Steel, gunpowder, and spellcasters

Chapter 420 Home
[Imperial Calendar Year 536][24 years ago]
[Palatu Border] [Today's New Reclamation Province]
As dawn broke and the autumn wind howled, a group of riders fled for their lives across the desolate plains.

The riders were of different ages and dressed in different clothes, but the only thing they had in common was the genuine fear on their faces.

They originally had thirteen people, but now only nine remain. Those who fell behind were swallowed up by the vast night, and none were able to catch up.

Besides the sound of the horse's hooves, another sound, mixed with sharp whistles, came from the wind.

The peculiar hoofbeats had been chasing the riders all night, like a persistent affliction, no matter how fast they fled or how difficult the path they chose, they could not shake them off.

"Their horses are fast!" one of the nine riders cried out desperately to the others, "We can't shake them off! We might as well fight while we still have the strength!"

The lead rider looked towards the horizon: it was already broad daylight, and the outlines of the forest and hills were clearly visible. If they couldn't escape under the cover of night, they would have even less of a chance after daybreak.

He gritted his teeth and suddenly pulled on the reins. His mount neighed, raised its front hooves, staggered a few steps, and came to a stop.

"Stop running!" the lead rider roared, panting heavily. "Let's fight them!"

Of the other eight riders, six stopped their horses at the sound and moved closer to the lead rider. The other two riders seemed to have heard nothing and galloped into the forest without a care.

The lead rider, not bothering to deal with his treacherous accomplices for the moment, drew his bloodstained military knife, swallowed hard, and roared with fierce eyes, "What are you afraid of? They're human too! White knives go in, red knives come out! Kill them, and no one will dare to resist us again! From now on, we can take whatever we want here!"

The other six riders also drew their weapons, and to bolster their courage, they roared wildly with ferocious expressions.

This group of riders, which originally numbered thirteen but now has only nine, are not ordinary civilians, but rather bandits and horse thieves who are feared by the people of the border region.

For pioneers who migrated to remote and uninhabited frontier regions, horses were often a family's most valuable asset and an indispensable tool.

Losing their horses meant they were isolated on a small, island-like settlement, surrounded by a vast, desolate wilderness.

Therefore, pioneers would do anything to protect their horses.

This is why horse thieves are all the most ferocious, cruel, and lawless villains.

Before long, the pursuers appeared on the hillside; it was also a small group of riders, about twenty in number.

Upon seeing the bandits split into two groups, the leading rider whistled, and four riders immediately set off from the pursuing group to chase after the two bandits who had fled into the woods.

The other riders spurred their horses down the hillside and charged straight at the seven bandits who were ready to fight.

The bells hanging from their warhorse breastbands jingled, their long, narrow sabers gleamed coldly, their round earrings and bangs fluttered in the wind, and the tassels woven by their wives and daughters were wrapped around their hands.

On one side were battle-hardened veterans coming to claim their lives, and on the other side were desperate bandits at the end of their rope. Without any shouting or attempts to persuade them to surrender, the two sides roared and charged at each other.

……

The brief but intense mounted battle came to an end. The bandits suffered a crushing defeat, and the pursuers emerged victorious.

The blood spilled on this desolate land was initially steaming, but quickly turned cold.

A gaunt young rider laboriously dragged a half-dead bandit into the pile of prisoners, then smoothed the hair stuck to his forehead and walked toward the lead rider.

The lead rider knelt beside a companion lying on the ground, holding his hand tightly and nodding repeatedly.

The rider lying on the ground spoke intermittently. A garment covered his lower body, concealing the horrific wound in his abdomen. Blood flowed from below him, pooling in the mud. He was breathing increasingly faintly.

After giving his final instructions, the dying rider forced a smile, looked at the faces of his comrades beside him, and uttered his last word with great difficulty:

"thanks".

After he finished speaking, the light in his eyes disappeared.

Only after the lead rider covered the eyes of his fallen comrade, straightened his body, and wiped away his tears did the gaunt young rider speak: "Girard Pleninovich, what about the surviving horse thieves?"

“Bring that child over,” Girard said.

The skinny rider, Sergei, nodded and whistled. A Dusak, hearing the whistle, brought a boy of about seven or eight years old to Gerard.

The little boy was clearly terrified; his eyes widened as he looked around in horror. The moment Girard stood before him, he let out a piercing scream, as if struck by some unseen stimulus.

