Horizon of War [Kingdom Building, No Harem, No LIT]

Chapter 151

White Gold

 

Great Plains of Lowlandia, the Previous Night

The three carts moved slowly through the night; their journey was bumpy as they could only rely on the horses' instincts and the faint glow of the stars. Without a lantern, it was hard to see, but they continued in darkness to hide from the mercenaries they no longer wished to employ.

"Do you hear anything?" asked the man in brigandine.

"No," replied his lieutenant from the back, "and I doubt they could chase us."

The coachman shifted in his seat and asked, "Can I risk a light?"

"You better, or we might lose the other carts if this goes on much longer."

Hearing this, the coachman lifted the cover of his trusted lantern, casting a gentle glow a few steps in front of the horse. Seeing the light, the two other carts followed suit.

"Why are there only two? Where's the rest?" the leader asked, squinting into the darkness.

"I see nothing," said the lieutenant.

"Damn it, someone is feeling mercenary," the leader chuckled.

"Must be Old Osric; he hated your guts, and his cart is still laden with grain, wine, and salted meat," the coachman said.

The leader turned to the lieutenant at the back of the cart. The man grumbled, "I'm not blind. I put my brother on that cart to prevent this. I doubt they'll go rogue on me."

"Right," the leader muttered, "let's signal them to come closer. We'll soon find out who betrayed us."

Using their lanterns to signal, they managed to attract the attention of the other two carts. As they drew closer, the Midlandians shouted friendly insults before addressing the important issue: "Who's not with us?"

"No idea. I can’t see shit," came a distinct raspy voice.

"Is that you, Osric?" the coachman asked urgently.

"Yes. Why the tone? You missed me already?" Osric answered as he pulled his cart alongside the coachman's.

Laughter erupted, followed by another round of friendly insults.

"It's not him," the leader said, looking at the lieutenant as all the carts came to a stop.

The man's expression was sharp. "I find it hard to believe that my own men would betray me—"

Suddenly, the short man known as their scout rose from atop a cart. He surveyed his surroundings before jumping down, almost tumbling, and then knelt to put his ear to the ground.

Everyone fell silent; even the coachman soothed the horse to keep it calm.

The leader leaned out from the cart and whispered, "What do you hear?"

"Horses," he said, turning to face the leader. "A lot of horses."

"Kill the lantern," the leader instructed without hesitation.

The coachman closed the metal cover, but the leader repeated firmly, "Kill the flame."

At the back, the lieutenant jumped down and grabbed his spear; his men and those from the other cart followed suit.

"Do you think this is a good idea?" the leader asked.

"Carts and horses are squeaky," the man answered while flexing his broad shoulders.

"Then we better send one to distract them."

Under the stars, the lieutenant gazed at the leader and could faintly see his grin. "I assume you want to unload the goods first?"

Despite the tension, the leader's voice was clear. "Certainly. Now make haste."

The lieutenant directed his men, and they began to unload the third cart because Old Osric wouldn't surrender his.

...

 

Under the cloak of night, the smugglers huddled together, their calm breaths masking their nervousness. The only sound heard was that of horses pulling an empty cart away, its lightened load quickening its pace into the darkened plains.

A faint glow appeared in the distance, resembling fireflies. As the light multiplied, it became clear that these were approaching torches and lanterns. Soon, the clatter of horse hooves could be heard and felt. Tension surged as each man's eyes darted through the darkness, bracing for the worst.

"Easy, men, they can't see us," the lieutenant whispered, attempting to reassure his anxious men.

Nearby, the coachman and the leader had coaxed their horse to lie down to minimize its silhouette, the animal gratefully sinking into its brief respite.

As the sound of hooves intensified, fear rippled through the smugglers, their hands instinctively reaching for their weapons. But just as the sound reached its peak, it began to fade, the hooves' clamor diminishing as if moving in another direction.

Relief washed over the smugglers, their tension easing into chuckles of disbelief. "They're gone," one whispered, hardly believing their luck.

Meanwhile, the scout rose and walked a short distance before kneeling to press his ear against the ground.

The leader followed, whispering urgently, "Where are they headed?"

Pointing, the scout replied, "That direction. Tailing the empty cart."

"Then we should go the other way," the leader decided lightly.

"Wait," the scout interjected sharply. "Something is moving."

Silence fell abruptly across the group. "Footsteps?!" the scout blurted out, his voice tense.

Suddenly, the cart squeaked loudly, burdened with extra weight. Spinning around, the smugglers saw a tall figure shrouded in shadows. "We've got you all surrounded, brigands," a distinct voice teased, fearless and mocking.

Before they could react, their horses, spooked by the figure's scent, reared up, nearly breaking free. The lieutenant and several men, spears in hand, rushed toward the cart, but the shadowy figure leaped away and unexpectedly struck down the lieutenant with a crashing, murderous pounce.

