Vol 8, Chapter 19

◆ First Duchy, Len POV ◆

Just a few days and a dozen attempts allowed him to cast a fairly decent pipe… at least from a goblin's point of view. Uneven and crooked, full of voids, but he wasn't going to be shooting from it anyway, as long as the moonshine flowed through, it was fine. He even put together a box specially for the pipe, into which he would pour cold water, and when the stream froze, it could be packed with ice and snow. The fact that the pipe turned out a bit too short wasn't all that terrible. Of course, it would have been better if he could have coiled it like a snake… but it would still work. The main thing was for the alcohol vapors to have enough time to cool and condense into droplets.

"Still working, Len? Today is Sunday," Olaf pulled him out of his thoughts. Over the past days they hadn't really become friends, but Len had gradually managed to win the role of a mentor. He hadn't even noticed how more and more people started coming to watch him trying to improve the moonshine still.

"Yes, I know it's Sun'day, and so what?"

"The Herald will be here soon, everyone must attend. Father is already gathering people."

Len cast a glance at the slowly cooling mold of the future thumper. Nothing could be left lying around here; people here could steal absolutely anything. Once, someone had even taken the charcoal prepared for the furnace!

But if everyone had to attend… then there would be no one left to steal!

"All'ight, let's go. By the way, your father… is he the el'der of this village?"

"Nope, elders are outlawed. If a commoner declares himself head of a village, he'll be hanged on the spot. So it's more like… father fills in for the overseer, that's all. Only in words; it's not a title, just… well, they came to an agreement."

"Unofficial," Len inserted.

"Yes, yes! Actually, it shouldn't be like that at all, overseers are supposed to live in the village and watch over everything themselves, but ours lives in the city and only visits sometimes. So the elder is the closest thing to an overseer, since he answers to the lord. But we haven't had a lord for a long time… that's why it's such a mess."

"No Lord? What happened to him?" Len asked.

"He died, half a year ago. His demons burned him in the Goblin Forest along with the knights and two heirs; curse them. No one was left, so we just live like this, waiting for a new one to be appointed. And his castle, it's near the city, huge!" Olaf said with sparkling eyes.

Len nodded, though by his standards the castle was tiny: just a wall and a citadel, that's all. But for a boy who had never left his home village, even that was impressive.

Overall, the structure of power was becoming clearer, but the more Len learned, the less he understood what he was supposed to do.
Usually, there was a tyrant, whose overthrow every peasant secretly supported. To persuade people to take up pitchforks, one had to suffocate their fear, inspire confidence, infect them with the mad idea that overthrowing the tyrant was possible… but tell him, how could he start an uprising when there was no one here to rise up against? The lord was absent, the overseer practically too, and no one was being forced to work. People were, in general, content with their existence.
A puzzle; he had never faced one like this before.

Together with Olaf, chattering endlessly about shining armor, they approached the village square, where a platform had been set up in the center. Len grimaced, such places stirred inner disgust in him ever since he himself had nearly been executed on a similar square. Though, it didn't look like anyone was about to be executed here: no gallows, no executioner. But there was some prisoner nonetheless.

From the wagon that had arrived, a pair of guards were pulling out a cage with someone crumpled inside.

The crowd parted to let through two guards escorting a puffed-up, self-important figure. Looked like this was the Herald.

His clothes resembled a peasant's, but at first glance it was clear he was only trying to look like one. Immaculately clean, ironed, even the patches were sewn not from necessity but for style. On his chest was a silver chain, a sign that he spoke on behalf of the Duke himself.

"Greetings to you, great people of the First Duchy, the finest people of the kingdom! Once again, week after week, we face with dignity the unimaginable hardships that besiege us and our lands!" His trained voice carried over the crowd.

Len grimaced. Banal flattery? Who would fall for that?

The faces of those around lit up with inspiration. Some, unable to contain themselves, shouted and raised their fists. The whole crowd was catching the enthusiasm; the Herald stirred up their dreary swamp with nothing but his presence.

"While the unfortunate peasants of other lands suffer unimaginably, since they do not have such a great, wise, and mighty ruler — we know no hardship thanks to his noble generosity. But alas, however vast and powerful the First Duchy may be, there are still lands that have not yet passed under our lord's rule. Lands that suffer and languish without his wise governance! Last time I told you about the horror that the poor boatman Robin experienced when he was merely fishing on Lake Lothingham. The horror he felt when his boat was torn apart, and he himself survived only by a miracle thanks to the griffons who came to drive away the unholy demon Condor! Today I will tell you the story of a tiny village called Shir, which lay on the border of the Holy Theocracy, and of the troubles that befell it because of the evil that poisons this world… You may ask, who lets this evil into our world?"

