Chapter 67
Chapter 67
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 67
Chapter Title: Count Pamell's Fury
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‘What exactly are you telling us to do?'
'You’re the one who pushed it through despite all the opposition, my lord.'
Like Count Pamell, his retainers—who hadn’t even the slightest inkling of what was happening—swallowed their complaints like turtles pulling into their shells.
Revealing their true feelings in front of the half-mad Count Pamell might not be a rhetorical threat; their heads could actually roll.
“Seven million dien. That’s just what we’ve spent hiring those mercenary scum and wandering elves. And the money we’ve poured into feeding and housing those parasites lounging outside has already topped two million dien. In just a few more days, it’ll hit ten million!
So why! Why is there no news at all? Don’t tell me… you bastards are all in on it, conspiring to deceive me? Huh? Is that it?”
Count Pamell had even reached the point of denying reality.
The money he’d sunk into toppling the Sion Dukedom was one thing, but he couldn’t bear the grand revenge drama he’d dreamed of for decades simply fizzling out as if nothing had happened.
Once he got word from Sanders and the mercenaries, his plan had been to boldly march his forces through the forest paths guarded by the elf rangers.
Now that Gede Sion had seized the ducal seat, the elf rangers had no choice but to let through the troops led by his father-in-law, Count Pamell.
For about ten days after Sanders and the mercenaries left the castle, he’d spent his time thrillingly imagining that satisfying spectacle, his heart pounding.
When two more days passed with no word, he started to think it a bit odd, but since wars (or at least what Count Pamell considered a war) rarely went according to plan, he felt puzzled but not anxious.
Days kept passing like that, and now it had been a full fortnight.
Even though enough time had elapsed that there should have been some contact—whether the plan had changed or gone completely awry—the world continued on unchanged.
“My lord. Wouldn’t it be best to at least return the vassal lords’ troops to their positions for now?”
One retainer cautiously suggested.
“The food for the soldiers is one thing, but the citizens of the capital are growing restless because the lords aren’t keeping them in check. Even the knights are barging into homes and committing inexcusable acts, or causing chaos in inns and taverns.”
Under Count Pamell, there were four vassal lords, and at his command, they had each brought their knights and soldiers to his capital.
Originally, they were supposed to wait a few days and then march with the count into the Sion Dukedom, but with no word, they’d already been idling in the capital for over ten days.
And the bulk of them—peasants forcibly conscripted by the lords—had behaved at first for a few days, but as time dragged on, they grew lax and started causing trouble.
It was only natural for such a hastily assembled rabble with no discipline to show its true colors, but the problem was their numbers, in the hundreds.
Not all five hundred soldiers from the vassal lords were troublemakers. But even if just one or two in ten caused issues, that meant nearly a hundred incidents a day, big and small, in the capital.
For the capital of the Pamell County, which had enjoyed decent public order, a hundred troublemakers was an unprecedented crisis, at least for the residents.
“At this rate, the citizens might rise up. So please order the conscripts disbanded at least…”
“And so?”
“Pardon?”
The retainer jumped at the ominously low tone of Count Pamell’s voice.
“And so, let’s say we disband them. What if we hear from Sanders tomorrow? Are we to recall the peasants we just sent home? In a single day? Do you think that’s feasible?”
“W-Well, what I meant was…”
“If you can manage it, I’ll order the vassals to disband right now. How about it? Confident?”
“…I’m sorry.”
The retainer, who had stepped forward with some conviction and courage, had no choice but to back down.
“No disbanding. We wait three more days. Exactly three. If there’s still no word by then… we march on that damned Sion ourselves.”
“As you will, my lord!”
The retainers cried out, swallowing hard.
And so, Count Pamell wasted three more days, ultimately burning through a staggering ten million dien in war funds—thirty percent of the county’s annual tax revenue—before finally deciding to move his army.
But the count’s resolution was halted before it could even be carried out.
Because a messenger arrived from the Sion Ducal House, bearing an official document stamped with the duke’s seal.
The content of the floridly worded letter could be summed up in a single, curt line.
- We’re coming, so stick your neck out and wait.
“Arrrghhh!!!”
Count Pamell let out a beastly howl, torn between rage at his grand plan’s total derailment and despair at having to spend even more on the war effort.
* * *
“Your Excellency.”
“Just call me Sion. We used to, and I’m not the duke anymore anyway.”
“Then, Lord Sion.”
Phriel, traveling with Sion alongside the North Mountain Elf Rangers, nodded and continued.
“I have a few questions, if I may?”
“Go ahead.”
“About the traitors you executed. Why didn’t Gede act immediately after Duke Bryan’s death?”
Elves, who rarely showed emotion, were generally rational. That was why Phriel couldn’t understand Gede.
