Knight Ludlow

The Friendly Exchange had finally wound to a close, and everyone busied themselves packing up for the journey home.

I went looking for the carriage where Karaton was resting, determined to squeeze in one last teabagging. When I knocked, a small window slid open along the side, revealing the man's stuffed-sausage face.

"Ah... it's you. What is it now? If this is about Ludlow, then that matter is already settle—"

"I came to offer my thanks. Thanks to you, not only I but everyone from my estate had a truly delightful time."

I bowed at the waist, taking a polite half-step back. And that much was my honest heart. It genuinely had been fun.

"Which is why I was thinking — perhaps we might hold another such 'friendly exchange' sometime."

Throwing a festival of today's scale would strain even Karaton's purse considerably. Still, once might have been a price he could stomach.

But doing it all again? An event that had left him with not one good memory and nothing but pointless expense?

"Th-that thought... I sh-shall give it... some c-consideration!"

"You'll review it positively, then? Understood. I wish you a safe journey home."

Yet, to my surprise, no word of refusal came out of the man's mouth. I knew it. I knew this would happen.

A man bearing the title of baron had a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠noble reputation to uphold. If Karaton blurted out 'Are you mad? Never again!' to my face, then...

Rumors along those lines would spread like wildfire, and nobody understood better than he did just how devastating that would be to his standing — which was exactly why I had raised the subject, utterly certain he couldn't refuse.

"Then am I to understand it will be held again next year?"

"N-next year... might be a b-bit difficult... B-but once preparations are in order, I shall send word, so do wait! Now then!"

Having narrowly escaped next year, Karaton slammed the window shut on the spot. From inside the departing carriage, the sound of groaning only grew louder.

"Revenge really is satisfying, no matter how big or small."

Putting Karaton in his place — success. Saving Laura — success. Recruiting new talent — success. And...

"Well now, what a fun day this was, eh? Wouldn't you say?"

"My thoughts exactly. If only every day could be like today."

Giving our farmers a chance to refresh themselves — success. Who knew how long it had been since they'd rested with an easy heart, instead of tilling the fields from dawn to dusk.

"My lord, you have to leave before the sun sets completely!"

"Coming! Everyone, double-check you haven't forgotten anything!"

At Laura's call, I straightened my shoes and headed over. The lightness in everyone's homeward steps was surely not just my imagination.

Ludlow looked at Reus and repeated a thought he had lost count of how many times he'd thought before.

What a strange man. Why did he choose me? From the way he fought earlier, he clearly has real martial ability of his own.

A territory without a single knight — he could understand wanting to recruit one. But never in his wildest imaginings had he thought the man would pick him.

"My lord. Come to think of it, I packed a few of those fresh-baked loaves. Would you care for them?"

"Did you? I'd be glad to have them. I won't say no."

He knew a lord needed to maintain close ties with his peasants, but he had never in his life seen the two sides mingle so freely, without a shred of airs.

With Karaton, Mulat would have barred a peasant long before he got within arm's reach, and the soldiers would have driven him off besides.

"Say, Laura? What do you think about taking today completely off and doing the work tomorrow instead?"

"If you rested through the morning and the afternoon, then you'll simply have to work at night. Several documents have piled up."

"Come on, honestly — I'm the one who didn't get to rest? I hauled sandbags, shot arrows, swung a sword! You saw all of it!"

"And who held a blade to your throat and forced you into the contests? You volunteered for every last one of them."

"You're so mean..."

He had known lord and aide were close, but a lord actually wilting and folding under his aide's nagging — he could not have seen that even in a dream.

And none of it was staged pretense. The naturalness of it all made one thing plain: this was simply how they always were.

"Sir Ludlow?"

"Ludlow is sufficient. You are the one I serve — there is no need for you to stand on such ceremony."

"All the more reason to keep proper form when it's a bond like ours. A relationship without respect never lasts long."

When Reus carefully addressed him, Ludlow answered with due formality — only to receive an even more courteous reply in return.

"But... what brings you to me, if I may ask?"

"Well, you'll be working at our estate from now on, won't you? So I came to ask what you used to do — what your days were like."

Ludlow was briefly dumbstruck. The lord himself had come to ask that? For a moment he wondered if it was a trap question, but he answered before long.

