Return Home (2)
The air in Goethe remained bitingly cold. Yet the season had slipped into early summer. To the northerners, this was warmth like a mother's embrace. Such mildness stirred life to bloom and thrive. But at times, that vigor could grow excessive.
"P-please, my lord Count. H-have mercy. W-we only needed food to eat..."
The count had disarmed the three bandits alongside his soldiers and dragged them to the bare rock. Bound tightly with ropes, the thieves had no recourse but to beg for their lives. Especially not before the count, who wielded the executioner's famed blade, Valerich.
"Is that so? You needed food, so you didn't stop at looting—you slaughtered, raped, and mutilated corpses?"
"Th-that was to set an example and avoid unnecessary casualties. Mercy, please... The blood we shed on Winterband's walls hasn't even dried yet."
"I'll remember your devotion. And show you mercy."
With those words, the count nodded to his soldiers. Two of them hauled one bandit forward to the bare rock. Schrader stepped on the soldier's back for leverage.
"My lord, please..."
The pleading bandit's forehead met the rock.
"In honor of your service, I'll grant you mercy. If you wish a painless end, don't struggle."
Whoosh—!
The greatsword cleaved the air with heavy finality. Thunk—crack—Valerich embedded itself in the stone. The cleanly severed head tumbled from the rock to roll across the ground.
The count personally executed all three bandits with his own hand. Then, rather than handing the bloodied blade to a soldier, he wiped and oiled it himself. The pooled blood on the bare rock cooled gradually. Flies swarmed to sample its taste.
"Chop them up and feed them to the beasts."
The soldiers collected the corpses at the count's command.
"Ever since Father bestowed Valerich upon me, I've wielded this sword without cease. Even as I've aged and grown larger, it remains as heavy and burdensome as ever."
The count spoke while polishing the blade with a cloth soaked in linseed oil.
"It is the weight of the house."
Schrader replied.
"So it is. What of Red Orchard Village?"
"Handled."
"And Black Goose? Quite a few servants' families live there."
"No damage there. It's inland compared to the others, and close to the manor."
"Good."
"Here, wipe."
Schrader offered a clean handkerchief. The bandits' blood had splattered the count's cheek.
"My thanks."
The count wiped his face, sheathed Valerich, and secured it to his saddle. The greatsword was no tool for mere slaughter—nor should it be. It was a famed blade, to be drawn only in service to the will of Goethe, to the head of the house.
As the count mounted, Schrader and two escort knights followed suit, while the soldiers formed ranks.
"Isaac?"
"A messenger pigeon was sent. If all goes well, he'll arrive today or tomorrow."
The count nodded faintly without reply and urged his horse forward at a walk. His men trailed behind. There were still many villages to inspect. With the weather warming, merchants from the surrounding areas flocked to Bern. Farmers had cultivated cold-hardy crops in rugged fields for this season, and shepherds had timed their herds' breeding with care. But where there was bounty to seize, predators inevitably appeared. Bandits grew boldest now. Bordered as it was, Goethe drew all manner of vagrants fleeing across the frontier for myriad reasons. Desertions from Winterband peaked at this time too.
"Schrader, any word from other territories on the royal inspector?"
"Business as usual. Tax records, oaths of loyalty to the king, a few courtesans and gifts to please him—that was all."
"And the tales of the corrupt bishop and his heretic schemes?"
"None."
"Hm."
The count let out a troubled hum.
"The Papal Court won't dredge up that blasphemy. With empire clashing against church authority, they won't dig for scandals that weaken His Holiness."
"But if the royal inspector..."
"...Inspector Dietrich is a sly one. He'll demand payment for his silence."
The Papal Court would hush the bishop's death in Goethe. But if the king's envoy—or near enough, an inspector—aired it publicly, the Church couldn't ignore it. A full investigation would follow, drawing court factions by interest. In the worst case, Goethe could face charges of regicide or blasphemy, inviting the old faith's wrath. Seizure of lands, even clan extinction via extreme punishment. The inspector would wield it as leverage.
"What have you learned of him?"
"He indulges in every vice—women, men. Gambled away half his fortune. Has a hobby of gruesomely murdering slaves and tribesfolk. Rubs elbows with the Second Prince now and then."
"Nothing substantial."
"My apologies. Reliable sources are exerting themselves. A little more time, please."
"I hope it's not too late."
