An endless line stretched outside the city. Mounted patrols galloped back and forth on both sides to maintain order. Infantry stood every few dozen paces, one or two men responsible for keeping order and checking suspicious individuals.
It was said that earlier some southern pirates had disguised themselves as refugees and entered the city, using covered wagons to secretly carry plague-infected rats in an attempt to poison the water sources and warehouses. Fortunately, some mages had seen through the vile bastards' plot and captured them on the spot.
But the incident had also put the northern regions on alert. They no longer accepted southern refugees without any precautions.
Shalulu and the other Shepherd believers did not stand out much in this long queue.
After all, Estalia was an extremely open and tolerant land. High Elves from Athel Loren and the New World, Kislevite Cossacks, Dwarfen rangers, Imperial travelers and exiled nobles, and so on.
There were also Shepherd believers, vampires, silver-faced skeletal envoys from the Nehekharan dynasties, and even travelers from distant Cathay and Ind tiger warriors.
Although most of them gathered mainly in the two great southern and northern cities of Magritta and Bilbali, quite a few were scattered elsewhere. When the warboss Gorkmork the Flying Dragon launched his great cross-sea Waaaaagh, they began withdrawing northward, especially since the southern war situation was clearly unfavorable for humans.
No one would entrust their lives and property to treacherous and fickle pirates or savage and brutal greenskins.
The ratmen had not yet revealed themselves directly. Their appearance was only scattered information from various places and had not appeared on the battlefield in large numbers.
After all, one hundred and fifty years had passed since the Great War. For humans that was already two or nearly three generations. The Skaven race — which had once nearly destroyed the entire Southern Kingdoms and served as the best auxiliary force for the Chaos side in the End Times — had fled to Lustria after the Lizardmen's extinction more than a hundred years ago.
In the Old World, the existence of ratmen had almost completely vanished. Except for colonial explorers, very few people paid any attention to them.
Skaven ratmen?
A branch of beastmen?
Who cares about that stuff!
Better to look at Marienburg's famous idol singer and dancer star: Miss Ranja today's meal, my friends.
The large and small bundles carried by Shalulu and the others drew a little attention from the mounted patrols, but they had made full preparations. Everything they carried had been checked by the older generation of Shepherd believers — what an ordinary, even somewhat poor Shepherd tribe would have and what it would not.
And Estalia did not pay much attention to this. As long as these beastmen were not saboteurs, that was enough.
For now, they were not.
"Hey! You lot."
A group of cavalry came out from the city of Sahagen and walked toward the end of the crowd, talking with the refugees along the way. When they passed Shalulu's group, they called out.
"Are you refugees?"
Shalulu needed to stay hidden. Besides, a girl who looked only just grown up acting as speaker in a Shepherd believer tribe that valued tradition and wisdom over martial strength seemed a little strange, so her identity was that of an ordinary rabbit girl without parents who had been fostered by a female beastman.
Two quick-witted sheepmen had been arranged in advance to step forward. The huntress remained at the very front, looking back without speaking.
"Sir, we just came out of the forest and plan to move to the city."
"Our tribe encountered monsters. The shaman died. We have to leave, or we will die too."
"We have relatives in the city, but not here — in the south. We originally planned to go south…" The two sheepmen explained to the officer one after another.
The leading man coughed twice, his eyes lighting up. He said in a deep voice, "In that case, we are currently hiring manpower. Let the men of your tribe — and any women willing to go to the battlefield — come with us to the south and join the army to drive out the greenskins."
"Our people will send your old and young into the city and settle them properly. Wages can be paid directly to the tribe. If anyone dies in battle, there will be absolutely generous compensation, notarized by the Goddess's Church, and personally distributed by the priests."
The leading man spoke at length, intending to recruit hands. He addressed not only Shalulu's group but everyone else as well.
However, very few people were moved. Most remained silent and continued walking forward along the line.
The sheepmen politely declined, saying they still needed to go to Bilbali to see if they could find any relatives. The male beastmen could not possibly abandon the tribe and leave.
