In Father's Name
“Three thousand denarions? Where on earth am I supposed to find that kind of money?”
“Oh? Then make it three thousand five hundred.”
“Even if we emptied our family vault, that’s impossible!”
“Four thousand.”
“What is this outrage? This is absurd—utterly unreasonable!”
“Outrageous? Does it make sense that your family head joined Rutger’s forces to try and kill me? I’m in a bad mood. Five thousand.”
Representatives from each noble house had arrived to retrieve their captured kin. Some sent wives, others stewards, sons or daughters, fathers, legal scholars, or envoys. But not a single one succeeded in taking their prisoner home.
“No, didn’t you ask five thousand from Baron Kalten dorf earlier? Now it’s ten thousand!? What kind of barbarism is this?”
“I’m just setting the ransom according to each one’s circumstances. And things have changed a bit since then. Eleven thousand.”
“Y-you... you haven’t drawn a sword yet, but what makes you any different from a bandit!?”
“Now you get it?”
They vented their fury and complaints, but Isaac just picked at his ear, looking utterly nonchalant.
“Didn’t you say Viscount Boatmer’s loaded? Why don’t you ask him? If the viscount values your son that much, eleven thousand shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Are you insane? That’s enough to buy a small castle and still have change!”
In the end, those who’d come hoping to pay and take their loved ones away left the camp empty-handed.
“Aren’t you pushing the nobles too hard?”
Carlson, who’d been standing by Isaac’s side, asked.
“When else am I gonna fleece ’em?”
“They might resort to shows of force.”
“These are people who can stomach carving flesh off their own bones but not dents to their honor. In this situation, any show of force would be like spitting in their own faces.”
There was good reason for inflating the ransoms to absurd levels. It was to squeeze Boatmer politically and economically, sow internal discord—and at the same time, keep the prisoners as leverage to delay the war as long as possible.
“How’s Bessimer?”
“He’ll live. The doctor was shocked. His organs were damaged, but no necrosis, and they’re healing fast.”
“The other wounded?”
“Hainmar died yesterday.”
“That makes four.”
“The other two have good prognoses, at least.”
“And you?”
Isaac eyed Carlson.
“What about me?”
“You’ve got every one of those guys’ names memorized.”
“Just habit.”
Carlson’s voice was flat and dry.
Eheya—
From outside the tent came the endless tribal chants of the rite. Calling the names of the fallen soldiers to bid them farewell, invoking the severely wounded to keep their souls from fleeing their flesh. Drums thundered, and the tribe’s eldest recited the funeral prayer. The sound spread through the camp.
“Foolish, barbaric souls. Father, forgive them.”
Bishop Alquin crossed himself. The tribal songs grated on him. But what tormented him more lay not outside.
“This isn’t the time to pray for them, Bishop.”
Rutger spoke in a voice edged like a blade.
As noble prisoners, Rutger and Bishop Alquin were treated well enough. Meals came thrice daily, and Isaac always joined them for lunch. The intent was obviously to pry Boatmer intel from them, but it had improved their standing in the camp. Of course, armed guards ringed their tent, hell wolves patrolled everywhere, and escape was unthinkable.
“They say papal investigators will arrive within ten days. You know what I mean.”
“……”
Bishop Alquin groaned at Rutger’s words.
“If you don’t want to lose everything you have, do as I say.”
“……”
“Bishop.”
“I understand. I’ll do as you wish.”
Deep worry shadowed the bishop’s face. Rutger was right. Those needing salvation weren’t the tribesfolk outside—it was him.
“Handle this right, and I’ll wipe your sins clean. As if they never happened.”
“……”
Bishop Alquin clutched his rosary tight at Rutger’s words. One could deceive men, but not God.
“So testify properly. Who violated the sacred? You said it yourself—evil is part of God’s plan. That the world needs necessary evils.”
Rutger’s words slid out smooth as oiled silk. The bishop squeezed his eyes shut. His own preachings now strangled him.
“What will you do?”
“I’ll be gone before the investigators arrive.”
“How? The viscount didn’t even send a proxy for ransom talks.”
“No need. The baron never planned to free me with coin in the first place. He’ll hold me hostage through winter to stall the war. It’d just hobble Father.”
“Then……”
“Chevalier will get me out, even if it costs his life.”
Rutger lowered his voice.
“Isn’t Chevalier locked up elsewhere?”
“He can escape anytime. He’s just waiting for the right moment to take me with him.”
“You’re certain.”
“We grew up like brothers. To him—an orphan raised on Father’s patronage—I’m blood.”
