Chapter 92: The Restless Mercenaries (1)

No matter how joyful Dublin might be, it had nothing to do with the soldiers of Thomond.

Breton and his soldiers continued their struggle against the enemy on this lifeless land.

His army was attempting a direct assault on Shannon Castle. This tall and sturdy fortress, built by the Norsemen in the 10th century, was located at the mouth of the River Shannon.

Muircheartach, the eldest son of the Earl of Thomond, was trapped there. Breton's army had been besieging this castle for over a month with no success.

To the east of Shannon Castle, Bunratty Castle was held by Domhnall, the Earl of Thomond's fourth son. Initially a Viking trading post, it was gradually expanded into a castle surrounded by numerous residents.

The two castles were only five kilometers apart, supporting each other. Whenever Breton tried to besiege one, soldiers from the other would launch attacks on his supply lines.

The only method Breton could think of was a full-on assault.

But the cost of a direct assault was significant.

He watched the distant flames, reflecting on his face like the souls of his soldiers. The siege towers had turned into giant torches, and the soldiers atop them sacrificed their lives as fuel.

"We have failed again." There was no emotion on Breton's face. "Retreat and tally our losses."

Commander Ewan complained, "My soldiers have suffered too many casualties."

As soon as he spoke, he felt a sharp gaze on him. He looked up to see the anger in Breton's eyes. He shrank back, ready to endure Breton's fury.

"What are you saying, Ewan?" Breton's calm tone hid a seething anger.

Ewan lowered his head and remained silent.

To everyone's surprise, Breton did not explode this time but left directly.

The officers began to gather their troops. The soldiers, retreating from the battlefield, were visibly demoralized, and the burning siege towers gradually collapsed.

They were all relieved that they had retreated quickly enough; otherwise, they might have perished beneath the walls.

In previous battles, they had been nearly invincible, especially in open field engagements. But now, faced with towering walls, they were helpless.

The siege towers, which had taken days to build, had turned into smoldering ruins, their burning embers flickering in the wind like their morale.

"The situation is really bad," Ewan said as he walked among his soldiers.

His adjutant nodded in agreement with Ewan's assessment.

Ewan's regiment had been deployed to the front line in the battle, suffering the heaviest casualties. His unit now had nearly four hundred men, but more than fifty were killed or wounded in the recent fighting, rendering the entire regiment nearly combat-ineffective.

Ewan knew that the burned soldiers would barely cling to life in the coming days.

"He's not going to make it, young man," Ewan knelt and told one of his soldiers. "Your friend's burns are too severe; keeping him alive will only add to his suffering."

The soldier, holding his wounded comrade, remained silent, weeping quietly.

The entire regiment was in a similar state, dead inside. Once the proudest unit, their morale had been shattered.

Ewan stood up and spoke to his adjutant, "Drogon should still be in Lancaster, right?"

The adjutant nodded, "Yes, but his position is appointed by His Highness. We have no authority to change that."

"Go talk to the general," Ewan sighed. "Bailey wasn't like this before. He's become increasingly difficult. Indeed, once someone gains power, they change."

Such sentiments were ones many dared not express.

Those Bretons who had initially fought alongside Breton now clearly sensed his transformation.

Their once compassionate leader had become cold and ruthless, focusing solely on his goals, viewing his soldiers as expendable pawns.

Ewan could see no admiration for Breton in these soldiers' eyes.

"Look at these soldiers; they're like cattle, driven to the battlefield to fight. It's truly pitiful," Ewan said with a tone filled with compassion.

If Breton heard these words, he would undoubtedly be furious.

But even without hearing them, Breton was already quite angry.

"We previously attempted to locate their sewers, but after wasting a week, we achieved nothing. Now, with the attempt to storm the castle, they have their own methods to repel us. If His Highness finds out, our heads will roll!" Breton spoke to the officers walking beside him.

"How much food do we have left?" Breton asked the Flanders logistics officer.

The logistics officer responded, "We can supply for five more days; after that, it depends on what the foraging teams can bring in."

The foraging teams' yields were a joke at this point.

The land had turned into scorched earth, making it impossible to gather food. Additionally, there were constant raids by the garrison from Bunratty Castle, putting immense pressure on Breton's foraging teams.

If their harvests could sustain the army, Breton wouldn't be so worried.

He turned to the officers behind him, "Order all regiment commanders: no rest tomorrow, continue preparing for the assault. The same goes for the day after. If we still haven't made progress by then, we will temporarily retreat and abandon the siege."

Anger hadn't clouded his judgment.

Assaulting the castle was a last resort. If it failed, the blame wouldn't fall on Breton.

At least he tried.

The officers nodded, eager to move on as well.

These two castles were heavily fortified, with rugged terrain and determined defenders. Breton believed even John would struggle here.

"But General, the soldiers' morale is already wavering. I heard from the accompanying troubadour that there is growing discontent among the troops," an intelligence officer reported, shocking Breton.

He stopped, standing tall with curiosity etched on his face, "Tell me, what are their grievances?"

"The soldiers say you've been possessed by a demon," the intelligence officer hesitated, fearing Breton's reaction.

To his surprise, Breton merely shrugged, "Let them say what they want."