"Condors!" voices shouted from around, making Len frown.

"No, no, do not be hasty in your answer. We will return to that, and I shall bring you irrefutable proof of my words. For now, listen to the story of Shir… and of the miller named Jacob."

The crowd froze as if hypnotized, like a trained dog whose mouth waters the moment its master carries out a bowl of scraps.

"Shir! This poor and miserable village lay on the border of the Holy and Radiant Theocracy. Hunger. Epidemics! Deaths every day! Only the distant echoes of the holy light rising beyond the horizon brought any joy to the locals' lives! Poor Jacob was frail of health, but he inherited the work at the mill, to which he was in no way suited. Yet there was no wise overseer to appoint him to fitting labor within his power. Day after day, from dawn till dusk, he toiled to exhaustion until his spirit nearly left his body! He could not stop, for the greedy elder forced him to work without rest, and no one could oppose him because Shir had no Great Duke and no righteous army of Light to hang this scoundrel! Jacob had nothing to set against the vile villain, for he threatened the only ray of light in his wretched life: his beautiful wife and daughter, who barely survived under the weight of hunger!"

The Herald finally paused to catch his breath, and a guard immediately handed him a cup of water.

Len was astonished to find that people around him had begun whispering and pitying Jacob. It made no sense to him, for the Herald contradicted himself! If the village had no grain, then the miller would have had no work… but none of the listeners paid any attention to such inconsistencies.

"They barely scraped by, and evil did not fail to come and tempt them. One day, a strange man arrived in the village, reeking of sulfur and coal. He brought with him ungodly, clattering spawns of the abyss, machines that did all the work of men! They chopped wood, fetched well water on their own, threshed grain, all the while exhaling steam and hellfire! The man… no, the demon! The demon promised every worldly blessing if only they would renounce their faith in the One! And the naïve villagers gave in. The sun set over the village and never rose again; eternal night fell! The bewitched villagers did not notice how their lives slid into the abyss, while those whose eyes remained open, those who resisted — the elder himself cut them down with his huge sword!

You ask, what kind of demon masquerading as a man was this? Who brought ruin upon Shir? It was the envoy of the abyss itself, which, writhing in disgust, spewed him into our world! Count Condor! With demonic laughter he flew over the village like a carrion crow, and each night he took children for his demonic rituals to sustain the sinful un-life of his steel monsters! Even the earth twisted in revulsion, and at last it cursed all the villagers, unable to distinguish anymore between life and death, between flesh and metal! The poor peasants became undead, and the elder's flesh peeled from his face like sheepskin, revealing his true essence — a vile necromancer!

Len grew darker with each passing moment. He had never heard greater nonsense in his life, but worst of all was that people were nodding and waving in approval, even Olaf. The whole crowd boiled with righteous fury, only Dmitry remained indifferent.

"Having sworn fealty to their demonic master, the army of the dead set forth on a march into our lands, to destroy all that is good and righteous! They are coming straight for us, to turn us into their mute slaves! And only the holy host, led by our great First Duke, will have the strength to stop it! But! You may ask, how do I know all this? How can we be certain that events truly unfolded this way? Listen well! This tale was told to us by Jacob himself!"

The guards opened the cage, dragging its contents out into the light of day. The crowd craned their necks toward the large figure. Even Len didn't immediately notice that the creature was dressed in a blacksmith's clothes, not a miller's as the Herald had claimed. But that seemed like a minor detail compared to the hacked-off arms, the torn-out jaw, the thick blood-soaked neck, the numerous holes in the broad chest. No one could survive such wounds, yet none of this stopped the corpse from wheezing and staggering unevenly toward the Herald. The man casually accepted a sword from the guard and drove it hard into the zombie's chest, then stepped aside, letting the spectators watch the dead man shuffle about the platform, unfazed by the blade protruding from his back.

"Save us, One, from these dead!" whispered voices around.

The Herald spread his arms wide and, in a dramatic tone, proclaimed:

"Neither living nor dead! Forever cursed, the poor miller! This is the filth our warriors protect you from, and their masters besides. I remind you that, in his mercy, the Duke grants everyone a chance to join the fight against evil! To enlist in his army…"

"I have a question!" Len raised his hand, making the Herald falter in surprise. He wasn't used to being interrupted.

