Chapter 1:
The Curse and the White Dragon
IT HAPPENED in the margrave’s city, on the northernmost border.
A cup of Bago tea brewed by a junior officer sat steaming on the table. The chief accountant was about to reach for it, but before he could do so, his nearby subordinate claimed the cup for himself. Nevertheless, the chief said nothing about his subordinate’s lack of courtesy. His assistant was an orc who was earnest beyond compare, and he was apparently quite tired, so the chief accountant only watched silently as he took a sip.
The second he tasted the tea, the accountant winced. It had been brewed extra strong, according to the chief’s preference. As the chief let a laugh slip, the other orc shot him a glare, but his resentment was hardly justified—after all, he had been the one to steal the cup. In any case, the bitter tea was evidently enough to shock him out of his drowsiness, as he quickly returned to work with a grimace.
After asking the junior officer to fetch another cup, the chief returned his attention to the document before him. His logistics department was busier than it had ever been, and there was no time for frivolities.
Chief accountant was a surprisingly important position in the margrave’s army. When the main army had sallied forth on their expedition, he had been granted the position of deputy commander and had stayed behind as the sole high-ranking official in the city. It was his job to oversee everything from logistical support to public order. If, by chance, misfortune befell the supreme commander, the chief accountant and his staff would immediately become the new commanding officers of the army, at which time his duties would shift toward rebuilding the army and defending the margrave’s city from whatever had eliminated the main force.
Fortunately for him, the orc who currently served as chief accountant had never had to shoulder responsibilities of that sort. In fact, if it were to happen now, he would surely die from being overworked. He was already more than occupied with the usual yearly mobilizations, which consisted of about a third of the standing army and the militia (those soldiers who opted to live among the pioneers). This year, they had mobilized all available hands, scraping together every pioneer they could find and sending them north, making for a terrible mess.
On top of that, there’d been an abnormally high number of refugees this year. The humans used their dragons to burn down settlements from the sky, and thus, smoked out of their homes, the pioneers flooded into the margrave’s city seeking beds, food, and safety. The cost of food had shot up in the blink of an eye, while public order fell into disarray just as quickly. To deal with these food shortages, they had been forced to open the doors of the army’s storehouses, which meant that the expeditionary force—which had been on the verge of cornering those accursed humans—had been forced to retreat. Emergency food distribution had been added to the chief’s long list of duties.
If that had been his only responsibility, he could have put up with it. He was working far beyond his pay grade, and he would be the first to call himself a slacker, but he knew his job well. Thankfully, the expeditionary force would return soon, and once that happened, he wouldn’t have to worry about organizing all the supply shipments anymore.
The earnest assistant who had snatched his tea handed him a sheet to look over. A grimace settled on the chief’s face as he took in the words victory celebration.
His understudy looked at him dubiously. “Is something wrong?”
“It’s nothing. Just brought up some unpleasant memories.”
This was certainly his biggest headache. In a normal year, when the pioneer militia dispersed, his only duty would be to pay each settlement for their contribution, but this year was going to be different. This year, they would hold a victory celebration, of all things. All the allied forces would gather in the margrave’s city and parade down the main thoroughfare.
It was not a sensible undertaking. These festivities would do little more than use up supplies they didn’t have to keep the troops fed. In addition to that, they would need to find sleeping arrangements for over fifty thousand soldiers, which was far more than the existing facilities could accommodate. Even if they had them make camp, there weren’t enough empty plots of land for miles around. If they went that route, they would need to flatten farmland—at a time when there was a food shortage, no less—and pay the farmers considerable compensation for it. The chief accountant already had an idea about where he might attempt this, but negotiations were at a standstill. Worst-case scenario, he would need to put the military police to work to get it done.
Even if they overcame the challenges of arranging the victory celebration, the next issue was waiting for the troops. Most of the militia had lost their home villages, so he could no longer send their payments to each village once they had the funds. If he didn’t call off their missions and pay them now, there would definitely be problems to come.
The list of issues went on. Even if they were paid for their services, the militia fighters had nowhere to go. Most would likely join the city’s growing number of refugees. How would they feel once they discovered the paltry amount of bread loaves they could afford with the money they had risked their lives for? They wouldn’t be pleased, that was for sure.
The chief’s stomach churned and ached. He thought back to the resignation form he had filled out the other day. All he had to do was hand it in to the appropriate parties, and that would deliver him from these troubles; yet even now, it remained tucked in a corner of his desk. His health had taken an unfortunate turn as of late, and the days he’d needed to spend bedridden were growing more and more frequent. To top things off, there was no one but him left to give his idiot son a well-deserved kick to the rear.
Considering all that was to come, the chief accountant felt his spirit slipping away.