6kv Chapter 14: The Eagle and the Guest
Chapter 14: The Eagle and the Guest
The sweltering heat of the long summer was like a layer of damp, hot felt, tightly covering this newly born territory.
The mud along the ferry crossing was baked slightly white by the sun, but in the depressions near the oak grove, the soil still had a dark brown hue.
The buzzing of flies formed a low, continuous web.
As Patrick Mellist dismounted, his boots plunged directly into a puddle of oily, muddy water.
He did not bow his head.
There were eight horses in total. Accompanying them were six cavalrymen wearing blue and purple robes from the city of Haijiang, and a clerk with scrolls of parchment hanging from his waist.
Otto stood beside the unfinished boundary marker base, his right hand hanging naturally at the hilt of his sword, his left shoulder slightly tilted.
Three days after the dislocation was reduced, large patches of bruising still appeared around his collarbone. He was only wearing a faded linen armor, over which was a chainmail with dark red bloodstains on the edges.
"Lord Patrick." Otto knelt on one knee, his movements slightly stiff due to the injury to his left shoulder, but he rose without any hesitation in the frequency and extent of his movements.
Patrick was half a head taller than Otto, and his short beard was neatly trimmed.
He didn't immediately respond to the greeting. His gaze swept over Otto's shoulder, past the blacksmith's shop billowing with black smoke, past the craftsmen working on new wood with planes, and finally settled on the row of towering structures to the south.
"Take me through it all," Patrick said calmly.
They walked toward the riverbank. Pollifer, carrying an oak plank with parchment sandwiched between its sides, followed five paces behind.
The scribes of Haijiang City also drew their charcoal pencils.
Patrick stopped at the edge of the dark brown mud.
This is where the meat grinder operates most violently. Even though the people have cleaned up the battlefield, broken shield fragments and crumpled sausage casings can still be seen deep in the grass.
Patrick crouched down, his gloved fingers parting a clump of flattened reeds to pick up half an arrow shaft.
The fracture surface is rough and exhibits an irregular splitting pattern.
"Your archers are in the woods." Patrick stood up without turning around. "They spared the front ranks, shooting at the horses' legs and unarmored areas."
"Yes." Otto looked at the muddy ground. "After the first volley, they drew their short swords and joined the flank."
"Four men held off a charge of fifteen cavalrymen?" Patrick turned around, his deep eyes fixed on Otto.
"A square of thirty infantrymen stood at the front," Otto said in a flat tone. "They couldn't break through the spears, and once their horses slowed down, their weight became a disadvantage. My men used their weight to push and shove, crushing them to death in the mud."
Patrick silently measured the distance from the oak grove to the riverbank.
He replayed the brief but bloody battle in his mind. There were no duels between knights, no shouts of honor, only a wall of spears that pierced through well-armored enemies like slaughtering livestock in the narrow, muddy ground.
"How many of your men did you lose?"
"Nine are dead, and five can no longer hold weapons." Otto looked into Patrick's eyes. "Twenty-six are left."
The clerk of Haijiang City quickly jotted down the number.
Patrick's brow twitched slightly.
He bypassed the muddy ground and headed straight for the southern boundary.
Eleven pine stumps stood silently in the sweltering wind.
The tar was applied thickly, melting in the sunlight, black droplets dripping down the wood grain. The pungent smell of the preservative masked the stench of rotting flesh. Each skull had been pierced through the jawbone, the hollow eye sockets staring fixedly south.
The cavalrymen of Haijiang City reined in their horses ten paces away. Several warhorses snorted restlessly.
The clerk stopped in his tracks, his face turned pale, and he covered his nose with his sleeve.
Patrick walked to the central wooden stake. It was the head of the knight who had led the group; though unrecognizable, the features of the Blackwood family were still faintly discernible.
He didn't count. He just looked up at it for a long time.
"Earl Jason believes these heads should be sent to the dungeons of Seafront City as evidence of Blackwood's transgression," Patrick said, his gaze shifting from the top of the stake to the iron buckle on Otto's collar, "instead of sticking them on the boundary marker like a warning to wild beasts."
“Send it to Seafront City; that would be a long negotiation between vassals. Raventree City will whine, deny it, and say it's bandits.” Otto’s expression was as hard as the mud on the riverbank. “It’s planted here so that the next person who wants to wade across this river knows that Hohenzollern territory leaves no survivors. My lord, I need time; a stake will buy me more time than parchment.”