"Very well, I'm listening."

"You said Jacob was weak and frail, but this man was clearly tall and strong in life. How is that?"

"Ha-ha, ignoramus. The demonic forces of darkness twisted his body, filled it with unholy might!" the Herald parried smoothly. But Len had chosen this question deliberately.

"So the demonic forces of darkness also re-dressed the miller as a blacksmith?" he asked innocently.

The Herald froze. The idea of dark powers redressing millers threw him completely off balance.

Farce. Even those who had listened open-mouthed to the tale of Jacob snorted. Laughter rippled through the crowd. The spell of mass delusion dissipated in an instant.

"It's the clothing…" he began to explain, but Len shouted:

"It's scorched with blacksmith's spa… bmmph-bmmph!"

He wasn't allowed to finish. Dimitry deftly clamped a hand over his mouth and smoothly addressed the Herald:

"Forgive my friend, he's new and doesn't even know what he's saying. Of course, he just confused a blacksmith's apron with a miller's, the fool!"

"Where is your overseer?" Instead of accepting the excuse, the Herald asked.

"He's in town, sir."

"Idler. Then I'll have to visit him and discuss how his peasants don't know how to behave, and remind him of his duties."

Breaking off his speech mid-sentence, the Herald ordered the guards to lock the corpse back in the cage, then strode toward his wagon. The crowd gradually began to disperse. Len wouldn't have been surprised if they were angry with him, but… On the contrary, the stoked fury dissipated, and people left in good spirits. Likely, they didn't get many chances to laugh. A pity, though, that one joke wasn't enough to shake their deeply rooted beliefs about what was evil and what was good.

"Do you bel'ieve in all that?" Len asked Dimitry.

He only shrugged, but Len pressed on. After all, Dimitry was the only one who hadn't been swept up in the Herald's hate-mongering.

"Tell me, do you bel'ieve that everything he said was the truth?" Len repeated insistently.

"What does it matter, truth or lie? I believe what I'm supposed to believe. Life is calmer that way. Are you by any chance from Shir?"

"No, I lived in the barony of Bathory," Len lied.

"Yes, I've heard of it. Foolish woman, even if she was noble. A woman should never rule! She ought to have gone to bow before the Duke earlier—then she'd still be alive…"

But Len didn't continue the conversation. In Reikland, there weren't so many people that women could be left idle. On the contrary, a curious situation had arisen: since they had more free time, women attended school far more than men, and as a result, they became literate more quickly. Consequently, women increasingly took bureaucratic and administrative posts, much to the grumbling of the men. But Len wasn't troubled by that at all. Whoever could work should work, applying all their strength for a brighter future. Only labor makes a person human and pushes progress forward. If women had the strength for the mines, he'd send them there too. But alas, not everywhere could they prove themselves… If they were capable of handling paperwork, then better let them do it, rather than someone who could be engaged in heavier labor. From each according to their ability, as the saying goes.

"How is the work going?" Seeing Len wasn't interested, Dimitry immediately changed the subject.

"A couple more days and we can test it. Only need volunteers."

"Well, for this kind of thing, there'll be a whole line of volunteers, ha-ha. It's a blessing to know you're finishing up, but just… remember. You humiliated our guest, and he won't forgive that. I'll cover for you with the overseer—he's an understanding man. If you prove useful, he won't get rid of you. But if nothing comes of your project, don't say I didn't warn you. I told you not to cause trouble."

Len only smiled. Dimitry didn't yet know what kind of trouble Len intended to cause them all.

*****

Three days later, the tightly sealed kettle boiled fiercely.

Steam flowed through a copper pipe, descended into a copper chamber, left behind the foul volatile oils, and then moved onward. Through winding copper coils, through a box filled with icy water—until it finally dripped into a waiting mug.

Dimitry deftly swapped the full mug for an empty one, wasting not a drop, and took a swig of the moonshine.

"Very strong, but clean," he pronounced.

"May I try?" asked one of the peasants. The mug quickly passed from hand to hand.

"This can be drunk for pleasure, not just to forget," one croaked in satisfaction.

Shouts of celebration filled the cellar. No one even wanted to wait for the drink to settle.

"Not bad, not bad. But before, from this mash we got three liters, and now we don't even get one," Dimitry said, disappointing them all.

Len could have pointed out that it could now be diluted, turned into base for other drinks. But then his victory would not feel complete.

Another task stood before him: scaling up the production of mash.