Sigbrand walked Binvelt with his squad. More precisely, they trailed at a distance, escorting Isaac who strode far ahead. Isaac chatted with his squire, too far for clear words. What drew Sigbrand and his comrades’ eyes was Binvelt’s bizarre scenery.
In the smithy, smiths repaired weapons and armor scavenged from the battlefield. Dented helmets, cracked breastplates, snapped swords, chipped axes piled high in one corner—all seized from the routed enemy. The forge roared with molten iron; hammers pounded glowing metal without cease. Whistles and hums from the smiths set a steady rhythm, sparks flying from the anvil.
Isaac paused at the smithy, as if checking the workload, then moved on. With his squire, he headed to the open fields beyond the village—fields now, really. Massive wolves yoked to plows tilled the soil. Until recently, these beasts had torn enemies on the field, inspiring dread and terror. Now they hauled huge plows crafted by smiths, clawing through heavy earth. Iron-reinforced yokes bit tight into sturdy frames. Cold winds ruffled their jet-black fur, gleaming faintly in the sun. Harsh breaths steamed now and then.
Behind them, elders and women uprooted blue flower weeds and clods, sifting the soil fine. Tribal children with seed sacks followed, scattering grains. Laughing gleefully, they raced beside the plowing wolves or goofed around. The hell wolves, as ever, glanced at the kids with red eyes, then turned back to their silent toil.
“……”
Sigbrand and his men walked on in wordless awe. Hammers sharpening blades, beasts hauling plows, children’s laughter, biting winds. Through the discordant symphony, Binvelt soldiers jogged drills and trained. Peaceful yet alien. Deep-seated hatred for mana beasts clashed with the strange calm Isaac had forged. Why had the count sent them here? The ghostly doubt cracked their impassive faces. Sigbrand noticed his own steps slowing unbidden.
Isaac was heading back to the stockaded camp. They’d fallen far behind. Sigbrand quickened pace with his comrades.
“So you won’t go back?”
“No, sir.”
“Hah.”
Isaac sighed at Hans’s stubbornness. He’d circled the camp, pleading over and over—no use.
“You nearly died.”
“I know.”
“No food for days, no sleep?”
“Yeah. Nightmares every time I closed my eyes.”
“Then why not go home? You got lucky this time. No guarantee next time.”
“I know.”
“You know, but why? You’ve got a wife, Peter. What happens to them if you die?”
“I won’t die. I’ll get way stronger.”
“If strength was up to you, I wouldn’t be saying this.”
Isaac scowled.
“You told me to learn the sword from Sir Carlson—to serve you, right?”
“That was then. Things changed.”
“Nothing’s changed. I’m still your squire. Oh—Baron now, huh.”
Hans grinned cheekily, but his haggard face made it pitiful.
“Hans. I don’t want to see you die.”
Isaac met his eyes, dead serious. He’d thought keeping him close would suffice. He knew fragments of the future, after all—future knowledge. Leverage it right, and all would be fine.
But one war taught him otherwise. Knowledge didn’t mean total control. Take Bessimer: Isaac had tasked him with tying down Chevalier—the war’s sole wildcard. If Chevalier faced Carlson, it’d drag into attrition. Outnumbered, the longer it went, the worse. Humans adapt, even to hell wolf terror. So Bessimer on Chevalier, Carlson on the enemy commander.
He hadn’t foreseen Bessimer’s wound.
He’d resolved to protect his house, his precious ones. But safeguarding them only multiplied them. Someday, choices loomed. Who to shield to the end, who were mere pawns? He didn’t want Hans on that line.
“You know Peter’s just a year younger than you?”
“Why bring that up now?”
“I’ve known you longer than him.”
“What, wanna play dad?”
“No, not that.”
Hans drew a slow breath.
“I don’t wanna see you go either. Least not before me. Hit me during the duel—people die so easy. If I go back to the manor……”
“Baron?”
Hans trailed off. Isaac was already sprinting away—toward the noble prisoner tents.
“Carlson!”
Isaac shouted.
“……Chevalier……why?”
Rutger stared at the blade piercing his heart. Chevalier gripped the hilt—mentor and friend since boyhood, filling Rutger’s eyes.
“Forgive me, young master. An order in Father’s name.”
“……Fa……ther?”
“Our father.”
Chevalier twisted the sword free. An irreparable hole gaped in Rutger’s chest. Life fled like an arrow.
Chevalier turned from the fallen youth to Bishop Alquin.
“Lo, Lord—”
The bishop shut his eyes, expecting the end.
“No malice here.”
Chevalier swung.