Iron Blooded Hound-Chapter 44 - : Walls of Sorrow

The strongholds of Morg materialized.

Colossal earthen walls remained all around, spotted with wooden and iron lookouts.

Camu and Vikir were strolling around the post, discussing various stuff.

"The brutes are assaulting the ruby mines and pillaging the local slaves and harvests. They're taking the slaves not to save their own kin, but rather to sell them as slaves somewhere else."

"Exactly. There are numerous brute clans, and they don't think about one another family, so they wouldn't hold back to sell crooks of their own clan or prisoners of different clans into bondage."

"I see, and I'm happy I don't need to address the moronic inquiry of why brutes battle among themselves."

Camu connected and signaled to the mud wall before them.

"These walls were worked by Earth and Iron mages for a month."

The size of the wall was gigantic.

In the event that common individuals had constructed it, it would have required a year, not a month.

It would have taken many men to fabricate it.

Vikir drew nearer to the earthen wall.

Then, at that point, he saw something weird.

There was a matrix of steel radiates implanted in the solidified earth wall, yet they were simply noticeable to Vikir due to the openings in the wall.

The earthen wall was blemished with openings that seemed to be the outer layer of a bread roll.

Many them.

Vikir concentrated on the size of the openings.

They appeared to be around three centimeters in width.

"... ... The characteristics of the Balak."

Vikir's sharp eyes were distinguishing the adversary, the well known brute clan past the Dark Mountains.

Camu gestured.

"The Balak are the most inconvenient. Their bolts convey a strong emanation, and numerous a man has been killed by them while standing watchman around evening time. They can punch through an earthen wall a few meters thick, so do you have the stuff to overcome them?"

"Indeed, even safeguard enchantment won't stop it. They fly so quick."

"Yes. That is the reason my uncle nearly caused himself problems once, quite recently."

The camel grinned.

Quite recently, he said, he'd been killed at while looking for Distraught Ruler Adolf himself.

"I think the bolt penetrated his safeguard, and it cracked him out. He was fortunate to escape with his life, yet his pride probably been wounded."

"On second thought, my master," said Vikir, "you had a comparative encounter, and I heard that you had a scar on the scaffold of your nose."

Vikir recollected the scar on the extension of Hugo's nose.

Injuring Swordmaster Hugo and Class 6 Expert Adolf, Balak's arrow based weaponry was to be sure something to be careful about.

"It appears to be the savages have some ability. Who is it?"

"I believe it's a lady, however she's excessively far away to make out her personality, and they wear dark paint on their countenances, so it's difficult to retain."

Camu surrendered in disturbance.

"Anyway. The Balak are the most threatening, despite the fact that they just number around 300, and the following generally undermining, the Ornate, are multiple times less various."

A warlike clan, the Balak.

They are an itinerant, ravaging, warlike savage individuals who have a place beside the point.

They have been moving for obscure reasons over the most recent seven years, and have come into expanding struggle with Baskerville.

The Morg, who have as of late rented a portion of Baskerville's domain to foster ruby mines, are similarly irritated with Balak.

Camu glanced out over the water on the far off skyline and talked.

"The Morg have their fingers crossed, yet... ... savage attacks are covert to the point that identifying them is difficult. Moreover, we have a hole in our carefulness about one time each month."

"Gaps?"

Vikir asked, and Camu curved an eyebrow.

"The Morg are a matriarchal society, so ladies are predominantly in control. Indeed, even the wizards who stand watch are ladies."

"Yet, what does that have to do with the hole?"

"Indeed, about one time per month, ... ... . Since there's sorcery."

"In any case, you're mages, right?"

Vikir asked, and the camo opened his mouth briefly, then laughed.

"You have somewhat of a moronic side to you, don't you?"

"...?"

"Okay. I like it. Extra focuses for taking care of business' man."

It took Vikir a couple of slaps on the shoulder before he comprehended what the camo implied.

All of a sudden.

"Booyo!"

Somewhere far off, somebody was searching for the camo.

A female wizard hurried to the enclosure and bowed before him.

"The isolation's pursuit party has caught a brute scout alive!"

A detainee had been taken.

* * *

The one being hauled away in ropes was a man with earthy colored skin and dark hair.

From the tattoos on his body, Vikir could figure his clan.

"You're from the shaman clan, Rokoko.

I don't have any idea how he wound up here, yet his destiny is as of now fixed.

Morg Camu.

She confronted her hostage with a fearsome quality.

"Did you get any data?"

The mages adjacent to her flinched.

"We're not talking, for the present."

"And mind enchantment?"

"It doesn't work. The strong spell makes it difficult to peruse their recollections."

The disguise dismissed.

He strolled over and remained before his hostage.

"You struck Morg's fortification once previously and took a few slaves."

"...."

"Among those slaves was a Morg lady. She is my stepsister. She is Rose."

Camu scowled at Extravagant's hostage with singing eyes.

"How did you manage her?"

The hostage's firmly shut mouth gradually opened.

"?????."

At the word, the camo raised an eyebrow.

"Interpretation. Where is the brute returnee?"

Yet, nobody responded to him.

They just looked at one another precariously.

One wizard shouted out contritely.

"They were completely killed or removed when the savages went after, Bad habit Chief."

"Then, at that point, there is nobody to decipher his words?"

"For the occasion, no."