He already imagined how to do it, having once personally visited a pulp mill. Only… that path was closed to him. He couldn't assemble a steam engine, even knowing how it worked. He had neither the material, nor the tools, nor the skills.

But he had something else. Knowledge.

Knowledge that mash could be distilled from anything, as long as it contained sweetness. The lord had called it carbohydrates, though what water and coal had to do with it Len never quite understood. But he did know where there was plenty of that stuff. In the cursed pipeweed plant that had overrun the entire region! Of course, turning it into mash would take effort, but he was confident it would work.

"So, we really will be able to drink… this?" one peasant asked, incredulous at his good fortune. After only a single sip of the swill they used to drink before, Len could fully understand his joy.

"What if the overseer takes control of it once he finds out…" another muttered, worried. His voice carried hostility and the readiness to fight to the death for this paradise spring.

A spark lit in Len's mind. There it was.

From the first day he realized where he was, doubt had gnawed at him.

The life of an ordinary peasant was hard. Even if the lord was not cruel with taxes, he still had to work endlessly, always mindful of risk.

A peasant household wasn't so different from that of a craftsman. The community, led by an elder, decided what surplus to sell, how much to keep for seed. The lord rarely intervened. Those who tried to steal from the community got a beating from the community itself, for all knew survival depended on sticking together. Who would guard your back if goblins attacked? Who would join you in searching for a missing child? Peasants were used to taking responsibility for their lives—even more than free-spirited mercenaries. In fact, mercenaries were often those who had run away from responsibility to their community and families.

But these "peasants"… they were nothing like their working-class kin. They were too accustomed to harming the community for the tiniest personal gain. They weren't just willing to slaughter someone else's chicken for meat—they were ready to die trying. Life to them was so unbearable that they deliberately drowned it in alcohol.

They saw no value in their own lives, and even less in the lives of others. Mutual aid? An empty phrase. Len was certain that if goblins attacked the village, each one would hide in their own hut rather than join in defense.

Such people could not be given freedom—they didn't understand it. To impose it on them by force would be a disaster. They were too used to parasitizing: leave them seed reserves, and they'd distill it into mash and starve. They were used to the lord caring for them, not letting them die. Leave everything as it was, merely change leadership… and they would start undermining that too.

But why was it this way?

These people had nothing. They received food that fell into their laps almost for free, because the overseer had rigged a fraudulent scheme. All they had to do was keep their heads down and stay silent. They weren't paid money, so they couldn't save up or change anything in their lives. Their only currency was alcohol. A senseless pride in the Duchy's successes, since they had none of their own, and just as senseless a hatred of everyone around them… because the ones they truly hated, deep down, were themselves.

He had found the answer to the question that had gnawed at him almost from the very first day: "how to make them fight?" They had nothing to lose, nothing worth fighting for. The answer was simple: he had to make people's lives better; he had to give them something. Only then, once they had something that could be taken from them, would they begin to fight for it. There was no point telling them that a worker could live warm and well-fed; he had to show them.

Even if the first step was nothing more than decent booze that didn't stink of bedbugs.

*****

A month flew by unnoticed. The village was buried in snow. Every day, Len tried to work for the good of the community: he patched the cracks in the barrack, cut down the shabby stalks of grass poking through the snow, cleared paths and walkways so they could be easily used. Of course, he didn't do this simply out of service to people sunk in laziness. His goal was not to wait on them, but to infect them with his example. To show that life could be better. With harsh words, curses, reproaches, threats, arguments, wagers, and kind words… gradually he got more and more people to come out with him to do useful work.

Soon, every Saturday, he was leading nearly half the village into the frosty streets. Of course, not everyone liked it, but seeing the improvements around them, those people could do nothing but grumble and drink.

Quality alcohol allowed Dimitry to barter for new goods for the village, trading through patrols or the occasional merchant caravan. Gradually, people even began talking about whether they should acquire an anvil. Of course, it was only a dream: they would need whole barrels of alcohol for that, but… before, they hadn't even had dreams like that.

The overseer didn't interfere with this idyll, though he demanded an ever larger share in exchange for turning a blind eye. Len saw the growing resentment in people when they handed over their hard-earned alcohol to the hog, and he rubbed his hands.

Everything was going according to his plan.

At least, until word arrived from the city.

The Duke had appointed a new lord to replace the one who had died. The season of freedom for overseers was over.

Once Baron Manus settled into his castle, he would inspect each of his villages.