Overlooking the Basin and Subjugating the Wolves
From the top of the outer patrol watchtower, the village looked smaller than I'd expected. Houses were layered up the gentle slope of the hill, with the palisade gate at the point where the slope leveled out into the plain. The watchtower I was on rose from the highest point of the hill where the village sat. Heading down from there, you passed the manor, the stable, the temple, and the warehouses in that order, before reaching the lowest area where buildings radiated out in concentric circles around the central square, tavern-cum-inn, general store, and bakery. Near the outermost palisade were the noisier or smellier facilities: livestock pens, public stables, carpenters' workshops, the forge, and the tanner's shop. Beyond the palisade gate, the hill sloped down to a vast plain, where a winding river snaked along. Wide farmlands stretched out on both sides of the river, and the plain seemed to extend endlessly toward the horizon. On the watchtower side, however, the palisade ended abruptly at a sheer drop with no gate, leading down to dense forest, beyond which a massive rocky mountain loomed. That mountain range stretched endlessly to the left and right behind the village, forming a gigantic wall that enclosed the vast plain ahead like a basin.
From the stories I'd heard since childhood, the original Wainwright County lay outside this mountain range, but my grandfather's generation had pushed beyond it in subjugation campaigns, expanding the territory all the way to my father's current fief. My village sat right next to the canyon pass—the only route through the mountains encircling this basin. Turning my gaze, I could see a path connecting the village to a gap in the nearby rocky mountains. That must be the canyon entrance. It was the sole link to the outside world; everything else was blocked by mountains. Father was pioneering other villages too—one near an iron mine by the mountains on the opposite side of the front plain, another at the basin's exit. He'd once mentioned plans to build fortresses at every pass leading out of the basin, including toward those pioneer villages. When that happened, this place would become a gateway city, right? For now, the village and its people were too few for the land's vastness, and development was incomplete, so monsters and mana beasts appeared frequently. But if the entire basin was fully developed and organized into a single territory...
With all this plain turned to farmland, food would overflow. There were plenty of undeveloped forests, quarrying stone from the rocky mountains was no issue, and with iron ore too, resources wouldn't be a problem. Father would become a pretty powerful noble with a domain like this, wouldn't he? The thought briefly made developing the fief here seem fun, but it faded quickly.
"......"
I'd seen everything I needed from the watchtower. I gave a nod to the watchmen radiating discomfort beside me and headed straight down.
On the way back to the guardhouse, a potential problem occurred to me. The spot I'd scouted for my workshop was in the forest behind the village. When I'd found it on horseback, I'd figured no one would come by, and the trees would block it from the palisade's view—no chance of getting caught working there. But from the watchtower, I realized that making stuff would require burning charcoal, and even if it didn't smoke much, on humid days like after rain, the white plume could be spotted nearby. The watchmen would report smoke rising behind the village, and if they found the disturbed ground in the forest, I'd be in deep trouble—punished for damaging family assets, no excuses.
Moving the site out of the watchtower's range would jeopardize my hired workers' safety and waste hours on commutes. What I'd thought was simple kept throwing up issues, giving me a headache.
Isn't there a way? Should I just go for the direct approach?
I still had time before seed money came in. I'd think on it more; if nothing worked, I'd talk to the butler and plan to do it openly.
*
The next day arrived. Today was external patrol day—the guard captain's one real duty, as Philip had put it. The patrol squad: Sir Roland and me, plus four patrolmen, totaling six. Three spearmen, one archer from a hunter background, and a cart loaded with food and camping gear.
We arrived at the guardhouse early morning, and the squad was already ready. As soon as Sir Roland and I showed up, they opened the gate and we set off.
External patrols ran once a week for 2 nights and 3 days. Starting from the village, we'd swing around the farmlands' edge—passing the canyon mouth on the left mountains, circling the outer fields, then hugging the right mountains back to the village—checking the entire boundary between cultivated land and wild forest.
"This patrol's goal is wolf subjugation," Sir Roland said curtly.
Farmers had reported hearing wolf howls nearby lately. Horses might get spooked or injured, so we left them all behind; the men pulled the cart themselves.
Half a day out, as the stunning natural scenery started feeling monotonous, the hunter-archer spotted wolf tracks between the mountain-edge forest and the fields.
"Passed through last night. At least three. Confirmed pup prints too."
I couldn't read tracks, but I knew wolf ecology decently. Typically, a wolf pack was a mated adult pair raising annual litters as a family unit. Over years, grown offspring would pair off and leave, leaving subadults and new pups with the parents—who became seasoned alphas if they survived. Packs birthed 3 to 8 pups at a time, so unchecked, they'd explode in numbers geometrically within years. Leaving these alone could bring all sorts of damage to the village. From the village's standpoint, we had to track and exterminate them.
The squad veered off the route to follow the trail. I'd worried about the cart in the woods, but the gear was pre-packed for portability; the men shouldered it easily. We advanced slowly, confirming signs, deeper into the forest.
At dusk, the wolves hit.
A black mass burst silently from bushes behind a low hill to our right flank. Sir Roland and I, sensing it from afar, had already signaled the men. As it charged, we countered instantly, swinging our swords.
Clang—!Kiiing—!
I slashed upward at an angle through its neck, half-severing the head. Sir Roland exploded forward at insane speed, targeting the biggest one. The men braced spears against more wolves while the archer downed one with an arrow. In a flash, the pack shattered.
As I lunged at the next, flustered target and cleaved it, Sir Roland took another. The death cries echoed, and the survivors scattered in panic.
The fight ended in seconds—shorter than expected. The forest fell eerily silent, birds and insects hushed by the clamor. Blood scent wafted through the trees, stirring something primal.
"Three got away."
"Butcher first."
"Yes, sir!"
At Sir Roland's order, the men gathered the carcasses, drained blood, gutted them, and skinned. "Two alphas, one adult, two subadults. With the escapees, eight total? Numbers match, but no pups."
"Maybe too young; left 'em hidden?"
I was about to ask what they meant when Sir Roland's gaze snapped around. Spears leveled, bowstring drawn. Then, rustling from those bushes.
Two small beasts crawled out—wolf pups the size of an adult's arm.
"Dispatch them."
Sir Roland ordered without hesitation. The pups growled at us, but weakly, still too young. The men advanced steadily, spears poised, and stabbed without pause.
"Heh. Lucky day," the archer chuckled.
I knew it was necessary, but watching the cute things die didn't sit right. Even if pity tempted me to adopt them, wolves don't domesticate; it'd just risk people and waste food.
"Patrol ends here. Head back at dawn tomorrow."
The squad hauled the carcasses to the cart and moved to a small stream irrigating nearby fields. The offal needed washing—cleaning blood and filth doubled shelf life, essential in this heat where it could spoil in half a day. Only then could we safely transport it home.