But no one blamed him, because he was the sole survivor of the massacre that had just occurred last night.

Girard held the child in his arms until the child stopped screaming and crying.

Then, carrying the child, he walked towards the surviving bandits, pointed to the nearest one, and asked, "Is he there?"

The little boy struggled desperately, trying to hide behind Girard, not daring to even glance at him.

“Don’t be afraid,” Girard said gently. “Just nod or shake your head. Come, look at him and tell me—is he there?”

The little boy watched for a long time, then nodded, sobbing.

Without Gerard needing to say anything more, Sergei drew his saber, stepped forward, grabbed the accused bandit by the hair with his left hand, and with his right hand, gripped the saber and plunged it into the latter's chest through the shoulder, cleanly and decisively ending the life.

The other captured bandits, witnessing their comrades being slaughtered like pigs, begged for mercy, cursed, and scrambled to escape, displaying utterly disgraceful behavior.

"You beast!" Sergei kicked over a bandit who was trying to escape, cursing, "You have the guts to commit violence, but not the guts to face death?"

Girard didn't speak until his companions had subdued the bandits, then he pointed to another bandit and asked the little boy, "Is he there?"

The little boy nodded.

Sergei acted without hesitation, and the bandit he had identified collapsed onto the wasteland.

When it came time to identify the fourth and final prisoner, the little boy shook his head.

"Not him?" Girard asked, frowning.

The little boy shook his head again.

Girard handed the little boy to his companion, squatted down in front of the last surviving bandit, and asked, "What about you?"

The last surviving bandit was an old man with a sparse, graying beard. Blood from a wound on his head had stuck to one of his eyes. He strained to look at Chief Dusak with his other eye and said weakly, "I...I didn't do it."

Girard gave a dismissive snort.

"What...what are you going to do?" the old bandit asked breathlessly. "Judgment...judgment of me?"

“I am not a judge, and there are no laws here.” Girard drew his saber and gestured with his hand: “Pull up his right arm.”

Without saying a word, Sergei swiftly ripped off the old bandit's shirt, grabbed his wrist, and raised his right arm.

Girard, expressionless, swung his knife down. A flash of cold light, and the old bandit's right arm was severed by an elbow strike.

Sergei threw the severed limb to the ground, blood gushing from the cut. The old bandit screamed in agony, nearly fainting from the pain.

But it wasn't over yet. Girard tore off a strip of cloth and used it to strangle the old bandit's severed arm. He then lit a fire and heated the horseshoes until they glowed red-hot, using the heat to stop the bleeding from the old bandit's arm.

Meanwhile, the other Dussacs hung the bandits' bodies in a row on the trees by the roadside. Dussacs who had gone to pursue the other two escaped bandits also dragged their corpses back.

Before leaving, Girard stood in front of the half-dead old bandit and looked down at him.

“If you survive,” Girard said coldly, “go tell them, tell everyone like you.”

"Tell them what?" the old bandit asked hoarsely.

Girard leaned closer to the old bandit: "Me."

Having said that, he walked to his mount, stepped into the stirrups, and mounted.

"The bandit's head..." Sergei asked hesitantly, "Should we take it off and exchange it for the bounty?"

"Let them rot."

Carrying his companion's body and the recovered horses, Gerard walked home without looking back.

Behind him, the bandits' corpses swayed in the wind.

They will be pecked by crows and devoured by beasts, and the birds and beasts will eventually die and decay, ultimately becoming part of this wild land along with the blood shed by Girard and others.

……

When the smoke from the settlement came into view, it was already close to dusk.

The setting sun bathed everything in gold, and the cool evening breeze was refreshing.

Sergei played a Dussac tune, and the other Dussacs hummed along softly, while the little boy with tear stains in his eyes clung to Gerard's neck, already asleep.

Sergei rode up to Gerald and said out of the blue, "The land here is very fertile."

“Yes.” Girard’s body swayed rhythmically with his warhorse.

"This year's harvest is also very good."

"Yes."

“Next year… I plan to build another house.” Sergei’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Then I’ll bring Dad and Mom from Shield River here.”

Girard turned to look at his fellow countrymen, partners, and comrades.

“I don’t care what others think, but I will never go back to the Shield River,” Sergei said. “My children and their children will not go back either. We shed our blood for this land, and this will be our home from now on.”

A moment of silence.

