blueteamnovel Chapter 215: Special Three Thousand
Chapter 215: Special Three Thousand
Chapter 215: Special Three Thousand
Special Three Thousand
Sir Morton
Krakusa was one of the large cities that had fallen into the Lord Shogun's hands. It lacked strategic importance and, as such, didn’t warrant its own garrison. Still, it was one of the oldest cities in Central Midlandia and retained significant economic importance. However, its records and tax revenues resembled a moderately sized city.
This discrepancy baffled the Lord's army of scribes and clerks, prompting Sir Morton to investigate.
As the castle owner had allied himself with the losing Reginald and with his current status unknown, likely having fled to North Midlandia, by the right of reprisal, the castle and city now belonged to the Lord Shogun. Thus, Sir Morton and his men could act as they wanted. They were the extension of the rightful owner of this castle and city.
Without fear, the scribes and clerks attached to them began questioning the castle staff and collecting scrolls and documents. Meanwhile, the Black Knights and a small detachment of SAR formally took command from the guard captains.
Half an hour into their work, the heads of influential houses began assembling in the castle’s great hall, seeking an audience. Sir Morton declined, stating they were occupied, but agreed to admit one person for discussion.
In this situation, a chubby man of about fifty, dressed in a dashing robe, was escorted into Sir Morton’s presence.
"Your city has the most troubling records," Sir Morton began, not giving the man a chance to greet him or take a seat.
"Y-yes?" The old noble muttered.
"That's why the Lord Shogun sent me here. We're taking the bookkeeper and the documents. That’s all. I doubt you have any objections?"
"N-no, Sir," he agreed weakly.
Around them, the scribes had been collecting books, escorted by men in black brigandine armed with intricate-looking crossbows. These men radiated such authority that even the castle guards dared not interfere.
Sir Morton added, "Since I granted you an audience, sending you off with so few words would look bad. So, stay here. Who knows? There might be escalations."
"Escalations, Sir?" His eyes widened.
"Yes. If we uncover anything suspicious, we may need to act further—what the Lord Shogun calls an audit."
The old noble cleared his throat. The term wasn’t used often, but he understood its implications. "And if it comes to an audit?"
"We'll send the troops in and investigate the larders, storage, and vaults to see whether they match the quantities in the records. We'll also check the suppliers and demand that they lend their records for investigation." The Mage Knight glanced sharply. "Do you happen to be one of the suppliers?"
"I am," the man admitted, though his voice lacked conviction. "But those kinds of records—many don’t keep them, and even if they do, most are trade secrets."
"Oh, I’m sure they’ll hand them over peacefully, or..." Sir Morton let the thought hang unfinished.
The old noble sank into his seat, pale and shaken, but Sir Morton offered no sympathy.
He had seen men like this before, corrupt and opportunistic, turning dangerous if given the chance. Just last year in Three Hills, men like him had plotted a bloody coup. He still remembered the face of the dying young guardsman, along with others who were caught in the chaos. Since then, he had ordered his men to visit the guardsman’s mother regularly, delivering some money from Sir Morton's own purse.
The scribes and clerks, trained by the Lord Shogun himself, worked quickly. They already seemed to know what to look for and had begun compiling their assessments.
"Sir Morton," the old noble called.
Sir Morton turned. "Yes?"
The old noble seemed to have regained some of his composure, asking smoothly, "Are you, by chance, the one who’ll become Krakusa’s administrator? If so, we should prepare a feast and celebration—"
Sir Morton laughed. "No one is foolish enough to play those games," he muttered before declaring in a more formal tone, "The Lord Shogun is benevolent. He has decreed that the towns and cities will select their own leaders."
The declaration stunned the old noble. "Surely there’s a mistake. That would let powerful families dominate the city. Wouldn’t it lead to corruption?"
"Corruption?" Sir Morton eyed the chubby man with rare sympathy. "Do you know what kind of punishment the Lord Shogun gives to corrupt officials?"
"I haven’t learned about it," the old noble admitted, bracing himself for grim revelation.
"So did I," Sir Morton quipped unexpectedly, though his tone quickly turned grim. "We simply haven’t encountered one. But I know of a punishment for a lesser crime. It’s called the human torch."
The nobleman shifted uneasily, his chubby face darkening with discomfort.
"The method," Sir Morton continued, "is to tie the condemned upside down to a pole, dressed in thin coarse linen. Their lower body is slathered with cheap tallow because it burns the slowest. Meanwhile, their chest and belly are covered with honey and milk."
