Iron Harvest: When Farming Becomes Conquest
Chapter 145 - 17: Crossing Mountains and Ridges

Chapter 145: Chapter 17: Crossing Mountains and Ridges

The mountain terrain was not steep, nor were there towering peaks.

It couldn’t be considered perilous, but it certainly made for a challenging trek.

Yet, the thick white snow on the mountains had not melted.

This marching route had been scouted repeatedly by the scouts these past few days, suitable for the supply convoy to pass through.

It’s often said that where people tread often, a path emerges.

However, clearly, not many would travel this route, as it was overgrown with bushes.

Because there was a better, faster major road leading to Kant Territory.

Roman wanted to stab him in the back, to carve out the fat before Earl Kant even felt the pain.

Not to walk up boldly and punch Earl Kant in the face.

The first day.

Everyone exerted themselves to the fullest, yet they only advanced about twenty kilometers.

The snow melted, the mountain roads were muddy, and the slopes were difficult to navigate, sometimes relying on the military servants and soldiers to push or pull the supply wagons, as the horses alone couldn’t manage it.

By evening, the military servants set up camp, and the soldiers conserved their energy.

There were no further supplies; they had brought enough for seven days in one go.

It wasn’t much, approximately twenty thousand kilos, mostly dried meat and meat pies.

Sige Town and Kant Territory were not far apart; the straight-line distance was only a few dozen miles. It was said to be a march, but it was merely a long trip; there was no need to carry too much supply, which would only slow down their marching speed.

The second day.

The marching speed noticeably slowed, only advancing over ten kilometers.

Both the military servants and soldiers had to wade through the snow and mud, picking up weapons to progress and thereby lighten the load of the supply wagons, otherwise, they couldn’t have climbed up.

Roman himself and his fine horse also began to bear loads.

As a qualified Conquest Knight, his physical fitness was high, and he could travel while carrying a hundred kilos.

By night, he checked each soldier’s physical condition.

All soldiers fervently expressed that they had already adapted to this level of marching.

It was the military servants who suffered, blisters forming on their feet.

Roman turned a blind eye.

This batch of military servants was temporarily conscripted, suffering just for these few days; they’d have to endure for a while.

Endurance is a virtue.

The third day.

The convoy stretched hundreds of meters, crossing a newly constructed bridge over a stream more than half a meter deep.

Today, there were some issues; the supply carts skidded in the snow, and two were damaged.

They had to transfer the materials onto the backs of horses and onto the military servants and soldiers.

But today’s marching distance was excellent, as the soldiers felt encouraged by Roman’s support from last night, covering twenty kilometers.

Their physical strength was gradually declining, and Roman was well aware of this.

The immense strain of marching and sleeping on ice and snow without good rest meant fatigue accumulated and only intensified.

One could only say it was still within bearable limits.

The fourth day.

They advanced nearly twenty kilometers.

In the afternoon, Roman had already asked everyone to rest early.

Their lone troop had penetrated deeply, encamping behind a hillside, unnoticed by anyone.

They couldn’t go much closer.

A few miles ahead was a baron’s territory, where a robust stone castle sat mid-slope, offering a broad view.

Without cover, they could easily be exposed.

Roman even refrained from having fires lit for cooking, choosing instead to gnaw on dried meat and bread.

Dota and his thirty scouts formed a surveillance network ahead.

On the fifth day, after resting the night before,

everyone’s condition had mostly recovered.

They woke before dawn, quietly eating breakfast while military servants packed up the supply wagons and tents.

Around five in the morning,

Roman ordered an attack.

...

Locke was one of the three Castle Guards on Baron Has’s castle walls.

Earl Kant had enfeoffed Baron Has to build the castle here to defend the rear of Kant Territory, to avoid being backstabbed someday.

This strategic foresight was undoubtedly far-sighted.

So far-sighted that, for decades, this castle had never come into play.

The difficulty of backstabbing was high,

because in this remote area, it was simply impossible to find an enemy.

The guards were merely symbolic, showing no true awareness of vigilance.

But recently, Baron Hass had often been summoned by Earl Kant for discussions at the Earl’s castle regarding significant matters.

This concerned the poor ravine downstream of the Bro River.

It was said that salt had been discovered there, benefiting the Kant Territory.

The castle’s chefs even started using salt generously, meaning that Locke’s taste for food had grown stronger over the past six months.

How wonderful it would be to have an endless supply of salt!

