In all his long life, the Holy Paladin Grandmaster Gideon had never experienced a campaign that was filled with so much... bad luck.
It was like the crusade was cursed from the very beginning.
No one died, but it was simply too damn annoying.
Nothing was going as planned.
First, on the first day of marching, a scorching heatwave, unnatural for the season, descended upon the army. The sun beat down on them with a merciless intensity, the heat shimmering off the metal armor.
It didn't cause men to collapse, but it sure did make them sweat like pigs. Water consumption skyrocketed, and the soldiers were already exhausted just from six hours of marching.
Second, immediately after the heatwave ended, a sudden, violent sandstorm, seemingly from out of nowhere, swept across the plains, turning day into night. The wind howled like a pack of starving wolves, pelting the army with a barrage of stinging sand and sharp debris.
The holy paladins endured, their faith a shield against the elements, but since they were sweating buckets before, when the sand started to fly, it got everywhere, inside their armor, in their eyes, in their mouths. The march was forced to a halt for half a day to allow the men to clean themselves and their equipment.
I mean, how the hell can you march in heavy armor when your back is itching like crazy?
Third, after the sandstorm passed, the army got a moment of respite, but that hope was quickly shattered when they came across a river, the only source of fresh water for miles, only to find it polluted.
The water was brown and foul-smelling, with dead fish floating on the surface, their bodies covered in strange, pulsating growths.
The water was undrinkable. The army had to rely on its limited supply of purified water, rations were cut, and the men were becoming increasingly desperate.
Fourth, in the night while they were sleeping, a sudden wailing started echoing across the plains.
A high-pitched, mournful wail, like the cries of a thousand grieving women.
It came from all directions at once, a disorienting, terrifying cacophony that made it impossible to sleep.
The men were on edge, their nerves frayed, their hands trembling on their swords. No one could rest. The inquisitors did their best to calm the men, but their words were lost in the endless wailing. It was psychological warfare, pure and simple.
Fifth, half of their water and food supplies spoiled overnight.
It was a quiet, insidious disaster. They didn't realize it until the morning, when the cooks went to prepare the morning meal and found the bread moldy, the meat rotten, and the water clouded and smelled of decay.
Gideon was furious. He had the quartermaster flogged, the guards punished, but he knew it wasn't their fault. This was something else. Something... unnatural.
And the final nail in the coffin... the last straw, what finally made Gideon's cold blood boil, happened at the dawn of the fourth day.
He woke up to screams, men running around in panic, some of them even crying.
He rushed out of his command tent, his golden armor already on, to see what was happening.
What he saw was a scene of utter chaos and panic.
The horses. All of their warhorses, hundreds of them, were dead.
Lying on the ground, their bodies twisted at unnatural angles, their eyes wide with terror.
They weren't killed by a predator or a disease. Their hearts had simply... stopped.
The knights and paladins were in shock, their faces pale with disbelief. A warhorse was more than just a mount; it was a partner, a brother in arms. Losing one was like losing a limb. Losing all of them was a catastrophe.
This was not bad luck. This was a curse.
A deliberate, targeted act of sabotage.
"My lord!" a scout yelled, running towards him, his face ashen. "We found this... nailed to a tree at the edge of the camp."
In his hand was a piece of parchment. It was a drawing. A drawing of a raven. A three-eyed raven.
Gideon's face darkened. The same raven that Leonardo had mentioned. The same one he had seen himself, watching the camp from a distance, its eyes filled with a malevolent intelligence.
He was being toyed with. The enemy wasn't just some random monster or a rogue elf. It was a powerful, intelligent entity that was enjoying its suffering.
"Find it!" Gideon roared, his voice filled with rage. "Find that accursed bird and bring it to me! ALIVE!"
The soldiers scrambled, their fear momentarily forgotten, replaced by a desire for vengeance. They searched the camp and the surrounding area, but there was no sign of the raven. It was gone.
Gideon stood in the middle of the chaos, his hands clenched into fists, his golden eyes burning with a cold, hard fury.
He was a patient man. A cautious man. But he was not a man who could be made a fool of.
After calming himself, he turned to his second-in-command, asking,
"How much further to the designated location for the first base?"
"Two days, my lord," the man replied, his voice grim. "If we march at a good pace."
"And the supplies?" Gideon asked, his gaze sweeping over the camp, at the tired, thirsty, and demoralized men.
"We have enough for three days," the commander said. "Four, if we stretch the rations. But without the horses, our speed is severely reduced. The siege equipment... it will take us at least five days to get there."
Gideon cursed under his breath. He was in a race against time. He needed to establish a defensible position before the enemy decided to launch a full-scale attack.
"Send a few riders to the portal," he ordered. "Have them bring back a fresh supply of food and water. Tell them to hurry."
"Riders, my lord?" the commander asked, a hint of confusion in his voice. "But... our horses..."
"We still have a few riding horses for the scouts and messengers," Gideon corrected himself, his annoyance growing. "Use them. NOW."
The commander nodded and rushed to carry out the order.
Gideon looked back at the dead warhorses, a cold, hard certainty settling in his heart. This was a message. A warning.
But he would not be intimidated. He was the Holy Paladin Grandmaster. The chosen champion of Uriel. He had faced down demons, necromancers, and entire armies of heretics. He would not be cowed by a mysterious entity and its pet bird.
He was about to say something else, but he stopped, a thoughtful expression on his face.
"My lord, what's wrong?" the commander asked, noticing the change in Gideon's demeanor.
"This entity... this goddess..." Gideon said, his voice low and thoughtful. "She is powerful, yes. But her methods... They are subtle. Curses, sabotage, psychological warfare. She is not fighting like a warrior. She is fighting like a... trickster."
"So?"
"So..." Gideon's eyes narrowed, a glint of understanding in them. "She is not all-powerful. If she were, she would have just destroyed us with a wave of her hand. But she didn't. She is trying to wear us down, to break our morale before the real fight even begins. Which means... She has weaknesses. And we are going to find them."
Gideon turned to his commander, a renewed sense of purpose in his golden eyes.
"Send an advance party to secure the location. Our best men. Tell them to leave at once. I want that location fortified and ready for our arrival by the end of the third day."
"As you wish, my lord," the commander said, bowing his head.
Gideon watched as the commander relayed the order, a small, satisfied smile on his face. The enemy had made a mistake. She had shown him her hand. She had revealed her strategy. And now, he knew how to counter it.
He would not be intimidated. He would not be broken.
He would win this war.
And he would make that goddess regret the day she decided to challenge the might of Vandor.
...
Meanwhile, the goddess in question was laughing her ass off.
"BWAHAHAHA! OH, THIS IS TOO MUCH!" Morgana roared with laughter, clutching her stomach as she watched the scene unfold in the illusionary window. She was sitting on her throne in the holy temple, her twin sister Vicky sitting next to her, a wide, predatory grin on her face.
"Messing with them is more fun than I thought it would be," Vicky said, her red eyes gleaming with amusement. "The old man's face when he saw all the dead horses... priceless."
"You see?" Morgana said, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye. "This is how you break an army. You don't just kill them. You break their spirit. You make them doubt. You make them afraid. You make them... miserable."
She took a sip of her wine, a thoughtful expression on her face.
"That man, Gideon, is a smart old coot," she said. "He's figured out that I'm not going for a direct confrontation. He thinks I'm a trickster, playing games. Which is exactly what I want him to think."
"So what's the next move, sister?" Vicky asked, her curiosity piqued. "More bad weather? Spoil more food?"
"No," Morgana said, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "It's time to escalate things. It's time to introduce them to... my holy knights."