The noble’s face twitched, and murmurs rippled through the castle staff who overheard the words.
Noticing them, Sir Morton motioned for the servants and maids to gather closer, offering them a brief respite from their work.
"At night, the fire is lit at the feet, causing unbearable agony. It burns brightly through the night while the condemned, still alive, is swarmed by large insects drawn to the flames and the honey dripping from their body. The insects gnawing at their skin keep the condemned from fainting."
The servants exchanged horrified glances, some covering their mouths, while others shifted nervously.
"The first night usually ends with just the feet or calves burned. The fire is doused by morning, and the nomads feed the condemned milk and water to keep them alive. They even slather honey on the burnt parts to prevent infection. Sometimes, they untie the condemned and lay the person down in a tent to let them rest, only to bind them again when night falls. They'll smear tallow once more and light the fire anew."
Gasps escaped as a few younger servants recoiled, clutching their skirts and crowding together. A manservant wiped his brow, visibly pale, while another shifted uneasily, trying to mask his discomfort.
"Some are said to survive three, even five days, before succumbing as their bowels are completely burned out," Sir Morton concluded. He was pleased to see pale faces riddled with anxiety and dread.
The truth was, he had made it all up. He even added the honey, thinking it made the story more grotesque. Lord Lansius had once confided that the more horrific the punishment, the more likely nobles would believe it. Even if they dismissed it as a lie, it would linger in their minds.
The rumor was all the more effective because it played into the nomads’ fearsome reputation. Only those privy to the elders knew it was a tradition and favorite pastime among steppe warriors to invent the most horrifying tales imaginable—either to unnerve their enemies or simply to get a good laugh.
Ask a nomad about it, and he would boast of a version he or a friend had recently concocted. In truth, it was nothing more than wild imagination. However, for the nobles, these tales served as a grim warning. Thus, like a mason driving a wedge into the cracks of a stone slab, Lord Lansius, through Sir Morton, was striking at the very cohesion of the local noble factions.
By barging into their meeting, the Lord Shogun had sown fear, forcing the nobles to question their peers, aides, and closest servants. The risk of betrayal and the looming threat of punishment would, for a time, grant Lord Lansius the opportunity to stabilize his realm and create openings to recruit spies among their ranks. Even now, the Orange Skalds were identifying suitable individuals to serve as informants in exchange for immunity.
***
Sir Harold
Amid the confusion, their wounded pride drove them to commit. One by one, they shouted encouragement to their brothers-in-arms. Their acting group leaders joined, followed by their acting lieutenants, who raised the tempo.
When one column quickened its pace, another followed. This prompted a general chase. However, the veterans in front left them behind in a mind-boggling display of stamina and experience.
At the rear, the knights, mounted on their horses, watched the scene with glee, knowing that the veterans of the Lowlandian campaigns had crossed the Great Plains countless times the previous year. The recruits simply lacked the muscle and endurance honed by months of extended marching. Combined, the veterans had likely marched for well over seventy days in the past year alone.
Captain Farkas and his dragoons rode next to the weary columns, who were now sweaty and haggard. "Men, where’s all your boasting gone?" he taunted.
His men pelted them with jeers. "You think you’re good soldiers? You can’t even walk right."
"You lads are soft. Are you sure you're fit to carry the bronze and banner?"
"It’s not even hot," another called out. "This weather is nice, with plenty of shade, unlike in Lowlandia."
Their taunts sparked a barrage of retorts.
"Must be nice talking from the saddle while your horses do the walking."
"Come walk!" another snapped. "Don’t just spout off from atop a saddle."
"I hear nothing but horseshit."
Laughter and mockery echoed until one of the senior dragoon lieutenants spoke. His tone was sharp and commanding. "We’re dragoons, you morons! We marched like everyone else before we graduated. Think about what great deed we accomplished to earn these horses from the Lord."
That silenced the columns, who raggedly marched into their sixth and seventh hours. Their fatigue was clear, with limping steps, slouched shoulders, and strained breathing, yet they pressed on.
After toiling in the waning sun, they finally arrived at a half-erected camp, which gladdened many. But it didn’t take long for them to realize that it was the veterans who had built it. They had likely not rested after their march, instead going straight to cutting trees, building fences, pitching tents, and setting up a field kitchen.
Their forerunners’ strength, stamina, and discipline humbled the other columns, who by then were exhausted beyond belief, barely able to stand, let alone work.
