Vol 8, Chapter 20

◆ First Duchy, Len POV ◆

"...today I expect your full effort, and don't you dare slack off!" hissed the Overseer, desperately trying to suck in his belly. It didn't work. His open cuirass bulged over his stomach, pushing up into his chin. Alas, there was no way to fasten it; the straps had long since grown too short for the Overseer's massive frame.

Still, the cuirass had been polished to an unbearable shine, dazzling the eyes even more than snow on a sunny day.

Normally, the Overseer didn't even put it on. In fact, he rarely came to the worksite at all. But today was a special occasion.

Hearing hoofbeats in the distance, the Overseer grabbed his whip and began shouting furiously at the loggers, driving them on. In truth, he only hindered them more than he motivated. The fat man was drenched in sweat from the unaccustomed effort… or perhaps from sheer fear. His beady little eyes darted back and forth, but he didn't dare turn toward the approaching steps, preferring to imitate a flurry of activity.

Len, however, easily stole a moment to glance away from the tree and assess the arriving lord.

At first glance, Baron Manus was a fairly typical representative of his social class. A pompous entourage, composed more of thugs than warriors. A large horse, though not a purebred Detrian. It was hard to judge the Baron's height while he was in the saddle, but he was certainly above average. Moderately muscular, though hardly anyone would call him handsome. Ugly, ridged scars branched across his neck; his nose looked chopped off, and his cheek was misshapen. It was difficult to see more: his doublet and fur cloak concealed not only the scars but heavy armor beneath. Strange… armor covered only his right arm and, oddly, his foot. When the Baron turned, Len saw clearly that the other side was entirely unarmored.

What sense was there in wearing only half a suit of armor?

Realizing he had stood idle too long, Len lowered his head and struck the tree a few times with his axe. He had no desire to draw attention to himself.

"There are fewer workers here than there should be, according to the village's headcount," said the Baron dryly, making the Overseer tremble harder.

"They… they're w-working at an-other site," he stammered.

"Is that so? Then let's go visit them as well?"

"O-oh, y-your lordship, that's a far gl-gl-glade deep in the forest, not worth your p-precious time!"

"Hm, very well." The Baron nodded, and the Overseer exhaled in relief, wiping away sweat. Too soon.

"Then we'll ride to the village and count every inhabitant."

"P-perhaps there's been a mistake, the number—"

"Enough lies! I already know everything. Your accomplice, the one who helped you cheat the Duchy, is already swinging from a rope. Your last words before you join him?"

Instead of answering, the Overseer bolted. Of course, he had no chance. He was tackled into the snow after scarcely a dozen steps.

"I-I'll give you all the silver! Spare me!" he cried as they dragged him to the Baron.

"I don't need silver; I need meat. And because of men like you, I have less meat than I thought. That puts me in an awkward position with our Duke," Manus replied calmly.

"I'll enlist in the army!"

"What use are you? You're more fat than flesh," the Baron snorted, pulling a rope from his saddlebag, clearly prepared beforehand. "Hang him from the nearest tree!"

The squealing Overseer was dragged to a tree, the noose thrown around his neck. The chopping of axes ceased; the loggers abandoned their work to silently watch the execution.

Two guards strained to hoist the former Overseer, failing to lift him into the air. Only when two more joined them did they succeed, and the fat lump was hauled up, legs kicking, onto the tree. The folds of fat were so thick it seemed the rope caused him no discomfort at all. At least, he never stopped begging the Baron for mercy.

Suddenly, a crack! With a dull thud, the carcass fell into the snow and, bouncing slightly, began crawling quickly toward Len. A broken rope dangled from his thick neck; it simply hadn't borne his weight.

Snorting, the Baron dismounted and strode swiftly after the runaway, delivering a crushing blow with his armored gauntlet. The skull caved inward, spraying Len with hot blood.

"Damn, I'd hoped not to dirty my hands…" the Baron muttered, clumsily wiping his gauntlet on the dead man's clothes.

One glance at his arm was enough for Len to understand. The Baron simply didn't have one.

An empty gauntlet, instead of a foot and right arm… and the scars on the right side of his face were deeper. Their cause was not hard to guess.

An explosion. Almost certainly not a fireball, but artillery.

A veteran, crippled by the Count's weapons and sent to the rear. A cripple, though at first glance it was hard to tell.

