A month had passed since we first implemented our scorched-earth tactics. Fall was coming to an end, and winter was about to begin.
We had decided to split the riders into two forces. One aimed for supply caravans coming from orc territory, and the other aimed for the villages—their lifeline in these lands. Rigel took charge of the caravans, and I took the villages. Giving him the more interesting job was the least I could do.
But Rigel faced a setback even before the first week was over. The wagons used to come a few at a time, but they quickly learned to send several dozen together, armed with powerful guards to defend them from the dragon rider attacks. If he accepted some sacrifices, he would be able to destroy these new larger supply caravans. But dragons and riders were too valuable and too hard to replace; I wasn’t going to waste them like that. I ordered him to only attack caravans that were lightly guarded.
Meanwhile, things weren’t going so smoothly with my own unit either. We’d started off using Dragonjaw Gate as our base of operations. It was closer to the other side of the mountains, which saved us the trouble of the long crossing. Unfortunately, by the second day, we had already burned through every village within a day’s flight. The area had already been plundered dry by the subjugation forces, and there hadn’t been any important villages left anyway.
If we wanted to make further impact, we would have to encroach deeper into orc territory, but that was out of the question. If the orc forces attacked us while we were close to the ground, even dragon riders stood no chance. To ensure our own safety, we had to fly too high for their bullets to reach.
With little choice in the matter, we were forced to sail over Dragonbone Ridge from other points. Crossing those mountains was surprisingly taxing. We would have to cross before the sun came up, fulfill our objective without rest, and head back before sunset to return to the base. Even though we chose the lowest and most spacious places to cross, most dragons would wind up so tired that they couldn’t fly the next day. Even Veralgon could only keep his attacks up for three days tops.
The riders also quickly became exhausted—except for me, with my enhanced hero’s body. When Veralgon wasn’t available, I would borrow dragons whose riders were resting. Soon, the riders who at first looked at me with respect began to see me as a monster. As time passed, more and more of the riders needed long periods of rest. After a month, the caravan and village teams had only eight riders in working condition between them.
I was crossing the mountains again with three of the valuable eight. Veralgon was resting, so I was riding a dragon with moss-green wings who was my usual alternative. He was a young one, conceived in the last breeding season twelve years ago, and he was quite a bit lighter than Veralgon and far less stable in the turbulence. However, he was docile by nature, so he would fly straight so long as I properly took control, and his youth meant he recovered quickly.
A thick forest spread out southwest of the mountains, then thinned as it was replaced by a wasteland of exposed rock. At times, I would spot a small woodland or a burnt settlement. My plan had succeeded. No villages remained intact anywhere near the mountain ridge. I sent a signal for my colleagues to disperse. The riders watched for one another’s hand signals and got into a search formation. We pressed farther and farther into orc territory.
But as far as we went, it was the same forests and wastelands below. Not a single orc village was left standing. I’d had my eye on a village on my way back the previous day, but it was already burned down by the time I returned to it. Perhaps they packed up their winter stocks and evacuated before we could get to them. But even if they had, I doubted they would set it on fire of their own accord.
When I looked to the sky, I saw the sun had climbed to almost its peak. We would need to cross back by sunset, so it was about time to pull out. I felt we could probably declare this operation complete. We had apparently burned down every village within range. Hardly any of the dragon riders were in any condition to fly, and what’s more, winter was coming. Soon, the turbulence would get even worse. There was no point in persisting.
Once we got back to base, I would bring the operation to a close. It was quite a depressing notion. The orcs were still squatting at the valley’s entrance, despite how hard I’d worked the riders. I was sure they must resent me. Rigel still supported me, but not his subordinates. They wouldn’t go along with my unreasonable demands after this.
The sun finally reached its zenith. It was time.
Just then, the rider to the right of me sent a signal. He had spotted a village. I checked the sun again and calculated the time we had left. We would just barely make it. It would be a bit dangerous, but better than returning with nothing to show for it. I signaled for the spotter to lead the way, and for the other riders to group.
The dragon at the lead had feathers that looked orange from a distance but were actually a vivid array of red and gold. He was definitely the most accomplished of the bunch. His rider was called Kyel, as I recalled. He was the youngest dragon rider and Rigel’s one and only grandson. His colleagues had dropped out one after another, but he was still in flying condition, probably thanks to his youth. While his first flight over the mountains had been a rough one, he was now more stable than anyone. He had grown commendably. Surely, he would one day become a first-rate rider and even surpass Rigel.
We arrived at the airspace above the village. The dragons spread out, circling overhead. On my signal, the four dragons roared in unison. The orcs fled their houses in a commotion. Once they were fully aware of us, I ordered the attack. The reason I gave them time to evacuate was not an ethical one; it was to create as many refugees as possible. Once they had lost their beds and food for the winter, they would have to seek shelter elsewhere. The farming villages would be unable to accommodate them. They would have no choice but to make the trek to the orc cities where more food was stored. The need to feed these refugees would reduce the supplies that could be provided to the military. Some might even flee to the army for safety. I’d heard reports from Rigel of evacuees sighted heading for the garrisons.
And if instead, the orc statesmen refused to give them food, leaving them to die, that saved me the trouble of killing them.