92. Sorry, I Can’t Do That Either
Coveville, a small town that had sustained its livelihood through fishing and the surrounding forests.
Just a few months ago, they had felt no particular hardship, but now things were different. The people watched the flowing river with anxious eyes, shivering in fear of what might be in the forest beyond the palisades.
The town that had once been filled with the rumbling of wagon wheels now only echoed with the moans of the sick and the gnashing of teeth over the dwindling supplies.
It was a time when shallow breaths grew heavy with the cool, damp wind and slowly faded away.
How many times had the refugees who had fled from various places screamed and struggled to survive another day, only to disappear into the night, leaving behind scraps of torn cloth under the moonlight?
The turning point came when everyone was sitting by the roadside, silently tapping empty bowls with spoons, their faces expressionless. The town, which had been slowly dying with even the option of escape cut off, saw a glimmer of hope.
Under the straw roof of the rain-soaked watchtower, a man named Salt-pickled Ben saw a faint shadow appear before him as he groaned off.
Ben rubbed his eyes, thinking he had seen something wrong, but he couldn’t help but tilt his head.
“Is that a person?”
Ben was an experienced guard in his own right.
Over the past few months, he had seen refugees slip through the encirclement under the cover of night or fog and arrive in Coveville. As a result, he was confident that he could easily distinguish a few human figures even in the fog, but now he was faced with an unfamiliar form.
‘Am seeing a ghost…’
He couldn’t open the gate for a figure he couldn’t tell if it was human or not. Ben stared at the shadowy figure in the darkness, his mouth shut tight.
At that moment, the sound of something being pulled taut reached his ears.
“Ack!”
Twang-.
Something cut through the air. It was only thanks to instinct that Ben ducked down in one breath.
He felt dizzy for a moment from the sudden movement, but when Ben carefully opened his eyelids, he saw an arrow trembling as it was embedded in the watchtower.
‘An attack?!’
It was a well-known fact that the pagans who roamed near the Heze River occasionally tasted blood.
Ben’s face turned pale and he hurriedly approached the ladder. That is, until a question arose in his mind.
“Wait.”
When Ben turned around and looked at the arrow stuck in the watchtower, a bright smile spread across his face, which had been stained with all sorts of worries.
An arrow had a neatly folded letter tied to it, bearing a wax seal that the pagans would never use, even for decoration.
Soon, an unusually joyful shout echoed through Cobbleville.
“Village Chief!!! It has arrived!!!”
Ben ran down the dark alleyways in the pre-dawn hours, shouting at the top of his lungs, his voice so loud that it forced exhausted people to stir with annoyed expressions.
Refugees huddled against the walls of houses, squinting their bleary eyes open, some rolling their bloodshot pupils to grasp the situation.
The village chief, whom Ben had been frantically searching for, was a good example.
The chief, who had run out of his house in his nightclothes, was panting.
“It has arrived? Is it an attack!?”
“A letter, a letter!”
“Oh no… Are they demanding tribute again…!”
As the chief sighs, clutching his gray hair.
Ben burst into laughter, holding out the arrow he had in his hand in front of him.
“It’s a letter from a noble, not the pagans!!!”
On that day, the village chief of Cobbleville gathered all the influential figures in the village.
Of course, the chief himself, as well as the blacksmith, the experienced fisherman, the forester, and even the representatives of the refugees. Everyone was called despite the interruption of their precious sleep, so the meeting proceeded quite plainly due to their alertness.
However, as the chief read the letter, his hand clutching the letter began to shake a little harder.
“…Therefore, in consideration of the hardship you have suffered, we will not pursue charges of heresy and apostasy. Currently, an army of 2,000, assembled by the order of His Majesty the High King and the mission of the Church, is on its way to defeat the pagans…”
Of course, there were those who blinked their eyes in confusion at the words they had never heard before.
“What does ‘consideration’ mean?”
“I guess they’re gonna spare us.”
“Oh my.”