The attack was over in a heartbeat; the lieutenant lay unconscious, bleeding profusely from a severe head wound, as the creature disappeared from sight.

"He got the lieutenant!" one smuggler shouted, his warning quickly drowned out by a sudden beam of light that illuminated the area.

The eerie white light from above revealed the smugglers, their carts and horses, and the mysterious wolf-like creature, along with the tightening circle of footmen who had them surrounded. Then, a tall man in a blue surcoat stepped forward, sword drawn. "On behalf of the Lord of Korelia and the Lady of Korimor, drop your weapons."

The announcement threw the smugglers into a panic.

The man, likely a champion by his bearings, continued, "One way or another, you're going to drop your weapons. Make your choice now!"

Amid the chaos, the smugglers split into four groups; one group charged at the lone man, two others ran to their left and right, and the remaining simply froze.

With unflinching resolve, the Lord's champion faced them. He walked slowly to the right, cleverly frustrating the assailant's approach. Most fighters are trained only to use their dominant hand, and this simple maneuver forced them to either change their approach or risk an awkward angle.

The first one, the bravest of the four, planted his feet firmly, leaned forward, and swung his sword in a wide arc. It was a battle-tested slash, yet the champion had anticipated this and sidestepped with ease before launching a quick riposte that nicked the man's cheek, sending him reeling to the side, thrown off balance by his own momentum.

The second one adjusted his stance and, from a close middle guard, launched a thrust.

Like a blur, the Lord's champion parried the thrust. Caught off balance by his hasty attack, the assailant was slow to follow up. The champion didn’t waste time, skillfully diverting their swords before delivering a hard kick that sent him staggering nearly to the ground.

Approaching with good form but filled with dread, the third assailant began his attack. The champion swiftly dodged and delivered a merciless counterstrike to the arm. The victim screamed, rolling on the floor and clutching the stump below his elbow where his wrist had been.

Even amidst the melee, the Lord's men had swiftly moved to secure the first, second, and then the third assailants. Meanwhile, the Lord's champion calmly observed the fourth assailant, who approached cautiously.

"I noticed your accent. Your name, Sir?" the approaching man asked.

"Harold, son of Midlandia and Knight of Korelia. And you are?" Harold replied, maintaining a confident middle guard.

"It’s an honor to fight a fellow Midlandian," the man declared under the white light from above. "My name is—" His introduction was cut short as he lunged forward aggressively.

Sir Harold reacted swiftly. His blade met the attacker's with a sharp clang. The two moved like shadows, trading blows under the white light, their steps and swings honed by years of experience. Feints and misdirection were employed by both sides.

The distance between them closed rapidly, almost as if they were grappling. But the attacker, seeking an advantage, slipped his left hand to his belt and drew out a dagger, attempting to slash at the knight’s limbs. The move was stealthy, yet the man ended up being blown to the side, with a cut across his torso that tore through his ringmail and broke the rivets on impact.

Sir Harold stared at the man, now on the ground clutching his dagger, and shook his head. "You should trust the sword form."

Still fueled by adrenaline, the man replied, "I can't match you with the sword, thought I could slip one in."

"Your weak block gave me the opening I needed," Sir Harold stated.

The man chuckled breathlessly, "Enough lecture. What will happen to me?"

"A pity that you have shown no honor," Sir Harold said, referring to the man's failure to give his name. "You still have your dagger," he added grimly. "Or you can wait for the nomads. They might pity you."

From the side, the wolf-like creature dragged two unconscious men, one in each hand, declaring, "We’ve captured everyone."

 

***

 

Present Day, Korimor

One day after their arrival, the Lord and Lady held their first council meeting. Almost every high member of the staff attended, sitting in a circle around a heavy oak table. High windows let in the stern morning light, bathing the room in a soft glow and creating a pleasant ambiance.

Outside, music played by the accompanying minstrels, albeit faintly heard, lent the atmosphere a light and cheerful air.

The staff had reported on the recent events in Korimor and the extent of the damage to the city. Seated at the head of the table, Lord Lansius, who had perused the documents, noted the severe depletion of their barley stores. "I'm glad we stocked up on wine in Three Hills," he commented to the baroness, who nodded in agreement.

"The wine was inexpensive in Three Hills and went unused in the Umberland campaign," the Lady explained to the staff.

"Wine can substitute for ale; it will suffice," Sir Omin remarked.

Lansius glanced at his former foe, recalling reports of his diligent work for their cause. He turned to Sir Michael, handsome despite an eye patch, also a former enemy. "Sir Michael," he began, "Have you completed your investigations?"

"I have, My Lord. From the brigands we captured, we've identified the Nicopolan brigands, the Midlandian smugglers, and their ringleaders. Someone named Osric has cooperated and testified. Their fate now awaits your decision."

