No Plundering in Talian Lands
As Talian territory drew near, the count summoned Ian. Lucy was sitting right beside him.
"Hmm. Raven. I've heard some rumors about you..."
"Rumors, my lord?"
"Word is you're brewing some mysterious potion... with a spoon, of all things. What the hell kind of potion are you making with a spoon?"
"..."
Ian's special spoon stew had somehow morphed into "spoon potion" overnight.
"No, forget that—how do you even make a potion with a spoon?"
The count tilted his head in confusion, but Lucy jumped in excitedly to explain. She loves showing off what she knows.
"Spoons have them! Tiny bugs so small you can't see them! You boil those as ingredients...!"
"Oh ho."
Ian let out a deep sigh as he watched the uncle and niece chatter away enthusiastically. Ahh... where the hell did this era go so wrong...?
"Well, potion-making is important, but I actually called you here for something even more crucial."
"...What is it?"
Ian had been bracing for some batshit medieval stunt from the count, so the surprisingly reasonable request caught him off guard.
"I want you to keep the mercenaries in line so they don't get too rowdy."
Ian surprisingly carried a lot of weight among the count's troops. His habits—like boiling spoons for "personal hygiene" and sun-drying bedding—had come across as the quirky obsessions of a seriously eccentric guy to the mercenaries. Combined with his reputation as a legit mage, it all added up.
His mage cosplay had leveled up enough with experience that no one dared dismiss him anymore.
"We'll be passing through some small villages soon. I'd like to avoid any trouble from the mercenaries."
Ian furrowed his brow slightly at the count's request.
"Wouldn't the knights handle that better?"
The count shook his head.
"The knights are thick as thieves with the mercenaries—they cover for each other and look the other way."
It wasn't a job for knights, in other words. Once battle broke out, the mercenaries had to follow the knights' orders. They were fighting under the count's banner, after all. To the knights, mercenaries were just soldiers under their command, so they hesitated to punish mistakes harshly. Sure, outright insubordination like striking an officer would get you flogged, but looting a few farmhouses? That was debatable at best.
From a modern perspective, plundering civilians was a war crime. But "war crime" was a modern concept. In a world where war meant plunder, mercenaries hitting up villages was as natural as looters raiding a supermarket during a riot.
Most mercenaries were bandits at heart anyway. With an employer, they were mercenaries; without, bandits.
"I wouldn't normally allow plundering... but this is my niece's land."
Lucy nodded vigorously. Her eyes gleamed with the gaze of a lord who saw her people as walking piggy banks. How dare these rootless mercenaries touch my banks?!
"If you step in and give them a warning, they'll toe the line."
It wasn't a tough ask. For Ian, with his modern sensibilities, stopping the looting felt downright righteous.
"Understood. I'll warn them off plundering."
The nobles beamed with satisfaction at Ian's crisp reply. Mages are handy in so many ways!
After wrapping up, Ian stepped out of the count's tent. Lucy emerged right behind him, so he shot his question.
"Lucy. What's this about me making potions?"
"Ahaha... that?"
Lucy scratched her cheek, then mumbled like it was an excuse.
"You know that boiled spoon water you make...? Some mercenaries were curious about it...?"
"???"
"So I sold a bit...?"
"Why the hell would you sell that, you lunatic?!"
Selling boiled spoon water? Even the Chinese wouldn't stoop that low! Where were the food safety laws? The hammer of justice for adulterated goods?!
But this was a medieval fantasy world—no such laws existed. Mercenaries desperate to buy a mage's mysterious potion? They were a dime a dozen.
Supply and demand. The brutal graph of capitalism was mercilessly savage.
"S-sorry for selling it on the sly..."
Lucy bowed her head apologetically. Ian couldn't comprehend her. Shouldn't the apology start at the fact that she sold it in the first place?!
As the count predicted, the mercenaries took keen interest in the hamlets they passed. "Hamlets" were everywhere—anywhere people lived. And people settled wherever they damn well pleased: mountain valleys, riverbanks, pastures.
Folks in remote spots enjoyed great freedom but bore heavy responsibility. Live as you like, but handle your own problems—like when greedy mercenaries snuck in to steal.
"Back off unless you want a hole in your skull, you thieving dogs!"
A homeowner faced off against the mercenaries at his modest farm. It was a plain family man versus opportunistic bandits passing through.
"You'll be the one with the hole."
"Just hand over three chickens. We'll leave nice and quiet."
The homeowner snarled fiercely, but these weren't mercenaries who'd flinch. True pros at extortion, even if hopeless in a real fight. It was the school bully logic: you might suck at brawls, but you had to know how to shake down kids for cash to scrape by at the bottom rung.
Fights? You win some, lose some. But failing to extort meant no dinner. Lack of professional pride.
'Fucking idiots...'
Ian watched from afar, too stunned by authentic medieval bandit mentality to even get mad.
No wonder the count asked me to watch them.
"Caw! Caw!"
Oberon glared at the mercenaries and screeched. A few sharp ones flinched.
"What's up?"
"That raven... doesn't it look like the mage's pet?"
"...Kinda, yeah."
Then fluent imperial tongue spilled from Oberon's beak.