“…According to the information we obtained along the way, the pagans are finally heading towards Cobbleville. We are telling you the truth, who may be considering surrender. We have all admired the tragedy that befell the villages that surrendered on our way down. ”
Gulp.
The sound of someone swallowing filled the shabby roof. People unknowingly turned their gaze to the representative of the refugees, who nodded slightly with a heavy look in his eyes.
“We are marching hard for your salvation, but we fear that we may not make it in time. Nevertheless, our army is heading towards you, ignoring their parched thirst and blistered feet.”
“….”
“We ask that you, who have endured these difficult times, find just a little more courage…”
The chief recitated the name of the sender of the letter in a trembling voice.
From Noble mtl dot com
From Narva Orn Stregos Glerio Fowis, Bishop-Provost of Fowis.
“Bishop-Provost? Isn’t that the one who was recently inaugurated?”
“I’ve heard of him! He’s the youngest son of His Majesty the High King! A stigmatic who is favored by His Holiness the Pope!”
There was no one in the Duchy of Fowis who did not know the name Narva.
He was famous for his travels in his youth, and since his inauguration as Bishop-Provost, he has been famous for his unconventional and radical actions. However, the reason he was noticed by the people was because Narva was a candidate for sainthood recognized by the Papacy.
Although he lacked political background or experience, everyone knew that Narva’s name was by no means light.
Some even knelt down on the spot, clasping their hands together and shedding tears of joy.
“How generous… To forgive us, who offered tribute to the pagans to live…”
Of course, the representative of the refugees, who had already experienced all sorts of hardships, showed a cynical reaction.
“Come to your senses. Do you think they’ll be that quick when they only started moving after several months? The letter doesn’t even a specific date. If you just mention believe that letter, you’ll end up getting caught by the angry pagans.”
“Then should we offer tribute to the pagans like we’ve been doing?”
“If you want to live.”
The influential figures gathered in one place showed contrasting attitudes.
One side insisted that they should use the opportunity to repent and buy time to confront the pagans with a hardline stance, while the opposing side pointed out their lukewarm response so far and argued that they should refrain from reckless actions.
However, as time passed, the hope and expectation for the salvation that was finally approaching gained strength.
“Are we going to make a forced march or just surrender!? This might be our last chance to clear the heresy charges of collaborating with the pagans!”
“Even if we survive, we will either live as slaves under the pagans or be branded as heretics by the church and persecuted for the rest of our lives. We should follow the bishop’s will. Or is there any other alternative?”
“Well…”
Even if they survived, there was no future in this dilemma.
Faced with this painful point, even the refugee representative, who had been desperately arguing against it, could not come up with a single feeble excuse. Noticing this, the village chief finally put down the letter and parted his dry lips.
“Let us prepare for resistance.”
“Chief!”
“We can no longer afford to capture and sacrifice people. You who have escaped know better than us how the pagans treat us. Now… I am tired.”
The chief’s last words carried a heavy weight.
The refugee representative was the first to lower his head, and the others followed suit, averting their gazes or letting out heavy sighs. The chief looked around at them once more and finalized the decision.
“We will refuse the next tribute demand.”
***
April 24, 1213.
Hart, who was preparing for the expedition in a clearing in the forest, raised the severed head and lifted the corners of his mouth. Salt-pickled Ben, the man who had acted more bravely than anyone else with the hope that salvation would soon arrive .
He had stepped forward to represent the village’s position, and the price he paid was dire.
Hart grabbed Salt-pickled Ben’s hair and lifted it up, wetting his ax with the drops of blood dripping from the cut surface. Soon, the blade of the ax turned crimson as if it had rusted, and Hart smiled with satisfaction.
“Even in the pasture, there was one guy with real guts.”
Gohr, on the other hand, stared into Salt-pickled Ben’s dead eyes with a serious expression as he selected the scouts.
“Perhaps, as we feared, they have made contact with the great warrior from the stars of the alien world.”
“Hmm?”
“They are not the kind of people who would suddenly become so resolute as to refuse tribute in this way.”
“Gohr, you think too little of the human bloodline.”