“Yes.” Girard gazed at the distant wisps of smoke and answered softly, “This will be our home from now on.”

He parted ways with his companions at the fork in the road and rode his horse along the tree-lined path. The oak tree he planted when he settled here had grown to be as tall as two or three adults.

At the end of the tree-lined path, at the entrance of the wall.

His wife, who could hear the clear sound of his warhorse's bells, was waiting for him.

……

……

……

[Location: Wolf Town]
[Time: Now]
Gerard rode his horse along the tree-lined path he had traveled countless times. The oak trees on both sides of the road, like giant umbrellas, shielded him from the scorching May sun.

The tree-lined road leads to his home, but it is no longer the home he knows.

The faded silver bells tied to his horse's harness still rang crisply with the sound of his horse's hooves.

However, the person waiting by the manor gate when the bell rang was no longer his wife Ellen, but his youngest daughter Scarlett.

As soon as Scarlett saw her father return, she ran to him and cried out in a high-pitched voice, "Daddy!"

Gerald was at his wit's end when he saw his daughter was about to complain again. Because Scarlett had cut her long hair without permission, Mrs. Mitchell forbade her from showing her face in public, and even forbade her from attending Pierre's wedding reception.

The "wedding ban" was the cause of a new round of cold war between mother and daughter, but the real trigger for the conflict was Mrs. Mitchell's ban on Scarlett going to Ghevorden again.

Scarlett couldn't change her mother's attitude, so she could only cry and complain to her father every day. As a result, Girard became like a rat caught in the middle at home—suffering from both sides.

So for most of the time after returning to Wolftown, Girard used the pretext of working to hide in the town hall for refuge.

Girard dismounted, looked at his daughter's pitiful state, and sighed helplessly: "You know, whatever your mother decides, I also..."

“Daddy!” Scarlett clung to her father’s arm, half pleading and half whining.

“I’m hungry,” Girard said, changing the subject. “Is there anything to eat? Let’s have dinner first.”

The atmosphere remained awkward at dinner. Mrs. Mitchell and Scarlett remained silent, and Pierre's new wife was unsure what to say. The food on the table was also simple and plain, a far cry from the lavish meals they used to have.

In fact, Mitchell Estate has now lost the basic premise of being a "manor" and has become a large house that only serves as a residence.

Because of the previous decree of the new Iron Peak County government to "expropriate idle land and distribute it to displaced people," all the land in Wolftown plantations, including Mitchell Manor, was expropriated and distributed to displaced people for cultivation.

At the time, the reasonable Mrs. Mitchell accepted the new government's order and even took the initiative to help Bud persuade other plantation owners who were unwilling to hand over their land.

However, when Gerard returned home, he was truly disheartened to find that the land he had worked so hard to acquire was now in the hands of others—although it was only a temporary requisition.

Old Dussac didn't say anything, he just brooded and drank alone at the wedding.

Gerard Mitchell's mentality is almost the same as that of all plantation owners.

The shadow of war has faded, and the invasion of the Hed barbarians has been thwarted. Winter wheat is now growing vigorously, and spring wheat has been sown. Lower Iron Peak County is a scene of prosperity, and people have unconsciously forgotten the sense of crisis they once felt.

The war was over, but the land was not returned—not even the agreed-upon "rent" was paid.

Back in Gévord, many Wolftown plantation owners had already openly and secretly urged Gerard Mitchell to "talk" with the Montagne tribunal, but old Dussac flatly refused.

But deep down, Girard also wanted to know when his land would be returned.

"The order to requisition idle land." At the dinner table, Girard asked Pierre, "When will this end?"

“I don’t know.” Pierre shook his head.

Girard gave a rather disappointed "Oh".

Pierre stared at the plate in front of him, and after a moment of silence, he said softly, "I will also be leaving after the tribunal returns from its campaign against the Hurds."

Except for Scarlett, everyone at the table stopped eating.

"Where are we going?" asked Pierre's new wife, Amélie, nervously.

Pierre laughed and said, "Wherever the tribunes go, I'll go."

“I’ll go with you too,” Scarlett said, deliberately munching loudly on her dry bread.

“No.” Mrs. Mitchell’s tone left no room for refusal.

"Then I'll sneak off! I'll ride off on a horse! Mom, if you can catch me, come and chase me!"

With that, Scarlett grabbed a piece of dry bread from the basket and ran off angrily.

