The Stolen Horse
The serfs near the Viazo Forest threw wary glances into the distance, where the new count was approaching with his guards and retinue.
"Is that him? The count?"
"How's he any different from the baron?"
"Don't be an idiot... He's like the baron's lord, that's all."
"So does that mean the baron hauls stones up to his castle for him?"
"Quit spouting nonsense and scatter, all of you! Keep huddling around like this and the only thing you'll get is the lash."
It was the village headman who finally drove the people apart. There was nothing to be gained from crowding together when no noble had summoned them.
Is that man Count Eitz?
The headman narrowed his eyes and studied Johan's column. Headman was an elevated position, one only a man of relative means could hold.
He dealt with the stewards the nobles sent, and in some cases he could even make demands on the serfs' behalf. The villagers respected him and leaned on him — and yet, to anyone who held real power, a headman was a man of no consequence whatsoever.
In truth, the headman had never laid eyes on a noble or a noble's army beyond a furtive peek at the baron's castle. At most, he'd seen mercenaries drifting about near the village.
Even so, even he could tell that the men guarding Johan were something out of the ordinary.
They rode fine, powerful horses, and their gleaming armor covered them from head to toe as they glared about with an intimidating bearing. Behind them, banners stamped with holy sigils fluttered as if in blessing. They were beyond compare with the ragged beggars who passed for mercenaries.
I just pray the young fools don't get any strange ideas.
Clicking his tongue, the headman walked off. Whenever a procession like this passed through, some young idiot always fell under its spell and ran off chasing the mercenaries, dreaming of glory.
"That's enough, baron. No feast is necessary."
"But—"
Johan waved him off, and the baron retreated, dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief.
Johan had come galloping here for one quiet, simple purpose: to seize the Mulck noble. But for the baron of the surrounding lands, the situation looked very different indeed.
With the margrave dead and the pirates slaughtered, Johan's authority reached for the heavens. If a count of his stature showed up and you failed to come running out to greet him, and he took offense at the slight later, you wouldn't have enough necks to pay for it.
"I need a huntsman to guide me through the forest. Do you have anyone capable?"
"I... I beg your forgiveness. I take no pleasure in the hunt myself..."
The baron flushed crimson and bowed his head. A noble didn't strictly need to be a knight, but being un-knightly was nothing to brag about. The hunt was, after all, the finest stage on which a knight could display his honor.
"No taste for the hunt? How wise of you. The Order will sing the praises of your piety."
"......"
If there was a man alive who could turn a single sentence into gold coins, it was Johan. At this kindness he had never seen coming, the baran nearly wept.
The Order certainly disapproved of hunting and dueling — but nobles who wielded that disapproval as a compliment were rare indeed.
"Please, wait just a moment! I'll have my servants prepare a meal at once!"
"No, you see—"
The baron was already barking orders without waiting for an answer. Johan thought to himself:
That bastard has the foulest sense for reading a room.
I said it's fine...
"No huntsman to guide us — doesn't that make this dangerous, my lord?"
"It does, aye."
Never enter a forest you don't know.
It was the iron rule among mercenaries.
Wandering into unfamiliar woods without a guide was plain recklessness.
Come to think of it, that's probably how whoever we're chasing got into this forest in the first place — no huntsman either.
"But we have Galambos here, don't we."
"I—I am honored, my lord."
Galambos, the mercenary out of the Eastern Rangers, was utterly at a loss when the arrow of attention swung so suddenly his way.
He knew perfectly well that this young knight prized ability regardless of birth, and the mercenaries reveled in it — but his heart could hardly help leapfrogging in his chest every single time.
"And Karamap has a fine nose and sharp ears. He'll find the way."
-Grrrr.
Karamap chuckled contentedly, whether from understanding Johan's words or simply the tone.
And it wasn't only Galambos — Johan himself had been trained as a hunter. Any trap short of an elaborate one, he could spot before it spotted him.
"No traps, my lord."
"You're sure there are none? Check again, properly!"
"If anything happens to the Count, you'll hang, you hear me?!"
"......"
