The Church's Summons
Some time later.
The Church inspector regarded the mercenaries who had joined the gargoyle hunt as though he could scarcely believe his ears. What was more absurd still was the other warriors accepting every word of it as plain fact! He was left with the distinct feeling of being the only sane man left standing in a camp full of lunatics.
No... surely not, even so...
Once the talk of the gargoyle hunt wound down, the mercenaries and warriors moved on to hold forth about werewolves and trolls. That, too, was unadulterated nonsense. So preposterous had it all become that the tale of the bishop bestowing his fortune somehow rang the most true of anything he'd heard.
"Just... let me ask one thing."
At the inspector's words, the mercenaries nodded. Everyone here was either a mercenary out of the Empire or a tribal warrior hoping to step into the Empire's order. Such men were well disposed toward the One Faith, and their interest in the Church ran deep.
"Ask whatever you like, Father."
"Did Bishop Biagione truly shower gold upon you?"
"You don't see this bracelet here? That's the very gold he scattered."
"...!"
The mercenaries were simple creatures. If they had been given something, they said good things in return. Thanks to Johan's instructions, no doubt — but having taken the bishop's money, they would not breathe a word against him.
And so the inspector, having heard nothing but accounts that contradicted every rumor, began to grow quietly confused.
He had served long as the Church's inspector, and he was not a man easily shaken or deceived. There was, after all, a real difference between greedy men putting on a show and those who genuinely believed in God and lived frugally.
And yet, every now and then, a man did transform under a great shock. A debauched wretch hearing the voice of God, confessing, and repenting of his ways — such things were not unknown.
Could Bishop Biagione have gone through something of the kind? Could he have glimpsed the holiness of God in the midst of a miracle?
"...Can we do nothing about that inspector, brother?"
"What, you'd have me assassinate him?"
At Johan's words, the bishop nearly had a seizure. He glanced wildly about him. Mercifully, the column stretched long in front and behind; no one at their flank had overheard.
"Are you mad? That's not what I meant. The inspector keeps digging, doesn't he? If the mercenaries were to let something slip..."
"The mercenaries will let nothing slip."
"Can you truly vouch for that? Will you answer for it?"
"And if I can't answer for it, what will you do?"
"...N-now see here, you mustn't talk like that. It's not as if this Biagione said anything untoward."
When Johan's face went stone-serious, the bishop shrank into himself. He had seen the man's true nature before, and he owed him far too much from the gargoyle hunt besides. Employer or no, he could hardly lord it over him to his face.
If the consul spoke true, the bishop's affair should wrap up cleanly enough.
If the consul had spoken true, the Church took little interest in whether the bishop was deposed or not. Which meant the inquiry would likely be settled with a token effort rather than any meticulous investigation.
Of course, Johan had no intention of saying so aloud. The story would grow quite tangled enough as it was.
"The village ahead, sir. It's Church land, so we should be able to rest in some comfort."
"Send a man ahead. Tell them a bishop and an inspector ride with the party, and to prepare a proper reception. The rest will make camp outside."
"Yes, sir."
When the order came down, Johan's men moved with remarkable swiftness despite their ragtag composition. One went into the village to deliver the message; others circled the perimeter to scout, marked out the camp and posted the watch, located the water source and drew the drinking water. Watching them split so crisply into their tasks, the inspector was quietly impressed.
Frankly, he had wondered why a knight of Johan's caliber kept such a disorderly rabble about him — but seeing them fall into such neat order, he understood at last.
Curiosity got the better of him.
"You're not letting the mercenaries into the village?"
With mercenaries numbering in the hundreds, even letting a portion inside would burden the village sorely — a proper reception aside, the damage if trouble broke out would be ruinous.
And yet they could hardly be turned away either. No man alive enjoyed camping under the cold dew when a roof was to be had.
Even if not every man, those who commanded tens or hundreds were usually let inside.
"It hardly looks a wealthy village. If they poured in, the burden would be crushing. Save for a minimal escort, isn't it better to have them wait outside?"
"You are truly a paragon of honor, my lord!"
