Outside the window, heavy clouds blanketed the sky. A bone-piercing cold wind howled as goose-feather snowflakes drifted down, draping the mountains, rivers, and plains in a thick white mantle. Another winter had arrived.
Perhaps I've grown old. Despite the roaring fire in the fireplace, Baron Ebte still felt a chill seeping into his bones. He pulled his fur coat tighter, drained the fruit wine from his golden goblet in one gulp, and silently gazed at the storm-ravaged world beyond the window. Memories of those joyous days, celebrating with his mercenary brothers at the tavern, arose unbidden...
The good old days were gone forever. The Goshawk Mercenary Corps — once brimming with vigor and ambition — no longer existed. He remembered how, back then, the boss had gotten drunk at the tavern and declared he would make their mercenary corps one of the ten greatest in the Forde Commercial Alliance. Everyone had cheered enthusiastically, swearing they would help the boss realize that dream.
He remembered how the tavern's one-eyed owner, Mord, had stood behind the bar smiling kindly, and how the other patrons had all hooted and cheered along. Not a soul had mocked those young mercenaries for harboring such a lofty dream. Back in those days, when mercenaries swarmed
After nearly twenty years of risking death on the battlefield, through the efforts of the boss, himself, the Third Brother, and every elite mercenary in the corps, the Goshawk Mercenary Corps had finally climbed from beyond the hundredth rank to around twentieth place among the Alliance's hundred-odd mercenary corps. They had been so close to realizing that dream — yet no one had imagined that this final distance would become an insurmountable chasm.
Everything changed the moment the Forde Commercial Alliance prepared to implement the baronage system. On top of that, the Alliance went to war with the Trenlin Kingdom in what became known as the Glass War. The boss decided to lead the entire mercenary corps into Trenlin, using their swords to carve a path toward noble titles and a glorious future...
Before their departure, every comrade in the corps had been brimming with high spirits. The Goshawk Mercenary Corps was no unknown entity in the mercenary world — ranked twenty-first, with all three captains holding gold-rank status, and an elite squad of a hundred Silver Knights. When they first entered the Trenlin Kingdom, everything had gone smoothly. They raided three noble estates, reaping rich rewards, and everyone believed the expedition had been the right choice. As for himself, he had even pinned three noble ladies beneath him — women he could only have gazed at from afar before...
The nightmare came without warning. Before ten days had passed, the boss — who had led a raiding party out — was beheaded in a single sword stroke by a Great Swordmaster who coveted the bounty posted by Trenlin VII. Of the forty-odd elite Silver Knights who had accompanied him, only three escaped. The Goshawk Mercenary Corps' spine was shattered in an instant, its vitality grievously wounded.
What followed was infighting. To seize control and succession of the mercenary corps, he and the Third Brother clashed violently. He took a sword wound to his left ribs, but the Third Brother didn't fare much better — he broke one of the man's arms and a leg. In the end, the Third Brother departed with over forty loyal followers.
But he lacked the boss's grand vision. He couldn't keep the mercenary corps growing. More and more people left, and just when the Goshawk Mercenary Corps was on the verge of collapse, the vice-manager of the Two-Headed Dragon Trading Company — someone he had struck up a friendship with — threw him a lifeline and introduced him to one of the company's vice-presidents. He then used the mercenary corps' accumulated reserve fund to bribe that vice-president, who helped him obtain his baron's title.
The heavy wooden door was pushed open, and a gust of cold air swept into the warm room. Baron Ebte snapped out of his memories, tightened his fur coat once more, and turned to face the burly figure and the gaunt middle-aged man who had entered. The burly man was Adrian, his chief knight — a former elite mercenary of the Goshawk Mercenary Corps who held the rank of
"My lord, I've just returned from inspecting the ranch. The snow outside is thick — already knee-deep. The ranch is running smoothly, though one old sheep froze to death. I had the slave herder responsible for watching it given twenty lashes..." reported Sir Adrian.
"You didn't beat the man to death, did you?" Baron Ebte asked.
"No." Sir Adrian shook his head. "Rest assured, my lord, I know how hard to strike. Besides, these worthless bones are tough — they'll survive the winter."
Baron Ebte was silent for a moment, then nodded. "Well done. Appropriate punishment is necessary, or these slaves will shirk their work. But remember — we paid good coin for every one of these wretches. Beat them too hard, and we've thrown gold coins away for nothing. Besides, I hear the war is ending soon. The Forde Commercial Alliance won't be able to capture prisoners from the Central-Southern kingdoms anymore. These slaves will only become more valuable going forward."