"By day, I performed the labor assigned to me. Training with the soldiers, repairing the curtain walls, scouting the nearby woods to see if thieves had moved in — that sort of thing. And by night, I stood watch on the battlements or patrolled the estate's perimeter. That was my daily life... no. That was the daily life of knights."

"How is that any different from common soldiers? Did you at least draw wages?"

"Most of it went toward equipment upkeep and repairs. Ah, right. They did provide meals and a place to sleep."

"That's... it?"

As he heard the story, Reus's face was overtaken by faint disappointment and pity. All the man had done was describe his routine — why was he looking at him like that?

Even under the Baron the treatment was garbage. What could I possibly expect from some rural lord? Lower your expectations, Ludlow.

Ludlow had shown a talent for fighting from childhood. Then someone had told him: 'Don't let that go to waste — become a knight.'

A knight. Believing the name would change something, he had thrown himself down as a squire, groveling and rolling in the dirt, until at last he earned his knighthood.

In his very first year as a knight, the lord he served went to war with a neighboring estate — and lost. Fleeing to survive, Ludlow became a wandering knight.

Drifting with nowhere to go, scraping by day to day off one battlefield after another — the first thing to rust away was his pride.

Mulat had seen him fight and hired him into Baron Karaton's service, but his worn-out heart never came back.

A life of nothing but contempt and trampling. What would change here, of all places?

This was merely a fit for a young lord's childish game of showing off: 'Look, I have a knight too!'

Ludlow's gloomy thoughts were shattered the very next morning.

"Your previous wage was five silver, yes? Then we'll set your base pay here at seven silver. Fair enough, Laura?"

"Yes, my lord. That sits comfortably within what our finances can bear."

"I... I'm sorry, why?"

"What, is it too little?"

"N-no! Not at all! I consider it quite fair!"

"Once you've accumulated years of service or distinguished yourself with deeds, we'll raise it again then. Does that settle it?"

"Y-you'll raise it? Why?"

"Do you intend to live your whole life on seven silver? I thought not."

Over the entire course of negotiating his pay and treatment, Ludlow dug up and spent every 'Why?' he had never once been allowed to ask in his life.

Even that alone would have been more than enough — but they went so far as to set aside a portion of the farmland for him. Whatever he grew there would be his and his alone, no less.

"Well, that concludes our business. Anything else you'd like to know?"

His head ringing as though he'd taken three or four blows from a hammer, Ludlow accepted the contract Laura held out to him.

He could read nothing but his own name, yet he trusted this contract without reservation. He knew now that the young lord standing before him was not a man who played petty games with paperwork.

"Ludlow? Are you alright?"

"Yes... I'm alright."

Something surged up from deep within him. Something hot churned and heaved in his chest.

A knight without honor and pride is nothing at all. That is the very thing that makes them knights — and those who lack it are merely well-equipped bandits.

Ludlow had believed he possessed neither honor nor pride. He had failed to discharge the duties he was bound to keep, and fled the battlefield for no higher reason than that he wanted to live.

And so he had believed that any unjust treatment was only what he deserved. Right up until he held this paper in his hands.

The contract, recording their conversation word for word, was heavy. Mere ink on parchment could never add this much weight.

This weight... is the weight of my worth. The worth this lord measured and granted ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠me, because he truly, sincerely acknowledged the man called Ludlow.

Before him stood the man who had taken a worth Ludlow himself never believed he possessed, set it down in writing, and acknowledged it.

"My lord."

Ludlow unbuckled the sword at his waist. He drew the blade, raised the hilt to his forehead, then angled the steel so that it veiled the right half of his face.

"This is the knight's sword salute, as I was taught it."

"Sword salute?"

"Yes. Every knight performs two salutes in his lifetime. The first, when he meets the one he shall serve for the rest of his days. The second, when he finds the place where he will die. And this... is the first salute of my life."

He sheathed the sword, laid the contract on the ground, placed his hand upon it, and dropped to one knee with all the strength he had.

"I, Ludlow, knight, do swear from this day forward, as knight of Crow's Head Valley, to defend with my life all that belongs to Lord Reus. Should I betray this oath, may my name never be spoken even in hell, may heaven itself strike me down before any man can, and may there be no ground anywhere in this world to bury my corpse."

Not the oath of Ludlow, the hollow man who had been slowly dying until now — but the oath of Ludlow, the knight reborn.

"Your enemies are my enemies. Until the day I die, I shall hold this ground and serve at your side."