Under the mercenaries' harassment, Galambos clicked his tongue and ran the check once more. No traps conjured themselves into existence.
Maybe I should have brought the two of them after all.
At the news that Johan was going hunting, Aclada and Euclia had worked themselves into a lather and begged to come along — but Johan had refused.
The pair had been doing far too good a job drilling the slave soldiers.
"I stake my honor as an Eastern Ranger on it — there is truly nothing there."
"Well, I suppose folk hiding from people's eyes wouldn't have set traps at the entrance."
"That's the truth of it."
At the mercenaries' chatter, Galambos ground his teeth. This from country bumpkins who'd never so much as sat a horse in their lives, all mouth and nothing else...
-Grrrr.
"Karamap. You've caught the scent? Good. Let's follow it."
Karamap was a hunter born and bred. From tracks invisible to any eye, he teased out a scent, and from the scent, a trail.
When a faint wisp of smoke appeared in the distance and the traces of a campsite began to surface one by one, the mercenaries tensed.
"Max. Take your ten and swing left. Henike — go right and confirm there's no ambush."
The mercenaries fanned out swiftly and wrapped around the campsite. No ambush revealed itself nearby.
-None, my lord.
"Good. Attack."
With a roar, the mercenaries surged in as one — a battle cry meant to throw whoever lay within the camp into confusion.
But there was no one in the camp. No sign of life anywhere. Johan clicked his tongue at the sight of it.
"Abandoned it and moved on, then?"
"Too intact for that, my lord. The embers haven't even died... I'd say they've gone out hunting."
Food was a matter of life and death for fugitives. They couldn't buy it in a village or loot it without drawing every eye in the region — hunting was all that remained to them.
"Got a live one here!"
"!"
Johan turned. A vampire in rather expensive clothes was staggering upright, a flustered-looking servant hovering at his side.
Johan allowed himself a satisfied smile. This was the Mulck noble, beyond doubt.
"By custom, as my prisoner... what do you think you're doing?"
"Better to end my own life than be taken in disgrace!"
Though his wounds had hardly healed, the vampire pressed his sword to his own throat and spoke with grim resolve. Johan and the mercenaries could only gape at the spectacle.
What is it with nobles, always doing this exact thing.
Get captured, take your treatment quietly, send an envoy home to raise your ransom — that's how it goes. Swearing to slit your own throat? Nobody had ever heard the like.
"...What are we to do, my lord?"
The mercenaries looked to Johan. If it had been only them, they'd have killed the man — noble or no — on the spot. But they couldn't act on their own whims in front of Johan. Besides, this one looked like he'd fetch a pretty price.
"You are blood of House Mulck?"
"I am."
"A house like Mulck could pay a ransom without blinking. Is there really any need to end your life over it?"
"I swore before the temple's holy icons to make my name. Would you have me crawl to my house, begging for coin like a disgrace?"
And if you do that, what does that make the ones already in my cells?
Even now, Johan's lands held the Nusad brothers and a handful of others in captivity.
With the republic's envoys so grievously insulted, he could have lopped their heads off and been done with it — instead, Johan had shown mercy, granting them more time.
Though that was the reason he gave aloud; in truth, it was so he could collect their ransoms later...
"My lord, please, compose yourself! Your wounds haven't healed. You must rest!"
When the servant attending the man cried out in desperation, Johan silently cheered him on. A truly loyal servant, that one.
"Unhand me. I said... unhand me."
"Never, my lord! Cut me down instead!"
The mercenaries watched the pair's antics with eyes full of irritation. Surrender or don't — either way, this posturing from a heathen pirate of all people was grating on their last nerve.
Why don't we just let the fool die?
You do realize that one man's ransom is worth more than a year of all our wages combined, right? And you're saying this now?
The struggle between Ahir and his servant ended in the servant's victory. Bloodied, Ahir couldn't hold the sword for long, and it clattered from his grip.
"Grab that vampire bastard!"
"Gently! Don't kill him!"
At that, the mercenaries pounced like hounds after a hare. They shoved the servant aside and pinned Ahir down so he couldn't move — though he could scarcely hold himself upright anyway, so it hardly mattered.
