When the Saintess Arrives, No King Exist

Chapter 1335: Chapter 1253: A Thousand Miles in a Day

The cold spring rain pattered down, as if it were the river being tethered by threads of rain, rather than raindrops raising ripples.

Along the winding riverbanks, there were still patches of snow with blackened edges, every now and then kissed by a sturgeon.

Herring Castle, standing on a vital traffic artery, was wedged in the lingering snow.

Looking up from below the walls, Herring Castle’s black stone ramparts rose about ten meters high, their base overgrown with dark green moss.

At the eastern and western corners, each bulged out a tower that had been converted into a battery, the gun muzzles pitch black, occasionally thundering.

Outside the fortress, in the muddy ground, lay the first wave of Norn regulars who had managed to arrive.

When they set out, they had still been Norn youths full of ardor, eager to defend their homeland; after five weeks of hunger, marching, and killing, they had already turned into bandits.

Those unwilling to become bandits mostly died along the road.

The tents in the mud stood crookedly in a huddle, dark gray wool coats hung to dry on broken spears, spinning with flecks of mud whenever the wind blew.

Nearly a hundred bearded Norn Soldiers, all bearing wounds, trudged back filthy and bedraggled, helping one another and loudly arguing as they walked.

"That fucking excuse for a castle."

"Those townsfolk really have a death wish..."

"Anyone got spare tobacco? I want leaf smoke from the Holy Alliance..."

"Good taste, friend."

"If we still can’t take it, once the walls are down, we gut the men and the women..."

"Shut your mouth!" A sharp rebuke snapped from the rear of the column.

Holy Sect Priest Besorn clutched the "Admonitions of the Pope," brow tightly furrowed: "Still talking like this? If not for you lot, would the townsfolk have revolted? And now you even dare speak of slaughtering the city?"

The soldiers turned their heads, lowered their voices, but still spat into the rain: "Easy for you to talk when you’re not starving. We’re about to die of hunger—what do you expect us to do?"

This was the plain truth; it wasn’t that they were born loving pillage, it was that if they did not pillage, they would starve or freeze to death.

For a moment Besorn did not know what to say, and only let out a sigh.

In the Holy Alliance, such a situation would never have arisen.

Not merely because the Holy Alliance’s politics were clean, but more because its roads were good, its logistics two or three times more efficient than Norn’s.

"Don’t worry. With things like this, the Saint’s Grandson will not sit idly by," Besorn still tried to shore up morale. "Support will arrive soon enough."

"Heh."

The soldiers fell silent; support from the Holy Alliance was at least two thousand miles away.

How were they supposed to support them? Was the Saint’s Grandson going to perform some Divine Art and fly tens of thousands of men over to help?

Don’t make them laugh.

"Then... if you’re hungry again, come to me. I’ll give you my bread."

Hearing Besorn’s words, the soldiers nearby said nothing.

Besorn was not only a Priest sent by the Holy Alliance to aid Norn, he was also a physician of superb skill.

If he starved to death, the death toll in the camp would only grow.

The Norn Soldiers lowered their heads and kicked at clods of mud, staring blankly at the stone walls of Herring Castle, at a loss for what to do.

Had they known, they would have plundered less.

Or better yet, they should have just run—their coming here had been a mistake.

With weather like this, roads like these, and forces scattered like this, how could they possibly breach the fortress in time?

When blame came down later, they would be the ones to suffer!

They might as well desert early and take fewer beatings.

As for vampires? Could they really be more vicious than the lordly masters?

Looking at the silent, frozen soldiers, Besorn let out what felt like his umpteenth sigh of the day.

In the past two days, deserters had already begun to appear in ones and twos; at this rate, these few hundred men might well all slip away.

Holy Father, when will You send Your aid?

Besorn lifted his head, gazing into the dull, leaden sky, praying in silence.

Just as he lowered his eyes, he suddenly felt a flicker at the edge of his vision, as though there were a dark shadow in the clouds.