Patrick looked at Otto's face, which was only seventeen years old but exuded a kind of inhuman coldness.
His lips twitched slightly, what appeared to be a very brief, cold laugh.
"You haven't forgotten a single thing your father taught you in the Second Sons' Regiment. Go inside and look at the accounts."
Inside the longhouse, the stuffiness was even more intense.
Pollifer pushed the ledger to the center of the table. The clerk from Sea Frontier immediately pounced on it, his fingers quickly sliding along the rough ink.
He stopped at the section for survivor's benefits.
"Fifteen silver deer of gold dragon value for the dead, twelve for the wounded..." The clerk looked up, his eyes filled with shock. "One thousand three hundred and fifty silver deer in cash? Sir Hohenzollern, how could the taxes of the territory possibly be..."
"The compensation must be paid out on the spot," Otto interrupted him, without explaining the source of the money. "The blood cannot be shed in vain. The way those twenty-six survivors look at me has changed. Next time any more Blackwood men come, they'll tear the enemy's throat apart."
Patrick ignored the issue of the compensation. His finger pressed on another piece of parchment—a list of silver mine production.
"A 40/60 split. Seafront City takes 60%." Patrick's voice echoed in the longhouse. "But this month's ore production is less than half of last month's. Otto, Seafront City can shield you from Blackwood's legal accountability, but that protection isn't free."
"Too many laborers have died or been injured; the mine's progress has come to a halt." Otto took off an iron ring and placed it on the table with a dull thud. "I'm going to Fair City."
"Buying slaves?"
"Recruit refugees. No family members allowed, just strong men." Otto looked at the output figures. "I need to recruit fifteen adult men to resume mining. Within two months, the 60% share for Haijiang City will be fully secured."
Patrick stared at Otto for a long time.
He was assessing the value of the boy before him: ruthlessness, pragmatism, an unbridled will to survive, and absolute transparency regarding his master's interests.
This is exactly the vicious dog that Haijiang City needs most on the banks of the Blue Fork River.
"Go ahead and do it." Patrick picked up the leather gloves on the table. "Remember your promise. As long as the silver is still being transported to Haijiang City, those eleven wooden stakes will forever be a testament to the defense against bandits."
Just after 1 p.m., the entourage from Haijiang City departed along the official road with the scrolls in hand.
The sound of horses' hooves was quickly swallowed up by the chirping of cicadas in the long summer.
The air in the longhouse finally seemed to begin to circulate. Pollifer leaned against the doorframe, his linen coat completely soaked with cold sweat.
"He didn't ask where the pension came from," Pollifer said, panting.
"He knows I have a trump card. As long as I don't touch that 60% mining tax, he won't reveal it." Otto stood up, his left shoulder slightly slumped, and walked outside. "Grab the shovel. Come with me."
In the northeast corner of the territory, a dead old elm tree casts a small, distorted shadow in the heat.
Two hundred paces from the longhouse. Avoiding the sight of all the craftsmen and guards.
Otto stood under the tree, took the shovel with his intact right hand, and without letting Pollifer do it for him, directly dug up the seemingly undisturbed rammed earth under the tree roots.
At a depth of half a foot, the shovel hit a hard object.
A wooden box wrapped in cowhide soaked in tar.
Otto crouched down and lifted the leather lid. There was no lock, and when the lid was opened, there was no glitter of gold. There were only rows of neatly stacked silver deer, covered in old stains, and a few parchment scrolls stamped with the mark of the Old Town Money Exchange.
This is the real legacy left by old Hohenzollern after spending most of his life working on the continent of Essos, and it is also the true lifeblood of the territory.
"Take out four hundred." Otto stared at the reflection in the box, his voice as cold as ice. "Tomorrow morning, go to Fair City. Remember, only those who are starving and desperate. The mines don't support idlers, nor do they need kindness."
Pollifer knelt in the dirt, counting the silver coins one by one.
The cicadas' chirping on the old elm tree was shrill and piercing. Meanwhile, further south, on the walls of Crowtree City, the butterfly wings that had been flapped by false intelligence were gathering a storm in the sweltering heat of the long summer.