The inspector was thoroughly satisfied with Johan's answer. Nobles, as a rule, preached faith with their lips while their deeds were an abomination. If they had surplus, it ought to go to the starving, ragged serfs — there was no reason to squander it on luxury.
On that count, Johan's conduct matched his reputation perfectly, and it was deeply gratifying. If only the other hot-blooded young knights would see it and learn.
More impressive still was that not a single mercenary showed a flicker of complaint even under such orders. However good a man's intentions, ruling rough men required strength; without it, fine words were so much empty air.
If only he didn't keep company with Bishop Biagione, he would be a perfect man. Why does he keep company with that bishop? Is he being fooled?
The inspector suspected Bishop Biagione. A man of the bishop's abilities could certainly toy with this young knight. And if that were the case, the bishop had earned himself yet another sin.
"Ah, those lunatics. What are they doing wandering about at this hour of night? Aren't they afraid of monsters?"
"Oi! Halt! Hold those torches where you are and identify yourselves!"
The mercenaries on watch cursed under their breath and stirred at the sight of a knot of torches drawing near in the distance.
"What is it? What's happening?"
"Some bastards coming this way."
"They look like the sort to flay a man and eat the hide. Pray to God they're bandits."
The whole camp surged to its feet. Johan, roused from sleep, shoved Karamaf aside and crawled out from under him, earning a rumbling growl of pure irritation for his trouble.
"Er... Sir Knight? You didn't go into the village?"
"Marco and Gerdolf going is plenty. It's not as though the Church escort is lacking. With the rest of you camped out here, was I to slip inside and sleep soft on my own?"
"Don't be too good to us, sir. Spoil these greenhorns and they'll never adapt anywhere else."
The mercenaries answered with studied indifference, but there was no mistaking the light in their eyes.
"So? Who are they?"
"Someone's gone to take a look. They'll report back shortly."
Just as promised, word soon returned. Those approaching from the distance were mercenaries as well — a company of respectable size, numbering well over a hundred.
"So they really are mercenaries?"
"Sir Knight, they could just as well be bandits. Is it not strange for mercenaries to show up near this highroad at this time? There's been no work anywhere in these parts."
"He's right. And moving by night is suspicious in itself — unless something urgent was afoot..."
Unlike the voices around him, Johan thought it entirely possible they were mercenaries. If the consul had spoken true, the Church would be summoning companies from every corner of the map.
And when the summons came in the Church's name — in the Pope's name, no less — even the most arrogant mercenaries would break their backs to arrive on schedule. Moving by night was nothing strange at all.
"They're fuming, demanding to be let in to rest — what do we do?"
"Tell them we've no intention of talking with their kind, so have them move aside. I'll wake the village headman myself and settle this face-to-face."
"What the hell's going on up front? All this racket in the middle of the night?"
"Some mercenary bastards have planted themselves at the village entrance and won't let anyone in!"
"Did the village pay them off or something?"
"No telling. Their boss will have to show himself first."
"Fat chance anyone comes out at this hour."
"Then tell him we'll come in by force if he doesn't. If the man's got a working head on his shoulders, he'll show himself."
It was not just one company on this road. Mercenary bands that had been moving along the same route arrived one after another, late to the party.
They were soaked in exhaustion, having marched without rest. Even if they could not get into the village, they wanted at least to wring food and drink out of the villagers.
And then some company had planted itself square across the entrance. Of course they were furious.
"We are soldiers in the service of Bishop Biagione! If you are mercenaries, conduct yourselves with honor!"
"What? A bishop?"
"Er..."
The captains faltered at the bishop's name — but as luck would have it, one of them happened to be cursed with useless knowledge.
"Bishop Biagione belongs to the Republic's diocese, not this one! He has no business being here!"
"Ooooh...!"
"And here I took you for a fool. Not bad at all."
"You want to die, you little...?"
"Enough. All of you. Is this the time?"
The captains hurled curses at one another. Marching in the same column did not make them courteous; among their kind, managing not to draw steel the moment you met counted as fast friendship.
"So that one over there is a fake?"
"Fake, most likely. Tell them to send their leader out at once. Say we attack if he doesn't."
"Those bastards must be sweating too, watching our numbers swell."