"Understood, my lord," said Sir Adrian.
Over the past four-odd years of war between the Forde Commercial Alliance and the allied Central-Southern kingdoms, the victorious Alliance had captured nearly a hundred thousand prisoners while plundering the various southern kingdoms. Feeding so many captives required enormous quantities of grain and consumed vast amounts of garrison forces and funds. A shrewd Alliance council member proposed selling off the prisoners, and the motion was approved by the council. The decision was warmly welcomed by lords whose territories lacked labor.
The Alliance council, for its part, was delighted. They argued that this policy not only saved the cost of guarding prisoners but also raised enormous war funds through auction, while simultaneously providing labor-short territories with the manpower they desperately needed. It was a policy that achieved multiple objectives at once — one of the Forde Commercial Alliance's most effective measures.
Andevof Province was considered newly conquered territory of the Alliance. After its annexation, the Alliance had enfeoffed over eighty new territorial nobles there. Baron Ebte was among them. But Andevof Province had been devastated during the
When Baron Ebte arrived in Andevof Province seven years ago to take up his fief, he managed to round up fewer than a thousand settlers — all elderly and infirm. After years of unscrupulous gathering and consolidating, and a dozen or so skirmishes with neighboring lords, Baron Ebte's territory finally surpassed a population of ten thousand, making it one of the larger domains in the surrounding area. Still, the population skewed heavily toward the old and weak. To compensate, Baron Ebte purchased over three hundred prime-age male captives at the Alliance's prisoner auction, making them the territory's main labor force.
"My lord, I've also just finished inspecting the manor. Everything is peaceful," reported Steward Grigel.
Baron Ebte nodded with satisfaction. "You've both done well. Come, sit down and have a drink. Warm yourselves by the fire. Adrian, there's a calf leg hanging over there — go fetch it and we'll roast some meat."
In private, Baron Ebte kept no airs about him. He didn't stand on ceremony or observe rigid hierarchies. Though he had been enfeoffed as a baron, his temperament remained that of the straightforward mercenary vice-captain he had once been. This drew frequent criticism from neighboring lords, who quietly dubbed him the "Mercenary Lord" in mockery of his low-born mercenary origins.
He took a piece of roast meat from Sir Adrian, dipped it in the salt dish, and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing vigorously. Steward Grigel timely offered a freshly filled golden goblet of wheat beer. Baron Ebte took it and drained it in one gulp, letting out a long, satisfied breath. "Now that hits the spot."
Setting down the goblet, Baron Ebte said, "Next year, we're definitely building a castle."
Being mocked as the "Mercenary Lord" by neighboring lords didn't bother him. But after seven years, his territory still had no proper castle to speak of, and that genuinely embarrassed him. Everyone knew that a lord was supposed to live in a castle — not in a log cabin like the one he currently inhabited, with the manor enclosed by nothing more than a ring of branches.
"My lord, next year our family garrison won't need to guard the border anymore, so manpower isn't the issue. But do we have the funds set aside for building a castle?" asked Sir Adrian.
Four years ago, King Ogzero I of the Andinak Kingdom had marched his army against the four central duchies. In just one year, he had pushed all the way to the Handera Duchy. The Handera Grand Duke's desperate pleas for aid came wave after wave to the Vecia Trading Company's royal capital of Fedriga. Every lord in Andevof Province was seized with panic, terrified that after Handera fell, they would be next. Some nobles demanded that all possible support be sent to the Handera Grand Duke. Others packed their belongings, ready to flee back to Morant City at the first sign of attack.
At the critical moment, a vice-president of the Vecia Trading Company arrived in Andevof Province for an inspection and calmed the lords' fears. The vice-president reminded all the territorial nobles not to forget that the Forde Commercial Alliance was the foremost nation and power on the Galentea Continent. Although the Alliance was currently at war with the allied Central-Southern kingdoms and its military was stretched thin, making it difficult to attend to northern affairs — it was far from powerless. Had they forgotten? The Alliance had recently recruited a Storm Sword Saint to serve as the nation's guardian. As long as the Andinak king still had a brain, he would never dare offend the Alliance's majesty.