Girard couldn't stop his daughter, and when he turned his head, he met his wife's sad gaze. He could only lower his head and concentrate on the beet soup.

"Dad, Mom," Pierre said carefully after a long pause, "I want to take you with me away from Wolf Town."

"Leave Wolf Town?" Girard was first surprised, then angry: "This is my home! I'm not going anywhere."

“Do you remember what I told you?” Pierre persisted, patiently explaining, “Both I and the Mitchell family have only one path to take—to follow His Excellency the Tribunal. The Tribunal’s cause will not end in Wolftown, nor will mine, so I want to take you all with me…”

“I’m not going,” Girard said firmly. “I’m not going anywhere!”

Pierre wanted to try again, but then he heard the chaotic sound of horses' hooves and footsteps coming from outside.

"Mr. Mitchell!" someone outside called from afar.

Girard stood up, instinctively wanting to respond, but the messenger was looking for Pierre.

"The cavalry that fought the barbarians is back!" The messenger's joy was palpable. "And they brought back so much spoils! The cavalry are celebrating in town! You should come too!"

……

The two main streets in the center of Wolf Town were brightly lit, like a sea of ​​joy. Even before the ravages of war, it had never been this lively.

The military camp in the town center was too small to accommodate the cavalry. The victorious light cavalrymen simply lit a fire, slaughtered animals, and feasted outside the camp.

Upon hearing the news, various migrant farms sent vegetables, flour, and fermented liquid bread (kvass) as gifts. Residents living nearby who came to see what was happening were also warmly invited to a banquet by the hosts.

Children from Dusa rode horses from the village to the town, watching with envy as the imposing black-clad cavalrymen celebrated wildly.

Among the light cavalry, a gaunt officer brought out a whole chest of gold and silver, and declared in a dissolute manner, "Buy as much wine as you have," telling the people of Wolf Town, "Stop hiding it, hurry up and bring out all the wine."

“Dad,” Pierre whispered to Girard in the noisy crowd, “Don’t you think… Mom prefers living in the city?”

Gerard, who was about to drink a glass of wine to drown his sorrows, heard this and his head drooped. After a while, he sighed and said, "Let me think about it some more."

“Alright.” Pierre didn’t urge him. “I’ll go find His Excellency the Tribunal.”

Having said that, Pierre left his father, walked through the crowd, and headed towards the barracks.

However, it was Ellen Mitchell who found Pierre first.

“Pierre.” Ellen held her son’s cheek, her expression a mixture of sadness and relief. She said gently, “Go if you want to. If you want to take your wife with you, take her with you too… And take good care of Scarlett.”

"And you?" Pierre sensed the implication in his mother's words and asked in surprise, "Are you going to stay? You've never liked living in Wolf Town!"

“It’s alright.” Ellen Mitchell wiped away her tears and said with a smile, “This is your father’s home, so it’s my home too. He doesn’t want to leave here, so I’ll stay here with him.”

Pierre remained silent.

In the distance, Vahika, having spotted his friend, waved his arms and called out Pierre's name.

……

……

On the other side, in the office of the garrison commander at the Zhevodan garrison.

Winters felt he could no longer recognize what was written on the paper—the letters drawn with a quill pen gradually turned into unrecognizable lines, floating in mid-air and buzzing around Winters like flies, making him dizzy.

At the other end of the desk, Richard Mason had set out an exquisite cloisonné enamel tea set and was savoring a pale red liquid.

“Uh… what are you drinking?” Winters’ throat was sore from thirst.

Mason took a small sip and said, "Sweet syrup."

Winters felt the cups looked familiar: "Where did these cups come from?"

“Yours.” Mason put down his cup and answered contentedly.

Winters smiled wryly and poured himself a glass: "How much do I still have left to watch?"

Mason looked back and said casually, "Not much left, one and a half carts."

Winters couldn't help but sigh. He thought for a moment, then accidentally spilled the red liquid from his glass onto the table. He frantically wiped it up, then casually suggested, "How about we stop here for today? I'll look at the rest tomorrow..."

“Now you know…” Mason took a deep breath and asked slowly, “Do you understand my difficulties?”

"Got it," Winters blurted out. "Got it!"

"Then what should you say?"

"Thank you, senior!"

"I don't want to hear that."

"I will never just quit and leave again."

Mason snorted and nodded: "That's more like it."