Every knight trained to use metal magic to lighten armor, strengthen blows, or even control the armor itself… if, for example, an arm was broken.

So why did the Baron use his armor as a replacement for lost limbs instead of regrowing them with a healer's help?

At first glance, steel prosthetics seemed ideal, but in reality they were vastly inferior to human arms. Even the most skilled mage could achieve better results using magic together with real limbs than relying on magic alone.

It seemed the First Duchy suffered from a severe shortage of healers, if even a baron could not access them.

Good news.

"So. You need a new overseer, correct? Rik, take these idlers under your supervision."

"Yes, my lord!"

"So then, serfs, listen well. This is Rik." The Baron patted the shoulder of a rather young, rough-looking guard with his steel hand. "From now on, Rik is your overseer, and you are to obey him as you would me. Understood?"

The woodcutters gave a ragged but agreeing murmur.

"From now on, the quota is ten times higher," he announced calmly.

Silence. Only the sound of the dead overseer's blood dripping onto frozen ground could be heard.

"My lord, this tree isn't so easily felled…" Dmitry dared to speak.

"Is that so?"

A hiss of steel, a strike…

The sword bit a quarter of the way into the trunk. An impressive feat, showing the Baron's strength, but…

Manus scowled in anger. He had expected to fell the tree with one blow. What a disgrace.

Pulling out the stuck blade with magic, he struck again, and again…

Exactly six blows, and the tree came crashing down, branches breaking with a deafening crack.

"I think even each one of you wretches can manage ten apiece by the end of the shift. Rik, I expect good news from you." With difficulty sheathing the bent sword, the Baron mounted his horse and rode off, leaving the new overseer in charge.

Dmitry let out a sigh of relief, having expected worse. Len, however, silently studied the overseer. Scruffy, unkempt, but still young, which meant not yet set in his ways. Would he become their ally, or an enemy?

"When's food coming?" one woodcutter asked.

"First, address me as 'sir.'" Rik immediately rushed over and struck him in the stomach, dropping the man to the ground. "Second, thanks to your pig of an overseer, there are problems with food. If you're lucky, it'll be brought to the village tonight. Until then, get to work. Quota is fifteen trees per head!"

"But the Baron said…"

Another punch silenced another worker.

"Your old overseer had his ways of making money; I have mine. Quota is fifteen trees each. Fail, and I'll flay you. Clear?"

The only reply was the hesitant thud of axes on wood. From two to fifteen! The quota had jumped seven and a half times. Few believed it possible at all. Some threw themselves into chopping desperately, others gave up in advance. Len coolly calculated his pace. He could make it, if he gave it everything… but he would have to work until evening. And surely there would be stragglers he'd need to help.

Work continued until nightfall. A short break to fetch torches from the village, then it began again.

Unlike the previous overseer, Rik did not leave the site, even snacking right there, pulling dry biscuits from his pouch. Pitiful food, but it still drew envy from the exhausted workers. The moon was already high when the last tree fell.

"Well, finally. You work like lazy squids. Who among you is in charge? Organize things so my share is dragged to the city. I want it there by morning."

Before the weary men could even grasp it, Len stepped forward.

"That's impossible," he answered firmly. A punch to the gut followed instantly.

"Then make it possible."

"Horses… wagons…" Len forced out through the pain.

The overseer raised his hand again, but Dmitry darted in front of him, waving his arms.

"I'll handle it. I'll try to organize everything."

"That's better. If you fail, you'll be whipped." Rik mounted his horse, lit a torch, and rode off.

The light disappeared into the darkness.

Dmitry exhaled. "What a day, eh, Len?"

"Why did you promise to deliver the wood to the city? You know it's impossible."

"And why did you step forward? I'm still the one in charge here," Dmitry reminded him.

Len said nothing. Yes, he knew this day would come. As much as he liked Dmitry… he had to seize power. Not for himself, but for everyone. To his surprise, though, the curator didn't threaten him. Instead, he offered his hand and helped him to his feet.

"I'm not angry. I can feel hard times are coming, and… I'll need your help. But know this, I'm keeping an eye on you. Even though you've lived here a month, you still don't understand much about how things really work. Our new friend knew as well as we did that it was impossible… he just needed to assert his authority. Don't worry, I've been through this before. We'll find a way to deal with him too." Dmitry smiled.