"M-my lord Count, this one's about to stop breathing—"
"Stand aside. I must treat him."
Johan drew out the blessed water he'd received from Suetelg and dabbed it on Ahir's wounds. The deep, festering gash closed with remarkable speed. Ahir's servant gaped, jabbing a finger at the sight and jabbering in disbelief — and at that, the mercenaries puffed up with pride.
"That, heathens, is a miracle. A miracle only His Blessed Lordship the Count could show you."
"Ever seen a wound heal at a mere touch before? Your mongrel gods can't hold a candle to this."
"......"
Johan had plenty he wanted to say, but he held his tongue. It was a good thing, after all, to have loyal men.
Ahir's retinue, arriving belatedly, grasped the situation and went white with horror. While they'd been roaming the area, their lord's camp had been stormed.
"My lord! These bastards — how dare they!"
"How dare, he says. Since when do pirates get to flap their lips about anything?"
Utterly unmoved, the mercenaries leveled their crossbows. In numbers, in equipment, in condition, this side held every advantage. And Ahir himself was right here.
Knowing it, the retinue hesitated, unwilling to charge headlong into ruin.
"Your lord has been treated by my own hand. By custom, his life belongs to me now. Drop your weapons."
"■■■! ■■■ ■■■!"
One knight, worked into a fury, spat something in the Eastern tongue. Whatever it meant, it was cursing beyond all doubt. Ahir's servant spoke up.
"He says... let it be settled by duel."
"Tell him to cut the crap."
The servant relayed it word for word. The other retainers dragged the knight back as well — they knew they stood in the weaker position, and they laid down their arms.
Ahir, his senses returned, staggered out. The mercenaries flanked him, watching to make sure he tried nothing clever.
"...Young knight. I am in your debt."
"Not a knight. A count. Show proper courtesy before Count Eitz."
At Johan's words, Ahir's face registered surprise. Far younger than he had imagined. He bowed once more, deeper this time.
"Forgive my son's rudeness, I pray you."
"?"
So the knight who'd been raving and thrashing about was Ahir's own son. That hot-blooded knight had looked the same age as Johan, or older...
I can't tell whether I look young for my age, or whether that man sired children unusually early.
Ahir's outward appearance had led Johan to think of him as a contemporary, and now he found himself vaguely cheated.
"Are you well, my lord?"
"Count Eitz worked a miracle and healed my wounds."
"Truly, my lord?!"
"A miracle like that... from a worshipper of the lone god?"
Ahir and his retainers had all heard the rumors drifting out of the pirate camps — how Johan had cured by hand the sickness running rampant among the mercenaries.
They'd taken the story with a grain of salt at the time. But now, watching wounds close before their eyes, they had no choice but to believe. This count was a man who could truly work miracles.
"Do you still refuse to pay your ransom?"
"...No. Having had my life spared, I will not behave dishonorably. I shall send an envoy to raise the ransom."
Had he taken his own life before capture, that would have been one thing. But having been captured, and having had his life spared, Ahir's life now belonged to Johan.
To disregard that and simply die would have been the height of dishonor.
"■■■ ■■■, ■■■■ ■■..."
"■■■ ■■■ ■ ■■■■."
"What are you two babbling about?"
"He says his horse must be found, my lord."
"His horse?"
According to the servant, Ahir's horse had been stolen somewhere in the forest. The reason Ahir's sons and retainers had been combing the region was to track that horse down.
I'd rather just take it and go...
Ahir caught the impatience of a man who had no wish to waste another hour here, and spoke up.
"If you find my horse for me, I will gift it to you in gratitude for the Count's honor. And even should you fail to find it alive, I will pay an additional sum for the horse's worth. I beg this of you."
"...Fine. Then I grant it."
Ahir's retainers gave thanks for Johan's generous treatment. This count, heathen though he was, seemed to understand honor and mercy both. Were it otherwise, he would never have offered such an opportunity.
Judging by the way he talks about it, that horse must be worth quite a lot.