Not just Locke thought this, but many in the castle did.

Locke had been on duty for less than half a year.

Compared to other guards, he had very little experience.

He had earned his promotion from Baron Hass through his cousin, a maid at the castle.

Merely by idling his time away on the castle walls, he could enjoy a better living than most—a much-desired position.

Thus, he learned some secrets from his cousin.

For instance, Earl Kant planned to gather all conscripted soldiers at the start of spring, training them every three days to bolster their combat skills in preparation for war.

And his cousin had arranged for him to join them.

Locke did not want to go to battle, yet his cousin convinced him.

The ravine barely had any people, only a few dozen guards, and even the salt mine had to rely on purchased slaves for excavation—there was little difficulty in overtaking it.

If he found a country girl from the ravine to his liking, he could seize her to be his wife.

If none caught his eye, he could get a merchant to buy him a beautiful female slave instead.

After all, it was a place that produced salt.

A hard, heavy, metallic-looking copper coin could only buy a pound of salt.

If he worked there and handled the salt, he would undoubtedly become rich.

Locke felt restless inside.

In his twenties, he still fantasized about women. With many siblings and a father unable to afford a dowry, the prospects of marriage felt remote.

Marriage meant needing a sturdy wooden house with a thick thatched roof, dozens of acres of land to sustain the family, furniture, food, firewood, and even clothes for the winter.

His cousin had impressively climbed into Baron Hass’s bed, securing him a job as a castle guard, and sitting idly here would earn him several copper coins each year—enough to consider marriage after just three to four years.

He secretly admired a girl from the village named Lola.

She was beautiful and hardworking, the finest girl in Doug Village.

He liked her, but her father, old man Richard, was as stubborn as a bee guarding its honey, shooing away any suitors.

He had to work at Baron’s castle for three to four years to be eligible to marry, yet Lola had reached a marriageable age.

Reportedly, she was preparing to engage a steward under the witness of an old priest next spring.

Initially, the old bee disagreed, as that steward was far from kindly. His ex-wife had been forced to spend the night in the sheep pen, frozen to death during a winter, her body covered in bruises, a ghastly sight.

However, the steward dredged up an old debt, claiming Richard had damaged a plow years earlier during the spring plowing, demanding immediate compensation—five silver coins, the price of an ox. Otherwise, he would take Lola as his wife.

In the judgment of the old priest, Lola’s father, amidst chilling winds, was hung and lashed, bleeding and broken.

Only when Lola relented, agreeing to marry the steward, was the old man let down...

...

Winter lingered coldly in the castle, where mountain winds mournfully howled.

Locke wrapped himself tightly in a woolen blanket, cushioned by a thick layer of straw and chaff.

In his sleep, he dreamt of breaching Sige Town, earning Baron Hass’s favor and wealth, assisting old man Richard to repay those five silver coins, winning Lola’s admiration, and seizing four or five beautiful country girls to be his wives and bear his children.

Until his companion shook him awake, urgently calling his name.

Locke, bleary-eyed, rose from the straw heap, noticing his companion’s fearful, unsettled face continually pointing toward the outside of the castle.

Snap!

A hand reached up from below, fingers tightly gripping the battlement.

Locke jolted awake, sleepiness completely dispelled!

That was a five- to almost six-meter-high wall!

Where did that hand come from on the outside of the wall?

A mountain ghost? Or some spirit?

Legends of evil demons he had heard since childhood created a storm in his mind.

Only after the owner of the hand agilely climbed atop the castle wall did Locke realize it was just a young man with a stern expression.

One of his companions immediately recognized the intruder, gripping his weapon and positioning himself to defend the wall, but his hands trembled, too scared to engage.

Because behind that young man, figures nimbly and precisely scaled the wall one after another.

Another companion, overwhelmed with fright, turned and fled, either out of fear or perhaps to report to Baron Hass; he vanished swiftly from sight.

Locke stood up, gazing bewilderedly at these uninvited guests, still not fully awake from his beautiful dream.

Until that young man charged at him with the swiftness of a cheetah, both hands clutching short swords.

In a flash, the three passed by each other and two sprays of blood burst into the air.

Locke felt a chill at his neck.

Touching it, he found a sticky, warm fluid continuously flowing out, and realizing it was his own blood, he lost his ability to think due to oxygen deprivation, and all his awareness seemed to sink back into that beautiful dream from which he had not awoken.