What the count sought was leverage to counter the inspector's blackmail. But Schrader lacked time, and nothing satisfying had surfaced. It wasn't the sort of dirt easily uncovered. A man who leaked exploitable weaknesses wouldn't hold the post.
The count placed no faith in others. Nine times out of ten, his response to the inspector would hinge on his words and the weight they carried.
"Tell me of Isaac."
"What of the young master, my lord?"
"His feats in the battle with the hell wolves."
"Your Grace, have I not recited that tale until my throat grew dry? This makes the eighth time."
"The camp bed last night was wretched. I drowned my discomfort in drink, and the memory fled with the hangover."
"A pity."
"Fortunately, Oak Hill is far off. Plenty of time for you to restore my lost recollections."
"As I said, it's only eyewitness accounts from Binvelt's soldiers, but I'll recount it in every detail."
The count twirled a finger in the air—proceed.
"So, moonlight poured over the hills like a blade's edge, and the soldiers were frozen in terror, rigid as stone..."
Schrader began. The count's fingers twitched on the reins, a faint smile playing at his lips.
"Remarkable."
Isaac lounged in the bath prepared by the servants, probing the hell wolf's mind. Strolling the garden with Yonas, the beast found Goethe Manor stable and welcoming. Partly due to its mental link with Isaac, but more powerfully, its fondness for Yonas.
Friend? Brother?
Isaac inferred the hell wolf's feelings toward Yonas. When first surrounded by servants and guards, Yonas had shown no fear. Savoring his reunion with Isaac, the boy soon turned curious eyes on the hell wolf. Wondering at a name Isaac himself hadn't considered, prying into its diet, habits, native size—enough to fluster Isaac. Fearlessly, Yonas petted its cheek and muzzle. Even Binvelt's tribal children had wept or cowered at first sight, only daring play after days of wary coexistence. Yonas skipped those stages entirely.
Affinity, perhaps.
Isaac recalled Yonas's talents from his past life, when he'd become head of the house. Magical prowess was notable, but unparalleled was his spirit affinity. Just as humans possessed souls, so did supernatural beings—especially the intelligent ones—with emotions, moods, likes, and dislikes. To them, Yonas must have been irresistibly appealing. Whenever crisis struck Goethe under his rule, they extended aid readily. Of course, this gift only revealed itself years after he took the seat.
Well, whatever. From tree spirits to the souls of the dead, all lumped as 'spirits.' If hell wolves count as spirits, then so be it.
Thanks to that, Isaac could relax his vigilance on the hell wolf and savor the bath's comfort. His mind churned ceaselessly: the geopolitical landscape, kingdom's state, Goethe's position and future therein. Binvelt's development paths. On the finer scale: awakening Yonas's talents, Carlson's vengeance, blooming maid Enet's—saved from Niers—magical potential.
"Young master, it's Hans."
By then, freshly bathed and groomed, Hans knocked at the bedchamber door.
"I've brought Bill."
"Send him in."
Isaac spoke, face barely above the bathwater scented with bath salts.
"Young master hale and... who?"
"You seem hale enough."
After Isaac slew Niers, Bill had risen as head of his gang. His hair was tied back, his frame bulkier. Scars marred his rolled-up sleeves, some fresh cuts among them. Bruises yellowed his cheeks and brow.
"Bill, this is young master Isaac. You'll get used to him. Alright then."
Hans clapped Bill's shoulder with a wink.
"...?"
"Hans, take a few days' leave. Rest with your family."
"Thank you, young master."
Hans withdrew, leaving Bill to stand awkwardly, staring at Isaac.
"...Uh, are you really the young master?"
"Why? Don't I look it?"
Isaac draped an arm over the tub's edge. Developed muscles bulged in arm and chest. His face retained boyish sharpness, but his body did not—lean yet honed.
"Y-yes, honestly... are you really?"
"You're looking more like Bill yourself. You've bulked up into a man of substance in months. Where's the braggart gossiping with the servants?"
"The seat makes the man, as they say."
"What of the reports I ordered? Not a single letter reached me. I thought your head had rolled or your hand flown off, leaving you mute and scribble-less."
Isaac's eyes gleamed yellow. Bill flinched, stumbling back instinctively. Like facing a colossal beast no ordinary man could challenge. He felt it in his bones: the boy thawing in the tub was Isaac. And the little master he'd known had returned a greater monster still.
"Kill me, young master."
Suddenly, Bill dropped to his knees.