He wiped his spectacles and looked again, but saw nothing at all.

Still too tired—seeing things that weren’t there. Besorn shook his head and turned to leave.

He had barely walked a few steps when a chorus of shocked cries rose behind him.

"What’s that?"

"How can there be a ship in the sky?"

"The Holy Father has manifested!"

Compared to the chill outside the walls, the pinewood hall inside Herring Castle was warm and cozy.

The hearth burned pine logs, the flames leaping and crackling, the air filled with a pleasant resinous scent.

The place where the Great Monarch of Herring Castle had once held council had been completely seized by the townsfolk.

As for the Great Monarch himself, his head hung from a beam, needles pricking his thighs; his torso’s whereabouts were unknown.

Around the square pine table, two guildmasters and a nobleman sat, both excited and uneasy.

The three of them clustered around the wooden table; on the other side sat a figure in a black cloak—perhaps he could not truly be called human.

Beneath the heavy cloak, the skin showing at his collar was tinged with pale blue and chalk white, a hue only seen on vampire flesh.

Kolinks, a spy from the Royal Court, was the key that had emboldened these three townsmen to rise up—and to succeed.

If Kolinks hadn’t promptly slain the Great Monarch’s guards and forced the remaining Knights to surrender, this would never have gone so smoothly.

"The Norn people’s grain will last them no more than three days," said the bread guildmaster, slicked hair gleaming as he rubbed his hands. "Once the vampire host arrives, we’ll be credited with first merit!"

He patted the stolen copper key at his belt—the key to the City Hall storerooms: "Then, the position of mayor..."

"What are you in such a rush for?" The squat, fat blacksmith guildmaster cut him off at once. "Leave the mayor aside—Captain of the Guard, that should be me. I can forge the finest armor for the vampire lords!"

For the two of them, seizing the city was nothing more than the path to becoming mayor.

Kolinks raised a clay cup and took a sip of hot ale, his lips quirking: "You’ve done well. Once we take Partridge Fortress, my lord will not stint on your rewards."

His voice was soft, yet carried a reassuring strength.

Still, woven into his words was an arrogance and disdain he couldn’t quite suppress.

Those who feed on meat are coarse; likely only he, a noble blood-feeder, was born to rule.

This trip, he had earned colossal merit, single-handedly breaking half of Partridge Fortress.

But was that enough? It was not!

Just Partridge Fortress would never suffice. Besides Partridge Fortress, Cheese Castle also had to fall!

He had studied the defenses: Herring Castle’s fortifications were solid, and it had batteries.

The residents inside and out, after killing the Great Monarch, were united in resolve, determined to pledge their lives to the vampires and never compromise with the Norn people.

Which was only natural—having done what they did, if they let the army in, with the Norn people’s habits, wouldn’t a massacre of the city be inevitable?

So holding this fortress was far from impossible; not many troops could be shifted from nearby.

He had already ordered his subordinate vampire agents in the area to sabotage roads or assassinate key nobles, slowing the advance of the Norn regulars.

All he needed was to hold out for two weeks—until the Royal Court’s host arrived.

Then not only would Herring Castle be his, when Cheese Castle’s walls were stormed, he too would share in the credit.

The only thing worth worrying over was the Holy Alliance.

Not because he feared their support—that was impossible.

His concern was the interference of the Cheka; but the Cheka had not been in Norn long, and thus far Kolinks had yet to meet a truly troublesome foe.

"Enough—now we just wait for the host to arrive..."

Just then, the Knight Cook, who had been dozing by the window, rubbed his eyes and suddenly sprang to his feet.

"Sir Cook, what is it?" the blacksmith guildmaster asked, baffled.

Cook did not answer, only pressed his face hard against the glass.

"What is it?" Kolinks sensed something was wrong, rose as well, and came to the window. Then, like Cook, he froze rigid.

"Look... up there, what is that in the sky?"

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