Then he pulled a paper bag from the bottom of the second cart of documents and placed it on Winters's desk: "Actually, a lot has happened during this time, but there are only a few important things. You can finish reading these."

Winters nearly choked to death.

The first document in the [Important Documents Folder] is a report on the fire at Gévordne Cathedral.

"The fire started at night, presumably from a candlestick igniting the curtains. It started in the reliquary and then spread to the prayer room and the main sanctuary." Mason sighed. "Because of this fire, if Brother Kaman hadn't returned, Jevodan wouldn't have been able to find even a single Catholic clergyman to preside over Mass."

“Isn’t it just that Father Edmund was… burned at the stake?” Winters picked up the report and asked casually, “How come we can’t even find a single Catholic clergyman who can preside over Mass?”

"Who said only Father Edmund perished?" Mason asked, puzzled. "The monks of Gévordan Cathedral were in evening prayer when the fire reached the chapels, and none of them escaped. Apart from a few servants, no one in Gévordan Cathedral survived. I've already written to the Bishop of Maplestone, asking him to send a clergyman to temporarily fill in... Eh? Why are you suddenly so serious?"

“Oh, it’s nothing.” Winters put the fire report into a drawer separately. After a moment of thought, he looked at Mason: “Senior, please find all the files and testimonies related to the fire for me, but… don’t alert anyone.”

“Okay.” Mason also dropped his joking tone: “No problem, I can hand it over to you tomorrow.”

"Let's move on to the next thing."

"Next thing?" Mason slapped his forehead, angrily asking, "Wool! The Red River tribe sent over a hundred cartloads of wool! The Teldun tribe sent over eighty! It's just coming in and not coming out! There's nowhere to store it! I have to build a special warehouse for you to store the wool, what are you going to do with it? Have you thought about the summer harvest tax rate? The rent from the various manors is almost due. We promised to pay, we can't keep dragging it on, can we? Also, Berian and his brother are requesting to see you..."

As they were talking, footsteps came from outside the door, followed by a knock.

Winters and Mason exchanged a glance. He put away the documents on the table, and Mason straightened his chair and sat up straight. Both of them abandoned their relaxed, conversational demeanor and adopted a formal attitude.

"Enter."

Bart Sharling pushed open the office door and saluted, "Centurion."

Mason discovered that Winters was not only unhappy to see one of his most trusted subordinates, but rather somewhat angry.

Winters raised an eyebrow slightly and asked, "What are you doing back here?"

"Report! Submitting the battle report of the Battle of Shovel Harbor." Bart Sharling replied meticulously.

“That kind of thing could be done by sending a messenger. Besides, didn’t you already send a report of victory?” Winters asked seriously, “You abandoned your troops just to personally report the victory to me?”

“Report, no!” Bart Sharing replied solemnly, scratching his head. “It’s because of a little…unexpected situation. Tamas…he doesn’t dare to come.”

"What unexpected situation?" Winters' expression softened somewhat, and he asked with a smile, "Could it be that Alpha escaped?"

Bart Sharling stood at attention: "Report! No! We have captured an enemy officer using the alias Alpha."

Then, Bart Sharing recounted in detail the ambush on Alpha's small force.

Winters nodded when he heard the part about "Captain Morrow having laid an ambush in advance, waiting for the enemy to walk right into his trap".

When Mason heard that "Alpha is highly skilled in martial arts and agile, and seven warriors could not capture him," he curled his lip, but Winters was quite interested.

Finally, upon hearing the part about "fishing nets," Mason couldn't help but chuckle and praised, "That recruit is quite clever!"

“Report, Captain Mason, the problem lies in that fishing net.” Bart Sharing, slightly embarrassed, explained, “The enemy officer, using the alias Alpha, fell into the water and got entangled in the fishing net, and was wearing armor…”

"Drowned?" Winters chuckled.

“Report, he didn’t drown.” Bart Sharling added, “But he almost drowned. After we got him ashore, the recruit was still angry, so… so he gave him another beating.”

Mason chuckled and shook his head helplessly.

“Since he didn’t drown, bring him to Gervodan.” Winters ordered directly, “I will interrogate him myself.”

“Report, I have brought him here. However…” Bart Sharling swallowed hard and said tentatively, “He said… his name is Axel.”

Bart Sharling's voice was so soft it was almost inaudible: "He said he knows you."

[62741/100000]
[This incident will likely become a dark chapter in the master's history...]
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(End of this chapter)