."

Robin and the other young farmers stepped down from the dirt bank. Their shirts were soaked with sweat, and their arms shook with exhaustion, but their eyes were bright with a fierce, quiet pride. They held their long ash shafts level, keeping the diamond-shaped iron points locked together in an unbroken hedge.

Edmund stepped up beside Daniel, his notched sword ready at his hip. "Look at the center of the column, my lord. By the silk banner."

Thirty paces past the tangled knot of fallen vanguard horses, six armored bodyguards had formed a protective circle around a stocky man sitting astride a bay gelding.

The man wore a polished iron breastplate inlaid with brass wire along the rim. Over his shoulders was draped a fine green velvet mantle lined with white rabbit fur, though it was now covered in pale gray dust. His face was round, red with fury, and slick with cold sweat.

Count Brandon.

"You peasant scum!" Brandon screamed, his voice shrill as his horse skittered against the rock wall. "Do you know who I am? I am the High Warden of the Low Marches! I hold royal letters from the King himself! If one hand touches my bridle, the crown will hang every soul in your wretched valley!"

Daniel did not raise his voice. He walked forward until he stood just ten paces from the front edge of the Count's guard.

"Your letters didn't stop that rock from falling, Count Brandon," Daniel said, his tone matter-of-fact. "And they won't stop four inches of cold iron if your horsemen take another step."

A burly guard beside the Count, wearing full mail and holding a broad-bladed spear, lowered his weapon toward Daniel's chest. "Step back, boy, or I'll run you through."

Before the guard could finish his breath, a sharp whistle cut through the dusty canyon.

A heavy chunk of limestone, hurled from the high eastern cliff by Boran's miners, slammed directly into the guard's helmet with a sickening crack. The guard folded at the knees and dropped into the dirt without a sound.

On the ledges thirty feet above, twenty clan miners stood with heavy rocks balanced on their shoulders, looking down with cold, hungry eyes.

The remaining five bodyguards froze. Their knuckles went pale around their hilts, but none of them dared to raise a blade.

A soft chime chimed inside Daniel's mind.

Battlefield Assessment: Total Containment.

Hostile Combat Effectiveness: 12 percent.

Hostile Morale: Broken.

Target Identified: Count Brandon of House Brandon.

Status: Encircled, No Extraction Route.

Surrender Probability: 96 percent.

Daniel dismissed the prompt and looked directly at the trembling Count.

"You brought six hundred men into my pass to steal sixty percent of our winter grain," Daniel said, pointing his blade at the terrified footmen huddled against the rock pile. "Now look around you. Your vanguard is broken, your road is blocked, and your men are looking at the dirt. You can draw your sword and die in this ravine, or you can climb down from that saddle."

Count Brandon’s throat bobbed. He looked at the long line of leveled pikes held by farmers he had treated like dirt for ten years. Then he looked up at the wild miners on the cliff tops.

"I'm a lord of the realm," Brandon whispered, his arrogance cracking into pure terror. "You can't treat me like a common bandit. My ransom is worth ten thousand silver royals."

"I don't care about your ransom," Daniel replied. "Get off the horse."

Brandon hesitated for two seconds. Then, with clumsy, trembling movements, he swung his heavy leg over the cantle and slid down into the mud. His rabbit-fur cloak dragged in the red-stained gravel. He unbuckled his sword belt and let his gold-inlaid scabbard drop to the ground.

The moment their master surrendered, the remaining five guards threw down their weapons.

A chain reaction swept through the trapped footmen. Across the entire floor of the defile, iron-tipped spears, axes, and wooden shields were tossed aside, clattering against the limestone like a hail of dry sticks. Men dropped to their knees with their hands raised, pleading for their lives.

Edmund let out a long breath, a broad, fierce grin spreading across his bearded face. "By the saints, my lord. We broke an army without losing twenty men."

"Don't celebrate yet, Captain," Daniel said quietly, watching the prisoners. "Dead men don't eat bread. Living captives do. We've got two hundred mouths to feed and forty wounded horses to tend before night falls."

Daniel stepped forward and picked up Brandon's discarded sword, testing its balance. The steel was fine, forged by capital smiths, but the man who carried it had never learned how to hold his ground.

"Edmund, separate the mounted men from the levy footmen," Daniel ordered. "Strip their iron breastplates, collect every usable blade, and tie the horses in strings of four. Have Robin lead twenty men to search their supply carts at the rear."

"What about the Count, my lord?" Edmund asked, pointing a thumb at the shivering nobleman.

Daniel looked down at Brandon, who was staring at his muddy boots in silent humiliation.

"Put him in chains beside Gareth Vane and Miguel," Daniel said. "The cellar beneath the keep has three wall rings. They can share a bench and talk about how their plans fell apart."

As two guards hauled Brandon to his feet, a brilliant golden flash flared across Daniel's vision, accompanied by a deep, resonant chime that echoed inside his skull.

Major Milestone Achieved: The Battle of the Defile.

Hostile Force Defeated: 600 Men-at-Arms.

High-Value Captives Secured: Count Brandon, 32 Knights, 180 Levy Infantry.

War Spoils Logged:

40 Carts of Cured Salt, Grain, and Smoked Bacon.

84 Intact Heavy Destriers and War Mounts.

220 Iron Breastplates and Steel Helms.

350 Infantry Weapons (Pikes, Broadswords, Short Bows).

Territory Renown: Exploded across the Northern Province.

Empire Points Awarded: 500.

Current Balance: 800 Empire Points.

Territory Advancement Available: Settlement Level 2 (Fortified Frontier Town).

Daniel felt a surge of cold satisfaction settle into his chest. The grain and salt carts alone solved their food crisis for the entire coming winter. With eighty warhorses and hundreds of sets of fine plate armor, Greyrock was no longer an abandoned outpost scraping by on boiled peas.

He looked south toward the high pass, where the afternoon sun was beginning to dip behind the jagged peaks.

The crown had sent raiders to kill him. A neighboring count had marched an army to starve him. Both were now locked in his basement.

Daniel sheathed his blade with a clean, sharp click.

"Gather the spoils," Daniel called out to his men, his voice carrying like thunder through the quiet gorge. "We're going home to rebuild."