It was an abnormal second.

Everybody had a perplexed look on their countenances.

"I talk somewhat Lavish."

Vikir ventured forward.

Camu gazed at him, wide-looked at.

"You can do that, as well? What are you bad at?"

"Not well overall. I simply know the fundamental jargon."

Vikir remained before Camu.

Camu inquired.

"Ask him where my stepbrother is. The young lady you captured in the last strike. She has red hair, red eyes, and uncommonly white skin. She's around 12 years of age."

Vikir gestured, then went to Extravagant's hostage before him.

"?? ???? ?? ??????"

A short answer returned.

"???"

Vikir's demeanor solidified briefly.

Then, at that point

, he went to the camel and shook his head.

"He's dead."

At that, the essences of all the Morg turned bleak.

He had expected demise when he was seized, yet hearing it was an alternate story.

Then, at that point, Camu ventured forward.

She snarled in a soft tone at her hostage.

"At the point when this war is finished, your language will be the language of agony."

Those were the final words the detainee heard.

Camu said.

"The representative from the Light Party is being dealt with now. The Representative of the Dull Party is presently reviewing the contrary home, and I, Morg Camu, an individual from the Gathering and Delegate Fortressmaster, will make the judgment here."

That was the finish of the outline preliminary.

Also, presently.

With a flick of his hand, Camu attracted a circle of wizardry the air.

Then.

...Poof!

An enormous iron stick grew from the beginning.

The iron components tucked away among the earth components met up and detonated, and the stick that shaped speared Ornate's detainee all at once.

From crotch to crown.

The detainee battled, unfit to try and shout.

He was nailed high hanging out there, pierced on a metal stick.

Blazes started to pop underneath him.

Crackle!

The stick consumes. In a split second, the disguise had consumed Extravagant's hostage to death.

Every one of the slaves who saw it saw it in dread.

It was something very similar with individuals of Funeral home.

Murmur, murmur, murmur, murmur, murmur!

The sound of somebody being speared and charred.

Dark powder dispersed in the breeze alongside the smell of consuming meat.

Before that alarming fire, the camel grinned casually.

"How about we go."

She got Vikir from close to her and they were gone in the blink of an eye.

Everybody around them could gaze after them with a weak feeling of fear.

* * *

In the interim.

Back behind the earthen wall, Vikir was somewhat astounded.

Not that he was shocked to see a man speared alive and consuming.

Vikir had gone through many years moving on the front lines before his return, and had seen a lot of more regrettable.

It was the demeanor on the camo's face that alarmed Vikir.

"... ... Blah, blah, blah!"

The camel had gone to where nobody was near, and presently it was crying.

His face twisted, his eyes red, destroys streaming his pudgy cheeks.

Vikir's mouth was half open in dismay.

Goodness, my God, to see the climate goddess crying.

Obviously, she had seen it when she was eight years of age, however it felt totally different now that she was 15.

'However, I'm as yet 15,' I thought.

In the wake of gazing at the crying camel for some time, Vikir at long last shouted out.

"... ... For what reason would you say you are crying?"

"How could I cry!"

The camel shrieked and searched so that anybody might hear.

Vikir shut his mouth briefly, then opened it once more.

"You probably been extremely near your sibling."

"I was. She was exceptionally defensive of me, a blameless, great kid, not good for Morg."

Subsequent to speaking, Camu crouched against the earthen wall.

They were about a similar level, however some way or another she appeared to be a lot more modest at this point.

Vikir contemplated internally.

"Try not to be so dismal, he probably gone in harmony."

At the point when Vikir offered his abnormal encouraging statements, the camel snapped back.

"Who do you assume you are?"

The inquiry was a combination of outrage and trouble.

Vikir took note.

The camel grasped him.

"I'm a virtuoso. I can't talk, so I can't tune in."

"...."

"Let me know straight. Let me know if I heard right."

Vikir could gesture with a weighty articulation at Camus' words.

Lavish's hostage's final words hadn't been "dead.

"Eaten.

The Rokoko are a clan of shamans and barbarians.

Eating their captives is their custom.

Hearing Vikir's affirmation, Camu started to destroy once more.

"... ... Please accept my apologies. Please accept my apologies I was unable to safeguard you. Please accept my apologies for you."

Camu endlessly cried.

Vikir stopped adjacent to her and stayed quiet.

Shocked that Morg Camu, the sovereign of red and dark, of fire and sticks, would conceal something like this behind her veil.

...What's more, after some time had elapsed.

Camu rose from her seat.

She spotted at her cheeks with her sleeve, cleaning away the dried tears.

She got back to her unique cold articulation.

She took a gander at Vikir, who remained out of the way.

"That wasn't downright horrendous."

"...?"

"I would have killed him assuming he'd shown any feeble compassion."

It was basically impossible that a modest danger from a fifteen-year-old young lady planned to meaningfully affect 100 year-elderly person who'd seen everything, except Vikir gave an inauspicious gesture in any case.

...Whatever.

In some cases it's consoling to simply be there.

Not understanding how to manage a 15-year-old young lady who was crying, remaining still had taken care of this time.

Then, Camu tapped Vikir on the chest.

"No opportunity to grieve, kid. We really want to recuperate and seek retribution at the earliest opportunity."

"...."

"Accompany me. There's something we really want to do together."

The camo not entirely settled.

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