They had all seen the torch-columns wavering in behind the first arrivals, so they would have grasped the situation well enough.
Gurelik scratched at his dust-caked cheek. Nothing the other captains had said was wrong, exactly. But one thing kept nagging at him.
The camp on the other side was simply too orderly.
For the briefest moment, he wondered whether they really were soldiers serving a bishop after all.
"Wait. You never know. I'm going up to have a look."
"To do what, exactly?"
"Men truly serving a bishop would have proof in their camp, wouldn't they? Someone's got to go and see."
"What a meddlesome bastard."
"No — honestly, it's not a bad thought. Best to avoid a pointless fight. There's no money in it."
Among the captains, some came around to Gurelik's view. Every man in a company was the captain's asset, and they all despised wasting soldiers for nothing.
Gurelik took a handful of his guards and pushed his horse into a quick canter. He meant to see for himself, close up, what manner of men these were.
"Uh..."
"Why are you babbling like an idiot? Can't you get the words out?"
"Uh..."
"Why, you insolent—"
Gurelik's eyes flared at his subordinate for brushing him off, and he cocked his fist to flatten the man where he sat—
"Th-there! Isn't that the Monster Knight?"
"The Monster Knight? What in the—"
Gurelik turned his head, caught sight of Johan riding out from the camp ahead, and very nearly fell off his horse in shock. The animal shrieked and bucked and shook itself; Gurelik clung on for dear life and only just avoided compounding the disgrace.
"Sir Gurelik. It's been a while. I expected you to still be in Umdim."
"...Sir Johan."
Gurelik sent silent thanks to his own sharp eyes and felt his chest loosen. Had he brushed this off as too much bother, a great many men would have found themselves in a world of trouble.
And a great many more would have ended up dead.
"What brings you here, if I may ask..."
"As I said, we travel in the service of His Excellency the Bishop. And yourself?"
"My men and the other companies answered the Church's summons. We were making for the foot of Mt. Sirandel."
Johan's guess had been right on the mark. He nodded, entirely unsurprised.
"On a forced march, were you? His Excellency the Bishop is here, and with us travels a priest dispatched on Church business besides. No one will call you to account for arriving a little late. You've nothing to fear — pass the word to slow the pace."
"Th-thank you."
Only after bowing his head in a daze did Gurelik realize what he had done: he had been so thoroughly cowed that honorifics were falling out of his mouth. It had never gone this far before. Shame flooded him all at once — his own men were standing right there. What sort of pitiful display was this?
But his subordinates, it seemed, found nothing strange in it whatsoever.
"Blimey, I never dreamed it would be the Monster Knight. Who'd have thought we'd run into him out here?"
"Isn't he going easy on us because he's traveling with the captain?"
"..."
Gurelik honestly could not tell whether to thank his men for being such prideless dolts, or feel twice as humiliated on account of them.
Having confirmed who the newcomers were, Johan made forceful use of his standing as a banneret alongside the bishop's authority. With Gurelik's testimony piled on top, the mercenaries had no choice but to swallow the bitter pill and comply.
Never in their wildest guesses had they imagined an actual bishop and an actual inspector sat in that camp. Grumbling, they flopped down across the open field.
"Why are all these mercenaries here? Something about this is not right."
At Bishop Biagione's words, the inspector gave a dry cough. It was thanks to the very bishop he attended that he knew exactly why the mercenaries were converging on this road.
"Has something happened within the Church? Don't tell me the Emperor intends to invade? No — the Emperor has not the strength for that. Then... surely not the King of Erance?"
The Church gathering soldiers was an ill omen. The bishop flung out one question after another, but the inspector kept his mouth sealed to the very last.
"Sir Knight, you had best be careful. Those mercenaries are stewing in their grievances."
Aclada came trotting back with his report. The captains who had arrived late were, it seemed, looking upon Johan with no small resentment.
"Because they starved half a day?"
"You already knew that, sir — why ask? If anything, it's because you're too thick with the Church. Even back in our tribe, the families close to the chieftain caught jealous glares all the same."
The captains streaming toward the Church's call were not chasing gold alone. Had that been all, they would never have driven themselves to the brink.
What they wanted was to rise in the world.