Hart replied, tucking the ax into his belt, thinking it was sufficiently wet. He still held onto Salt-pickled Ben’s hair.
“The land-dwellers were once our compatriots. They are of our bloodline, who knew how to serve God, so what’s so strange about them suddenly becoming brave?”
“General…”
“What, I’m just talking.”
Hart bared his teeth with a hiss, wetting his hand with the blood dripping from Salt-pickled Ben’s neck.
“It’s been a while since I met a decent person, so I’m talking nonsense.”
With those words, Hart handed Salt-pickled Ben’s head to Gohr.
“Gather the warriors. We will do as the chief said.”
“What did he say?”
“When the rock is hard, the water will just bend. We don’t need to waste time dealing with their schemes.”
General Hart was a rare case who possessed both the ardor of youth and respect for the older generation.
He was also one of the few warriors who had overcome the weakness of relying solely on individual valor.
“Let’s land in one breath and crush them. Gohr, I will give you 100 warriors. Have them march into the forest and make them guard the land.”
This was why the scout Gohr held Hart in high esteem.
Gohr silently nodded, turning his cloak over.
“Gods, bless your warrior for his righteous cause.”
“Gods, reward the faithful.”
With that, the warriors’ camp began to pack up rapidly.
The warriors were split into two groups, one carrying the overturned boats towards the river and one disappearing into the forest. The former was led by Hart, the war chief, and the latter by Gorr, the scout.
Gorr watched the backs of the warriors carrying the boats for a moment, his jaw set, before he turned and began walking with a brisk pace.
“Let’s go. For the favor of the gods!”
His men and companions shrugged and rolled their eyes.
“Heh, Gorr. So eager.”
“Sometimes, Gorr needs to feel important.”
None of them doubted their victory as they strode through the forest.
The warriors were strong and the groundlings pathetically weak. Even Gorr, normally a cautious soul, ignored omens he would normally have taken note of, so caught up was he in the excitement of leading his own warband for the first time, a trust given to him by the war chief.
They still had time before the enemy arrived. They would deal with it then, win easily with the gods’ favor…
As this thought ran through their minds, the forest path towards Coville grew silent, save for the occasional muttered jokes and nudges from Gorr’s men.
Crack.
The sound of gravel being stepped on made them glance around absently.
“Hah. Even the beasts run from us.”
“We’re on campaign, In’seok. You can hunt later.”
Clank.
The sound of metal on metal brought memories of a recent battle.
“Nice sound, that chainmail. Where’d you get it?”
“Heh heh, envious? I just bashed in some groundling warrior’s skull and took it off him.”
“Hmph. I’ll just aim for the skull next time.”
“With your skills?”
Swish.
The sound of a blade sliding into its scabbard was met with an appreciative whistle.
“Groundling warriors fought with these? And they lost?”
“Man…the balance, the craftsmanship…it’s a fine blade, a fine blade.”
“He he, don’t get too attached. You’ll have plenty more when we defeat the groundlings.”
But Gorr, his eyes narrowed, was staring into the sun-dappled forest.
One of the warriors noticed his gaze and nudged the chattering group, his face serious.
“Uh-oh, Gorr’s angry. Shut up.”
“Shhh…”
At that moment, Gorr spoke.
“We’re surrounded.”
“What?”
A breeze blew through the trees then.
The leaves of the armdri trees rustled in the wind, and a thin ray of sunlight peeked through the canopy. The warriors squinted for a moment, dazzled.
When the leaves settled, a faint sound reached their ears.
“Grrr…”
“Heber?”
Thud.
One of the warriors clutched his throat and collapsed onto the dirt.
At the same time, a human figure began to emerge from the dense forest, where even sunlight could not penetrate.
“Tsk.”
Annoyance flickered in his obsidian-like, jet-black eyes.
A sigh escaped his youthful face.
“I’m in no position to tell the archers to aim for the eyes.”
The figure, draped in a black cloak over a unique style of lamellar and chain armor, drew a dagger from his belt.