“With his older brother dead and then his nephews dying one after another, he couldn’t very well step up and claim the title himself. Gede needed a pretext. And that pretext builds up the longer the chaos drags on. He’s clever enough that he probably figured a year would suffice.”
“I see. Then, if you hadn’t returned, would Gede Sion have become duke?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Phriel tilted her head at Sion’s unhesitating assertion.
“That fool underestimated the children in Fland and Rozin. He thought handling the foolish Blint would make the world his.”
“Fland and Rozin…”
“Villages I entrusted to my sons. Well, they’ve grown into proper cities over thirty years ago.”
Not quite on the level of Shionia or Paloma, but Fland and Rozin were proud little cities with populations over twenty thousand each.
Combined with nearby towns and villages, they formed one of the largest regions in the Sion Dukedom.
“Then why didn’t the direct descendants there make any move?”
Born and raised in the North Mountains, Phriel was somewhat ignorant of internal dukedom affairs, having spent her life as a ranger.
Not just Phriel, but most elves aside from the few dispatched to the ducal house.
“Those children have administrative authority but no military. What could they do with just a hundred guards? Plus, they’re audited every quarter by tax collectors dispatched from Shionia, so they can’t even train their own forces.”
“That makes it even harder to understand. Then couldn’t Gede just take over the two cities easily?”
“The children in Fland and Rozin probably lodged formal objections.”
“…?”
“Gede could deal with Blint because he knew Blint’s mother had committed patricide and fratricide. Gede schemed it, sure. But against Blint, Gede had the pretext. With Fland and Rozin formally objecting, though, Gede has no choice but to accept it.”
Sion shooed away a fly buzzing around the black dog’s head and continued.
“The moment he accepts the objection, Gede can’t force the issue. Why? Because I ordered those places founded myself.
In the end, he’d think to crush them by force, but then the dukedom’s real army—like the Black Eagle Legion—wouldn’t stand by. And your North Mountain Elves too.”
“…Ah.”
Phriel, who had only half-understood Sion’s explanation, finally nodded.
“So a real civil war without pretext would break out. We’d have to intervene to mediate, bound by our blood oath with you.”
“Exactly. Blint poisoned his duke father and brothers—a mad act of treason—so even if Gede punishes him, the ducal army and allied elves can’t interfere. But Fland and Rozin are different.
Gede would end up facing not just the disobedient ducal army but the elves too. Who would recognize him as duke then?”
“That’s why you answered so decisively.”
“At best, only Gede’s idiot followers would call him Your Excellency. The dukedom would fracture into four or five pieces, and you elves might side with either Fland or Rozin—or declare independence.”
“…Probably the latter.”
“Yeah. That’d be better.”
Sion had saved them himself, but after all those years of service to the dukedom, the elves had fulfilled their duty.
Asking them to pick a side among his fractured descendants and draw swords against each other would be cruel.
Sion truly believed that. Did his sincerity get through?
“Lord Sion…”
Phriel looked at him with a rare emotional glint in her eyes.
“Why stare like that? It’s embarrassing.”
“I thought you were the type who never lets go once he grabs something. Turns out you’re a human with a conscience after all, Lord Sion.”
“…That’s offensive.”
“Yes, sorry.”
The elf, looking anything but apologetic, bowed perfunctorily and continued.
“One last question. I know you could’ve handled the Pamell family alone, so why bother declaring war and giving them time to prepare?”
To Phriel, it seemed utterly unnecessary.
Politely warning the enemy to give them time to brace themselves?
Especially when they’d plotted a sneaky ambush first, without any honor.
“You think I gave them time?”
“Pardon? Didn’t you?”
Sion laughed.
“Haha. Fair enough to think so. But no. I didn’t give them time to prepare—I forced more losses on them.”
“What do you mean?”
Not just Phriel, but the other elf rangers listening in tilted their heads in confusion.
“They’ve conscripted hundreds of peasants barely fit to call soldiers and are feeding and housing them? With the declaration delivered, they can’t send them home now. They have to keep it up until our ducal forces come into view, right?”
“…!”
“Let’s see. Drag it out another ten days? How much more will that cost?
Tense and terrified waiting for our army, they’ll see more deserters and troublemakers the longer it goes. This is killing multiple birds… Hm? Why the look?”
Sion asked, puzzled, grinning as he spoke.
Phriel, back to her emotionless face, replied.
“I take back what I said earlier.”
“What I said earlier?”
“You’re no ordinary human with a conscience, Lord Sion.”
“Hey, that’s even more offensive.”
The old monster, who felt a twinge of shame, was slightly hurt, claiming it was just a bit hot.
It wasn’t summer.
(To be continued)
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