"Caw! The master's! Caw! Master's coming!"
"Sh-shit! What?!"
"The raven! The raven's talking!"
The mercenaries freaked. The family did too. How often do you see a talking raven?
Oberon had diligently learned imperial from over Ian's shoulder. Self-trained pronunciation meant he could spit basic words.
Ian approached from behind. Spotting him, the mercenaries trembled and dropped to their knees.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"..."
Ian interrogated coldly; they clammed up like dummies.
"Under the count's banner, and you dare prowl like alley cats looting homes? You think you can tarnish His Lordship's name?"
Oberon on Ian's shoulder screeched viciously.
"Caw! Punishment! Caw!"
Chilled to the bone, not one mercenary lifted his head.
'Ugh... fuck!'
'We're screwed. Shit!'
Plundering in wartime meant reading the room. Legality hinged on the lord's whim: wink, it's fine; no wink, you're toast.
Especially now, with no glory won—punishment wouldn't raise eyebrows.
"Forgive us, mage!"
"We've committed a mortal sin!"
They knew Ian spoke for the count, so they groveled instantly. Full prostration: ocho tuji in Hanja, dogeza in Japanese.
A knight might be sweet-talked, but not a shrewd, prickly mage. No tricks would fly.
'Glad they listen.'
Ian nodded at the flattened mercenaries. He had the count's authority, but no real muscle. If they rushed him, he'd run like hell.
Since they were compliant, no need to push.
"With the count's no-plunder order, we should punish you as an example."
"N-no..."
"But! Considering it's your first offense and no actual crime yet, I'll let it slide with a warning—this once."
"M-mage...!"
Tears welled at the mage's mercy. They could've been headless on the spot, yet this leniency! The spoon-boiling weirdo had a human side after all.
"Thank you! We'll never forget this grace!"
They kowtowed nonstop, but Ian felt zero emotion. Just don't fuck up, please.
"Remember: my eyes are everywhere."
"Caw! Caw!"
Oberon flapped; mercenaries felt blood freeze. The mage used birds to spy!
"Dismissed. Back to formation."
Ian herded them back. The family hurriedly barred doors and curtained windows—like they wouldn't breathe a word.
Ian patrolled several times, nabbing would-be looters. Oberon pitched in eagerly; surveillance was easy. Short-staffed? Recruit bird part-timers from nearby woods.
"Caw! Caw!"
Oberon perched at Ian's tent, cawing; mercenaries shuddered.
"That raven... it's watching us...!"
"Shh! Quiet! The mage'll hear!"
Ian popping up every raid attempt kept them indoors. The count and Lucy rejoiced. Wow! Ian protected our precious piggy banks (the peasants)!
But Ian's methods weren't all upside. His bird surveillance was too perfect, spawning two unintended issues.
"Troop morale's tanked."
No loot was bad, but they feared Ian excessively. Desertion talk even surfaced from the hate.
"Another problem too," said the count's knight, Lord Dikedo.
"Our army poses zero threat to the usurper."
Ian blinked. What bullshit is this?
"Over 400 troops marching—zero threat?"
"Yes. We're too harmless."
Lord Dikedo explained. War meant constant nuisance to locals—by the army, naturally. Marching troops ravaged: kill some, loot, burn. The goal? Pressure the enemy commander.
Terrorized peasants whine to their lord—in this case, usurper Graim. If the count's army razed fields advancing, Graim's folk would riot: You call yourself our lord? Enemies invading—what're you doing?!
Feudal duty bound "Baron" Graim to protect them. Fail? Rebellion. He'd have to fight.
But a meek march? Graim chills, gathers troops, waits for supply shortages. No rush.
"My lord, permit plundering now..."
The count pondered. He'd issued the ban himself—didn't want to flip-flop days later.
"I'll think it over and decide soon."
He dismissed the knights, keeping only Lucy and Ian.
"Mage. Any ideas?"
The count sought the wise mage's counsel. But Ian had no magic bullet. Morale's low, but we outnumber—smash through?
Lucy pouted, idea-less too.
"I'll look into it... but remember, plundering is one option."
Ian bowed out. He mulled it over. Quell mercenary gripes, rile peasants—how?
"Um... mage?"
"Yeah?"
The clue came unexpectedly.
"Got a question."
"Shoot."
"You... haven't made potions lately, right?"
"..."
Not potions, you assholes.
Ian couldn't fathom these medieval obsessives fixated on boiled spoon water. Why buy that crap...?
'...Huh?'
A wild idea flashed.
"One question: what do you want the potion for?"
Ian didn't know why it was a "potion" or its "effects," but the answer was clear.
"Battle's coming soon, right? For then...?"
'Boiled spoon water?!'
Mercenaries believed Ian's "potion" held special power. Only one scammer fit: Lucy. The Talian baroness had peddled it hard.
Opportunity knocked for Ian.
"Potions... hmm, potions."
Ian grinned at the mercenary, who shivered at the unknown chill...
"If I make potions, you lot wanna live?"
"Of course... we'd buy!"
"What if I hand 'em out free?"
"...Pardon?"
The mercenary gaped in shock. Ian was convinced: maybe he could boost morale dirt cheap...!