The vice-president's visit finally settled the nerves of Andevof Province's territorial lords. As he had predicted, after the Handera Grand Duke surrendered, the Andinak army did not continue its advance. Instead, it halted at the Andevof border. Then the famous White Lion Legion was deployed, taking up a strong defensive posture with the apparent intent of counterattacking. At that, all the territorial lords finally set their anxious hearts at rest.
But what followed proved deeply awkward for all of Andevof Province's territorial lords. To guard against an Andinak invasion, the nobles had organized a combined army of over ten thousand men, prepared to resist if Andinak forces attacked the province — and also to buy time for the lords to evacuate. But now the Andinak army showed no signs of attacking; instead, it had assumed a defensive stance. Should the combined army be disbanded?
When facing a mortal threat from a powerful enemy, the lords had been able to set aside their differences and unite for survival, each supporting the coalition with full vigor. But now, with no foreign threat looming, was there still any need for this combined army? Maintaining a standing force of nearly ten thousand was an eye-watering expense for these Andevof Province lords.
Yet the border could not be left unguarded, in case the Andinak army suddenly launched an attack. The Andevof lords devised a brilliantly cunning solution: a lottery. Whoever's name was drawn would be responsible for providing troops to man the border garrison, rotating every three years. The number of troops required was determined by territory population — one in every twenty settlers. The costs, however, were shared equally. Maintaining a three-thousand-strong border garrison was far cheaper than supporting a ten-thousand-strong standing army.
Baron Ebte had always suspected foul play in the lottery but could never find proof. He had no choice but to swallow the bitter pill, extracting five hundred able-bodied men from his territory and sending them under Sir Adrian's command to endure three years of howling winds on the border. The labor shortage had prevented his territory from developing — he couldn't even build his own castle and was forced to purchase captives to compensate.
Baron Ebte laughed easily. "You don't know the half of it. That Ogzero I of the Andinak Kingdom has already assembled a massive army, preparing to wage war against the Forde Commercial Alliance. But he's not attacking through our sector — he's moving his forces toward the two southwestern provinces. My guess is he thinks they're closer to Morant City..."
"No wonder the White Lion Legion that was stationed in Majik Province has also set out. The border now has a different army, around ten thousand strong — probably newly formed. Their defenses are tight; the scouts we sent over were all turned back, and a few were killed or wounded..." said Sir Adrian.
"So we're perfectly safe here. Next year, we'll get to watch the Forde Commercial Alliance and the Andinak Kingdom tear each other apart in Kambona Province. It's winter now, with blizzard after blizzard — we don't need to worry about any enemy attacks. Once fighting breaks out in Kambona next year, we'll seize the opportunity to deal with those neighbors of ours first. I've always suspected it was Viscount Wims who pulled strings behind the scenes, making us draw that cursed lot and wasting three whole years.
Come spring, we'll start a dispute over water sources. That old fool Wims can only talk and scheme — he's got nothing but a garrison force of two hundred men and three Silver Knights. He's no match for us at all. The Forde Commercial Alliance prohibits lords from waging war on each other, sure — but we won't touch him personally. We'll simply raid his three-thousand-strong town and that decrepit castle of his. By the time the council sends someone to sort things out, we'll have plenty of time to argue our case. The Alliance will probably be too focused on the war with Andinak to bother with our little disputes..."
"If our funds aren't enough to build the castle, we'll take this golden opportunity to squeeze those neighboring lords dry. Heh — three years of enduring those border winds weren't for nothing. I'm grateful to you, Adrian — you've turned our family garrison into a formidable fighting force." Baron Ebte spoke the decision he had carefully considered.
Steward Grigel was delighted. "It's about time we dealt with that old fool! Last time we crossed paths on the road, he mocked us for being low-born mercenaries. As if his trading company wasn't built on selling hemp cloth — how much nobler does that make him..."
Baron Ebte burst into laughter, then suddenly stopped, cocking his head to listen. "Something's moving outside..."
Indeed, amid the howling wind, faint sounds of commotion could be heard.
Sir Adrian rose to his feet. "I'll go see what's happening..."
Before the words had left his mouth, there came a tremendous crash. Several soldiers wearing white cloaks and brown one-piece leather armor burst into the warm room, their swords and spears glinting with a ghostly pallor in the firelight. "Don't move! Hands up! Drop your weapons and surrender! Kneel, and your lives will be spared!"
...