"Thank you, Sir Ludlow. I shall not forget this oath of yours."

Rising from his oath, he struck his chest a mighty blow with his fist. THUD! The sound rang out like a heavy war drum.

A verse from a song some wandering minstrel used to sing outside a tavern. He had sneered at it back then as worthless drivel. Not anymore.

It was more than enough — it overflowed. The faint pride left smoldering in those long-cold ashes caught at last, and began to burn.

Good. With a knight secured, the military side of things finally has a foundation to stand on.

"My lord."

Just as I was floating a little — having put Karaton in his place and received Ludlow's oath of loyalty — Laura's low voice came flying at me.

"I couldn't bring myself to say this in the mood just now, but... the truth is, if things go on like this, we'll face bankruptcy in four months."

"Ha, good one. That could never hap— ...it actually could, couldn't it."

Taking the paper she gravely held out, I realized it was no joke, and licked my lips.

"Why? How? But why? What on earth for?"

"How should I know! I never formally studied accounting — I've been muddling through by trial and error this whole time!"

"You've been muddling through like that for years? Remarkable, my Laura. Come here, let me pat your head."

"D-don't tease me!"

Thanks to the fertilizer, overall yields had risen, so this outcome was inevitable — but it was now threatening to exceed what Laura alone could handle.

Good heavens, where on earth was all this spending coming from? I knew the existing outflows, well enough — but without knowing when and how much went out, the uncertainty was suffocating.

Even setting aside the costs of the facilities the monsters had been secretly wandering around and wrecking, these numbers make no sense. None at all.

Hands tangled in my hair, I went straight for paper and pen. To contact the one person I knew who could break this vicious cycle — earn, spend it all; earn again, spend it all again.

"Grrrrrgh... Reus, you damn brat...!"

Karaton, who had gained nothing from his own Friendly Exchange festival but a cracked rib and a mountain of humiliation, lay in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠bed grinding his teeth.

"Please hold still, my lord. The physician says rest is the fastest road to recover—"

"Do I LOOK like a man who can hold still—?! URRRGH—!!"

Trying to take his temper out on Mulat, he nearly rolled clean off the bed from the pain in his side, and barely caught his balance climbing back up.

"What... what am I supposed to do, Mulat? I cannot let it end like this! Find some way — any way — to crush Reus... ugh, my side...!"

Despite Karaton's thrashing — his pride would never permit things to end with him merely beaten — Mulat sank quietly into thought.

What the man had shown in that contest was something reality simply could not explain. It was the sort of feat... only a mage could have performed.

Every moment he had witnessed in that contest had been the very craft of the mages of fairy tales, pure and simple. And yet.

No — what kind of nonsense am I entertaining? A genuine mage, scraping by on a single run-down estate? I must be more exhausted than I thought.

Magic could not exist. If it did, the world would have been turned on its head long ago.

The weight of those flour sacks, too — Mulat had seen and verified everything with his own two eyes, which was precisely why he had been shackled by common sense and led away from the truth.

But there was undeniably something to Reus. It was not something that would end at mere good fortune, so Mulat racked his brains for a long while.

"My lord. How would it be, if we were to... casually let word of Lord Reus slip to the Elder?"

"The Elder? ...You don't mean... that Elder?"

"Yes, my lord. Count Jorden — your revered uncle."

At the very mention of Count Jorden's name, Karaton — who had thrown his weight around without a shred of shame all this while — fell silent for a moment.

A Count. Two full ranks above a Baron. Since Duke and Marquis could only be held by those of direct imperial blood, Count was in effect the highest rank a man could climb to on his own merit.

Jorden had seized that very rank at the age Karaton was now. Moreover, both Karaton's estate and Reus's alike ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠lay within the county Jorden ruled.

Hmmm... ugh. Groaning, Karaton sank into agonized deliberation. If Jorden moved, something would surely be done — but if it went wrong, he himself would not come away unscathed.

But... try as he might, he could see no future in which he was the one to bring Reus down. And so he made his decision.

"Mulat. Bring pen and paper, and take down exactly as I dictate. 'To my most dear and honored uncle — I pray this letter finds you in splendid health. Cutting away all pleasantries, I shall proceed directly to the matter at hand. Have you, perchance, ever heard the name... Reus?'"

Scratch, scratch. Karaton's words took shape, letter by letter, upon the page.