"I'll deliver the verdict, but first, I heard about their plans to profit from our barley shortage. Did you find anything about that?" the Lord asked.

"Indeed, My Lord. We have learned about a knight unwittingly entangled in their schemes. His land is two days north from Korimor."

The Lord sat back, relaxed, and asked, "Do you believe we can purchase his barley?"

"Absolutely, if the Lord and Lady agree, I'll set off to make trade arrangements after this meeting," Sir Michael offered readily.

Lord Lansius glanced at the Lady, who nodded, thus concluding the discussion on the barley shortage.

"May I present you with another case," Sir Omin diligently suggested. "The ringleader's crimes of smuggling, attacking the city, and setting arson to the city's storage are grievous. Under normal circumstances, his punishment would be painful and public. However, in light of Lady Audrey's pregnancy, I propose commuting this death sentence to hard labor."

Lord Lansius looked indifferent. "I was thinking of freeing the small folk—pickpockets, poor thieves who stole food, not smugglers."

"Not all hard labor is equal, My Lord," Sir Omin replied.

"Explain," urged the Lord.

"There is a cave in Korimor," Sir Omin began, "a place where bats have lived for centuries, undisturbed. Within it lies the secret to Korimor's expanding fertile lands—"

"Bat dung," the Lord quipped, earning glances from everyone.

Sir Omin offered a stiff smile. "My Lord, are you aware of guano's effect on the soil?"

"I'm aware of its properties as a fertilizer. However, I was not aware that Korimor possessed such a cave."

The answer made Sir Omin appear excited. "I have been exploiting it carefully since I came into power, but even with high pay, the workers are reluctant to work there. So what we could gain has been far from enough. However, I am convinced of its effects."

The Lord nodded and turned to the Lady, who commented, "If it's hard labor, then I guess it's justifiable to send them to harvest these bat droppings." She then suddenly belched and covered her mouth with her hand.

"Let's move on from this subject," Sir Omin suggested.

"One thing," the Lord said. "If it's hard labor, then please recommend a fitting length of service. Not too long, or else they might attempt suicide; not too short either, lest they take us lightly."

"Ten years—"

"I'm against it," Sir Harold spoke up for the first time, addressing the council. "Ten years is too short for such heinous crimes of attacking and arson of the city's storage."

Gazing at the tall knight, Sir Omin said, "Then how about fifteen years? I assure you, the cave is filled with peril. The air within can turn foul, and the miasma can cause a healthy man to faint. There have been sudden, unexplained deaths among those who have dared its depths for too long."

"Is the situation that bad...?" the knight asked, pausing as he reconsidered his stance.

"The years won’t matter much. Most likely, they'll die before ten years, except for the few lucky ones. Those who worked there before only lasted three years and then gave up."

Lord Lansius, without showing any reaction, asked, "What about the Nicopolan brigands associated with them?"

"I suggest giving the same sentences. The cave is vast, and we can either have them collect guano in different sections or alternate their schedules for work and rest," Omin explained.

Lord Lansius nodded slowly, his eyes sharp as he surveyed the rest of his staff—Sir Hugo, Dietrich, Sterling, Roger, and Carla. Only Farkas and Ingrid were not present, as they were attached to the rear guard, which was still escorting the rest of the supply train. Meanwhile, Francisca and Hans, the airship pilot, were not part of the council.

Finding no one voiced disagreement, Lord Lansius said, "My Lady, I hereby suggest punishing the ringleader with fifteen years of hard labor in the cave. The Midlandians that accompanied them should serve ten years, and the Nicopolans, seven years."

The Lady gazed at their retinue and declared, "I support the ruling."

Sir Omin, once again taking on the role of administrator, said, "Now, with that matter decided, let's move forward with my petition: a stone bridge to ease the movement of people across the river north of the city."

"What's wrong with the boats?" Sterling commented.

"Nothing wrong with the boats, but they're slow and can't handle heavy loads," Sir Michael answered.

Sir Omin continued, "Despite its cost, we believe this project will open up the fertile lands north of the city. It will allow the city to establish more farms. With sturdy stone bridges, even oxen-pulled carts could move with ease."

"It will allow the city to expand beyond the river," the Lord mused aloud.

"Indeed, My Lord."

"Then please make the estimates for both wooden and stone bridges, whether wide or narrow. I'll review them. Also," the Lord glanced at Sterling, who was keeping records on this occasion, "remind me to address this issue in Korelia."

Afterward, there was a lull that Sir Hugo used to cough and gather their attention.

"Yes, Sir Hugo. Do you have a petition, or are you asking for your reward?" Lady Audrey motioned.

"The reward can come later, My Lady. I have a request for this council to select a new steward for Korimor. I am injured and would prefer to recuperate in peace."