Len nodded. His stomach growled, an empty ache gnawing under his ribs.

The first workday ended deep into the night. Tools were put away, and the men trudged wearily back to the village, dragging their feet. Someone joked about a full ration, and spirits lifted. Perhaps now they would finally be fed properly?

One last push on the brink of exhaustion, and the village came into view. Despite the late hour, all the remaining residents stood clustered around the carts, arguing.

Sensing something wrong, Len and Dmitry quickened their pace. When the men returning from work appeared, women and children rushed to meet them. Among them was Olivia, Dmitry's wife. She immediately grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the carts.

"Did you see what they brought us? It's horrible!"

In the torchlight, the grain gleamed wetly with agate-like blotches. Black mold.

******

They had been robbed of food. The Saturday cart had brought enough grain for three whole weeks, which meant that for the next three weeks there would be no proper food at all.

Worse still, the village had no large reserves. Partly because supplies were always tight, partly because people had grown too used to someone always taking care of them. Only a few kept small stores in case a cart was delayed by a snowstorm. Even they had never imagined that one day they would be sent grain so utterly unfit to eat.

To eat anything touched by black mold was not merely dangerous, it was lethal poison. Washing or boiling would not help.

But something else could. No matter how bad the material for mash, it could still yield alcohol — so long as the yeast survived. For once, the village's addiction to drink might work in their favor.

After some time here, Len had realized that people didn't drink only to forget, but also for practical reasons. Alcohol gave them strength. The former overseer had cut rations so severely that alcohol became a passable substitute for many. They had adapted and could scrape by… but surviving on liquor alone was impossible.

Even if Len succeeded, even if the alcohol brewed from spoiled grain was drinkable, it would only delay their starvation.

Len dumped a new batch of grain into the mash and was about to light the fire to distill it when he stopped.

Damnation! They had another problem. The former overseer was dead, which meant all their old deals were dead too. On one hand, they could keep more product for themselves. On the other, it was vital to keep production hidden, or things would get far worse if the new overseer laid hands on it.

Len left the cellar and came face-to-face with Dmitry.

"How's the brewing?" Dmitry asked first thing.

"Not yet started." Len gestured at the pipe sticking up from the cellar. "We need to deal with this, otherwise even an idiot will realize something's being hidden."

Dmitry's expression darkened. He wasn't a fool, and he immediately understood what Len meant.

"We could use charcoal…" he suggested, but Len shook his head.

"It'll still be obvious. I thought of shaping a clay pipe and running it to the barracks, but… the cursed snow would melt from the heat and give us away, and we can't bury it in the ground anymore, it's frozen solid. Looks like we'll have to build a house over the cellar. Suspicious, yes, but by the Abyss, not as suspicious as a smoking pipe coming out of the ground!"

"All right, I'll get some of the men to light a fire here and start work. But… maybe let's talk in the cellar first."

Len returned to the kettle, noting how his rival stumbled clumsily on the steps.

"Fall?"

"Almost. I already met Rik. He says today's a workday too."

"On a Sunday?" Len raised an eyebrow. He himself wasn't surprised, but for the locals it bordered on sacrilege.

"Yes. He ordered everyone to the site after lunch. Right now he's gone to the city with some of the boys. Light the fire, we need to hurry and brew as much as possible before noon. Don't worry about quality."

Len reached for the birchbark kindling, but his hand froze halfway.

"Wait, did you say with the boys?"

"Yes. Rostislav and Kin. They went with him to the recruiter."

"What?" Len was stunned.

"They're smart lads. They saw which way the wind was blowing."

"You didn't stop them!"

"Was I supposed to? There's a shitstorm coming our way so big that believe me, they'll be far better off than us. What, you won't even wish them luck?"

"No," Len cut him off. "They're already living dead. The dead don't need luck, we'll need it more."

"Come on. I agree that a winter campaign is hell itself, trust me, I know from experience, but…"

A loud clang rang through the cellar as Len struck the cauldron hard with his hand.

"Damn it!"

It was his fault. Yes, he couldn't just start telling them the truth, they would have branded him an enemy and refused to listen, but still… he should have noticed their thoughts and convinced them otherwise. Now it was too late.

They were finished. They'd be ground to dust without a chance. They wouldn't even know what killed them; death would simply rain down from the sky.