Behind them, Sir Harold, Farkas, and the cavalry rode slowly, gathering stragglers who had faltered during the march. The carts trailing behind filled with exhausted men. Hundreds were carted away to nearby villages for recovery. It went without saying that they were disqualified.
When they arrived at the camp, their attached staff began evaluating the resting trainees. Many could not proceed due to injuries or weakness and were disqualified. Many more would follow, as tomorrow they would march with bruised feet, sore muscles, or other ailments, such as having unfit bodies from being drunkards or from other addictions.
This high-tempo forced march could be seen as unfair to recruits, but the officers held firm that anyone who neglected their footwear was unused to long-distance marches, or had injuries, deformities, or walking difficulties did not belong in the army. The challenges set upon this army were heavy. They would wage war against greater foes and would always find themselves outnumbered.
Despite being led by one of the sharpest minds of their age, they had to be ready to endure hardship, bleed, and rise again. Survival alone was not enough. They had to triumph against impossible odds.
As he stood overlooking the entire camp, Sir Harold vowed in solemn resolve to forge them into an army his Lord could wield without hesitation. There was no greater honor than to stand as the pillar upon which his Lord’s ambitions would rise and bring Midlandia to greater glory.
***
Mid Summer, Midlandia
Lansius swiftly turned his attention to fortifying and garrisoning a series of castles he deemed vital for securing his hold on Southern Midlandia. These defenses were designed to repel threats both from within and without. In the east, Sir Stan’s Toruna would serve as the main stronghold, supported by a network of castles and walled cities that would act as a bulwark against invasions and raids from Edessa.
He had sent an envoy through the guilds as an intermediary, demanding an explanation for Edessa’s involvement in the assassination plot. He also communicated the Shogunate’s willingness to maintain peace, provided the head of House Edessa admitted guilt, apologized, and paid severe indemnities for the attempted assassination. Otherwise, Lansius warned, he would declare the right of reprisal against Edessa.
Sooner or later, he would have to reckon with Edessa, as it blocked his Southern Trade route to Navalnia. If they remained hostile, then war was inevitable. Still, everyone knew Edessa was unlikely to comply, but the negotiations would buy time to prepare his next move.
With roughly 30 new estates to his name, including manors, castle towns, and cities, governing Midlandia effectively was a monumental task. Moreover, he also had another 90 vassals with their fiefs, ranging from small cities and towns to clusters of villages. While they were mostly self-governing, he still held the authority to shape policies, enforce rules, and resolve disputes among them.
Lansius set the quill pen in its stand and leaned back. "Are we finished?" he asked, his voice heavy with exhaustion.
"Yes, My Lord. Everything is in order," the old scribe replied, bowing slightly.
Lansius inhaled deeply and, with a slow push of his leg, turned his chair toward the glass-encased map. He studied it in silence, unsure whether to analyze it further or simply unwind. "Any word about Sir Harold?"
"He should be midway to Ploiesta by now."
"Six thousand, was it?" Lansius asked again.
"Indeed, My Lord."
"Imagine, recruiting that many in a single year. What a populous region, so different from Lowlandia. But it also comes with countless governance challenges."
"Indeed, My Lord. It is only to be expected," the scribe remarked, his tone lightly amused.
Lansius exhaled slowly and let his eyes drift closed, savoring the comfort of the padded leather chair.
The scribe hesitated before speaking again. "There is one more matter, My Lord."
Lansius cracked one eye open. "What is it?"
"We need to plan for a celebration."
"A celebration?" Lansius opened both eyes and frowned. "For what?"
"Yes, My Lord, the staff has agreed that a parade or tournament to commemorate your ascension would be prudent. It will provide both nobles and commoners with a memorable milestone to mark the occasion."
Too tired to argue, Lansius replied dryly, "Try duck chariot racing or something." He leaned back and shut his eyes again, amused, unaware the scribe had begun scribbling his words into the petition.
Weighed down by growing drowsiness, Lansius shifted in his seat, searching for a more comfortable angle. Before he realized it, sleep had claimed him.
Beyond his knowing, outside, two messenger hawks circled high in the sky, their flight a silent omen. One carried news from the far south, about a new threat to his precious Southern Trade. The other bore a warning from the Orange Skalds about fanatics entrenched deep within the region.
The monastery’s silence offered no comfort, only a sign that something sinister was brewing. Lansius' fragile rule in Midlandia faced threats from within and without. His enemies might push him further and make the grave mistake of thinking they knew the Black Lord. For all his gentleness, Lansius was more than capable of making the region weep tears of blood.
***