"I heard you wanted to recuperate in Umberland," Sir Omin quickly retorted, drawing all eyes to them. "Under the soft embrace of a half-breed."

"Well, that can't hurt," Hugo admitted.

The council room buzzed with lively murmurs, discussing such a turn of events. Dietrich was slapping Hugo's back in support, while Sterling openly ridiculed the man.

"But you are betrothed. Your future wife is waiting in Korelia," the Lord criticized.

Hugo couldn't respond, and it was the Lady who tapped the Lord's hand, saying, "I'll handle the wife. She's a valued member of the community, and I can persuade her that there are better knights for suitors."

"Why are you supporting him?" the Lord asked.

"I'm not. It's just that from the nuanced whispers I've heard from the servants, I feel that the marriage isn't going to work," she explained with a sigh.

"It is as the Lady has said," Hugo admitted, his voice filled with guilt. "She's probably too good for me. I feel guilty towards Sir Callahan. I'll take this leave as penance and retreat to the Umberland mountains."

"How preposterous," the Lord said, frowning as he massaged his forehead. "You could cause a diplomatic row if you end up harming one. We're not even sure about the half-breed's traditions."

"Then, I'll be the correct man to learn about the tradition from the inside," Sir Hugo argued.

Lord Lansius chuckled at the absurdity but took a deep breath and gazed at Sir Harold. "You know more about this than I do. So, please advise the council."

"I'll consult with Francisca. But in truth, it's the same request that she made of us. I believe we can request the same from them."

"But I doubt Sir Hugo is as benevolent as Francisca," Sir Omin teased.

The Lord exhaled deeply as he sank back into his cushioned chair. He saw the Lady glance at him and said, "Let's take a break and accompany me for a walk."

...

 

Lansius

They arrived at the garden adjacent to the courtyard, and their entourage quickly spread out to give them privacy. Only Carla and Sterling followed at a distance.

"Who do you think is best to lead Korimor?" Lansius began as they walked through rows of medicinal herbs and plants, common in such gardens.

"Ideally, it would be Dame Daniella, but since she's occupied..." Audrey pondered. "Sir Michael seems more than capable."

Lansius mulled over his options. "But Sir Michael also has duties in Korelia, preparing for Lord Robert’s residence. So, he’s out of the picture."

"Then it should be Dietrich, accompanied by Roger," she suggested.

"That's what I was also thinking," he agreed.

Audrey gazed at him, grabbed his hand, pulled him closer, and whispered, "What's the matter? I doubt you can't discuss this inside the council room."

Lansius did not answer immediately but pondered before responding, "Calub’s words in the letter about Midlandia made me think about our situation."

"About what, exactly?" she asked gently.

"Most of our key personnel, including our staff, are Midlandians," he remarked. "The Marshal, Sir Justin, is arguably a mercenary. Moreover, his wife and son are in Midlandia. Sir Harold, the leader of the knights, was originally sent to us by Lord Bengrieve. Meanwhile, Calub... he's a henchman, just like us."

Audrey couldn't refute that fact and nodded lightly.

"Now that we're not at war, we have the opportunity we need to promote non-Midlandians as a safeguard." He continued, "Originally, I had Sir Callahan to rely on, but he's gone, and now I need someone else."

Audrey’s eyes wandered briefly as she gathered her thoughts. "Dame Daniella is Nicopolan, Farkas is too inexperienced. Your best bet is calling Sigmund."

"No, he's needed to handle South Hill. It'll be his proving ground."

The two arrived at a corner underneath a willow tree. After a long pause, Audrey said, "You know, even after what happened at the mountain pass, I believe the rest of our staff are loyal."

Lansius nodded in agreement. "I simply wish to avoid surprises."

Audrey glanced at him and quipped, "And what about me? Have you forgotten that Lord Bengrieve is the one who gave me my name?"

Lansius chuckled, the gentle rustle of the willow’s weeping branches blending with the soft, cool breeze that caressed the space around them. "If you betray me, I have little reason to live."

Audrey's face turned smug, seemingly enjoying his word. "Do you think a succession crisis will bring Lord Bengrieve down?"

"A calculative man like him? Unlikely..." Lansius mused. "He probably even predicted this crisis."

"Even this is still within my plans," Audrey quipped, recalling how Sir Stan used to mimic their master. This prompted Lansius to let out a smile and say, "When you're feeling better and the rear guard has arrived, let's head back to Korelia."

The mention of the city made her eyes glitter. "I can't wait to see the new buildings. They say there are baths, a new bakery, and—"

"I see your appetite remains unchanged," he quipped. Noticing her raised eyebrow, he added, "Which is certainly good, of course."

That answer earned him a broad, confident smile from her. Her brown hair fluttered gently as the wind picked up speed. The willow's branches swayed dramatically as if heralding a change in the air.

 

***