New weapons were growing deadlier and more terrifying. When Len had left the County, he'd heard that a single new rifle could replace an entire regiment of musketeers. Perhaps the rumors exaggerated, but let's be honest, even the older weapons were enough to drown any new attack by the Duke in blood. Those who signed up for his army had no chance of survival.

And after getting to know them better, Len felt conflicted. For the first time, he almost regretted that they had no chance. They weren't so bad after all, just ordinary people.

Dmitry's voice pulled him from his thoughts.

"You know, last year Olaf wanted to sign up too. I told him how terrible winter campaigns are. You know the story, how the healer cut off two toes from each of my feet, and that I wouldn't wish the same fate on him. Back then I talked him out of it. But this time his friends left… Today, when I stood in the doorway and told him he wasn't going anywhere in winter, I didn't believe he'd listen, but…"

"He listened?" Len raised a brow.

"He said he's needed here and will go in spring. I suppose I can thank you for now, but don't interfere with his choice."

Len sighed in relief, letting Dmitry's words slide past his ears. Of course he would interfere and stop Olaf from making a mistake that would cost him his life. He had failed to save Rostislav and Kin, but that didn't mean all was lost. He could not retreat, could not give up, or more would die. Maybe it was time for an accident to befall the Herald?

Len thoughtfully lit the fire. Rage flared within him along with the furnace.

"Damn it, did those two really just run from hard wo'k?" Len exclaimed, trying to silence his inner voice.

"Listen, it's not just about hard work," Dmitry shook his head with a heavy sigh. "Rik says we won't be getting proper grain. At all. Not in a week, not in a month. The Baron seems furious about the ration scam, and it feels like he's decided to starve us out. For now only you and I know. We need to find a way before the next batch of spoiled grain arrives. When it does, panic will start, and people do foolish things when they panic. So Ros and Kin got off easy, at least they'll be fed, unlike us."

"But you didn't let your son go," Len struck the weak spot at once.

Dmitry nodded. "You're right, I didn't. But if we can't manage, I'll tie him up myself and drag him to the recruiter. Better that than dying of hunger."

"Haven't you realized that's exactly what the Baron wants?!" Len snapped. "He practically said so outright at the site, damn you!"

"I realized. I understood perfectly. But what can we do? That's it."

The mash began to boil. Drop by drop, liquor condensed and trickled into the vessel.

"You want to trade everything we have for food? Through the patrols?"

"Yes, but not through patrols. They don't deal in such volumes; this isn't a bolt of cloth from the city. We need food for the whole village," Dmitry said seriously, smiling faintly.

That smile made Len's mind work faster. So he had a plan. Wait… brew as much as possible before noon. At noon the new overseer would drive everyone to the site. Since there was no quota that day, all the work would be for him. And while he was gone to the city… gone for a cart?

Everything clicked into place.

"Will the patrols let a cart through to another village?" Len asked a single question, and Dmitry's smile widened.

"I didn't make you my right hand for nothing. Yes, usually they don't let peasants through, but if it's the overseer making the deal, there should be no problem. We'll use that and buy grain from the neighboring villages on the way back. It's the only thing I can think of."
​
It was a good plan.

*****

They were lucky. Rik had no intention of wasting time supervising every delivery of timber to the city. Once a half-loaded cart left his sight, new cargo was quickly added: clay jugs of purified liquor.

"Don't spill it, don't spill it!" Dmitry fretted as he helped load the jugs alongside the black logs.

The villagers saw off the improvised food caravans with hope and tears in their eyes. With half-rations, they had almost no reserves for a rainy day. The specter of hunger always loomed.

Four hours later, the first cart returned from the city.

"It's coming!" a grimy boy shouted, running barefoot through the snow, leaving tracks behind.

A whole crowd poured into the street at once. Everyone looked on the sacks piled on the cart with joy and awe.

"Unload it quickly, I have to get to the site," Dmitry barked sharply. His face was grim. People paid no attention.

They should have.

One man hurriedly untied a sack and plunged his dirty hand inside. A musty, damp stench filled the frosty air at once. The stench of rot, the stench of mold. The serf stared in disbelief at the handful of grain he pulled out, blackened with fungus.

It wasn't a ration scam. It wasn't punishment for a thieving overseer.

All the villages in the district had received nothing but black grain.