The man was silent for a moment, then suddenly roared at the line, "Cowards!"
"A bunch of cowards!"
"You abandon your homes, abandon your land and the tombs of your ancestral kings!" He cursed the line of refugees at the top of his lungs. His attendants tried several times to pull him back and persuade him, but it was useless.
Estalians were not known for good tempers. Boos immediately rang out. Someone even mocked the noble-looking man, "And what about you, sir?"
"You ride a horse with attendants behind you — tsk, how impressive! Shouldn't you be charging at the front, using your heroic bearing to inspire us common folk to defend our homes and ancestral tombs?"
Laughter erupted throughout the crowd. No one wanted to be accused and branded as cowards who had abandoned their homes.
Besides, it was already the case. The brave and strong men — farmers, small merchants, craftsmen, fishermen, and men from all kinds of classes — had long ago marched onto the battlefield in hot-blooded fervor. Yet under fanatical but foolish encouragement, most had sacrificed themselves uselessly in the wilderness and on the roads. Only a few managed to approach Magritta.
The refugees had more or less lost relatives and friends who had died at the hands of the greenskins. Did these showy noble merchants still want to accuse them: Was it because women, children, and the elderly like them could not muster the strength and courage of men to defend the land and die at their doorsteps?
The noble man flew into a rage. He drew his sword, pointed it at the speaker, and glared with wide eyes. "Then remember this! I — Frey Sto Jonassen, a city noble from Tolosa (a city west of Magritta that has already been swept away and destroyed by the greenskin horde) — will immediately return south to join the fight against the greenskins, because I hold teachings in my heart and bear glory!"
"Because I cannot sit by and watch the ancestral kings' tombs and the homes of Estalians fall!"
"If necessary, I will seek death on the front line of this glorious war!"
He rode back and forth on the right side of the line, shouting loudly, "My descendants, my offspring will carve the name Frey Sto Jonassen onto shields for people to sing about!"
"And you, my unknown friend, I bless you and hope your days in the north are as you wish. If one day in the future we have driven out the enemy and you hear somewhere that a fool named Frey Jonassen fell in some battle, I hope you will raise a glass for me and tell your descendants that this fool truly did everything he said today standing here outside the walls of Sahagen!"
The man's words gradually shifted from anger to passionate eloquence, stirring hearts. Quite a few men immediately stepped out of the line, ignoring their families' pleas.
"Sir, I will go with you!"
"Count me in!"
"Add me too!"
The noble man's hand gripping the reins trembled with excitement. At this moment he seemed to understand how many great leaders and generals had used rousing speeches to inspire the morale of armies and people, uniting them to fight to the death in dark times.
"Forward to the ancestral kings' tombs!"
He shouted once, ignoring his subordinates, and galloped forward alone. Several attendants had no choice but to stay behind and negotiate with those willing to be hired.
More people still remained silent, because they had already seen and experienced too many such morale-boosting, heart-stirring speeches and calls.
And many young men were just like the men now. Back then they had marched onto the battlefield with the blessings of their families and priests, joining the expedition to support Magritta, and never returned.
In the end, the southern war situation had been ruined precisely because of these many small-scale, passionately overflowing encouragements. Warriors had marched toward Magritta in groups, only to be scattered and wiped out in various places, leaving the situation in ruins to this day.
Morale was important at many times, especially in desperate eras.
But excessive, surplus zeal — what effect did it ultimately have on the battlefield? History had already given the answer countless times.
The passionate souls of the countless chivalrous knights of Bretonnia from the past might never have imagined that one hundred and fifty years after the faith in the Lady of the Lake was exposed, the Great War was won, and Bretonnia fell into division and ideological chaos.
The enthusiasm and faith they had once possessed and been proud of had turned into recklessness and arrogance that devoured countless knights' lives, and now reappeared in the people of their southern neighbor.
Meanwhile, in the Bilbali council chamber, a negotiation that had already dragged on with quarrels and deadlock for a long time was heading toward the edge of collapse.