The Rights to a Cursed Village
Stefan knew exactly whose son the knight who had just stepped forward was.
Gerwolf the Butcher!
A knight of the house of Gorn, sworn to Count Abner — a savage, brutal warrior whose reputation had more than earned him that nickname. He was no Sir Karamap, the so-called Noble Executioner, but Gerwolf had slain his share of knights all the same. He was, for all practical purposes, Count Abner's hunting dog.
While Stefan was busy trying to talk Johan down, Count Abner was frowning as well. It would have been satisfying, of course, to watch Gerwolf simply crush Johan — but the fallout would be an insufferable headache.
Count Zarfen, a man who prized honorable knights, would fly into a furious rage, and the negotiations — only just settling into reconciliation — might collapse entirely. Even if he had graciously overlooked the border skirmish, no noble would tolerate the insult of having his invited knight killed outright.
And Johan himself was a rising knight, famous enough to have earned the epithet Troll-Slayer. If Gerwolf got hurt, or worse, lost...
The thought of the man strutting around to pad his family's prestige instead of knowing his place was already grating on the Count's nerves. But now that Gerwolf had stepped forward, the Count could hardly refuse.
Perhaps Johan would back down, and the Count could smooth things over with a little grace and tact...
"How could I possibly refuse a fight that comes to my door?"
'That miserable bastard.'
Knight or not, the whole lot of them seemed determined to test her patience, from start to finish.
'That lunatic!'
Stefan watched the duel with an anxious face. He had told Johan not to accept, and the man's blithe refusal to listen was deeply irritating.
There were reasons aplenty why he'd tried to stop the fight. Gerwolf was what you'd get if you gathered every ugly side of knighthood into a single man.
Cruel, vicious, and savage.
Just as some knights were drilled from childhood in honor and chivalric virtue, others were raised from childhood on blood and slaughter.
If not for Count Abner's protection, Gerwolf's manner of living would have earned him the noose long ago.
"Enemy. Kill. Enemy. Kill. Me. Understood."
A warrior who looked a head and a half taller than Johan trudged in, answering in that sluggish drawl. His father, Sir Inno, had labored to explain the situation, but the man's expression said he hadn't grasped even half of it.
Gerwolf's ferocity owed something to his dull wits as well. Unlike other knights, his brain was utterly incapable of considering consequences — and that made him all the more brutal.
'Over two meters, at least.'
Count Zarfen's knights had all heard of Gerwolf, and their faces had turned grim. She could hear them whispering, wondering if there was any way to stop this.
Afraid the remark might seem disrespectful to Johan, they couldn't bring themselves to say it aloud — but their eagerness to intervene was written all over them.
'Not someone I can't handle, though.'
Unlike his days confined to his estate, Johan had accumulated enough experience now that he could hear what his instincts whispered to him.
How strong was his opponent? Could he win? If they fought, how would the man come at him?
The whispers resolved themselves into a cold, sober assessment.
Johan took up his newly acquired longsword and shield; Gerwolf held a two-handed sword with no shield at all. The greatsword already looked oversized even swung two-handed — clearly enlarged to match his bulk.
The desire to rush in and smash Johan flat was written naked across Gerwolf's face. Johan looked the man over. Someone that impatient — a long fight might serve him well.
Crack!
With the sound of snapping bone, Gerwolf howled in agony. The duel was over in a single exchange.
When Johan stepped inside the greatsword's reach, Gerwolf — as though he'd taken the bait exactly as intended — went for combat wrestling, and Johan answered in kind, as though he'd been waiting for precisely that.
Two knights confident in their raw strength locked together without a shred of finesse between them...
And the winner, naturally, was Johan.
Gerwolf had never once imagined Johan might be stronger than he was, and he let out a scream thick with pain.
"My arm! MY ARM!"
'Oh, damn it all.'
Johan clicked his tongue.
Gerwolf's brutish opening rush had ended things far too quickly.
The plan had been to trade a few blows with sword and shield first, then win after a hard-fought, evenly matched struggle. That way, even the loser kept some shred of dignity.
He had only just made peace with the Count; he had no wish to smear the man's honor.
But Gerwolf had come straight at him with brute force, and Johan had had no choice but to meet it...
Which brought them to now. The men of House Abner were glaring at Gerwolf with faces twisted in disgust.
Gerwolf was a savage knight with no notion of honor, granted — but the reason he'd been shown respect until this day was that he had never stopped winning. The moment a man like that lost, his worth evaporated.
"Endure it! Better that you—"
Amid the clamor, Gerwolf's father shouted over the din. Everyone could fill in the rest. Better that you die.
But Gerwolf bellowed, sluggish as ever:
"I yield! I YIELD!"
Groans of despair erupted on all sides. Johan released the man's arm and raised his voice.
"My gratitude to His Excellency for granting me the honor of crossing blades with a worthy knight! It seems Sir Gerwolf wished to test my strength — had we properly exchanged weapons from the start, the outcome might have been anyone's!"
"......"
"......"
A brief silence followed, until one quick-witted soul began clapping and cheering, hoping to thaw the frozen atmosphere.
"Blessings upon Sir Johan's honor! Blessings in the name of God!"
"...A fine contest between honorable knights. The kind God Himself would smile upon."
No one believed a word of it, but no one dared say so in front of the Count. Johan felt the Count's eyes flick toward him in silent gratitude.
'Still better than not fighting at all. What an absolute nuisance.'
Having to calculate, every single time, which choice would look right before high nobility wore a man down — body and mind alike. Even Johan, with his body of steel, found it exhausting.
Fortunately, he was spared any further exertion after that.
Once the fallen Gerwolf had been carried off, the herald stepped forward, exchanged words with the Count, and traded documents.
The ransom promised to Johan arrived as well.
Two hundred imperial gold crowns.
Reward worthy of the trouble he'd endured.
"My lord! Ulrike has—"
"Lady Ulrike."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You will address her as Lady Ulrike."
"Yes, yes. Lady Ulrike is trying to kill me—"
"Your evidence? Do you have evidence?"
"N-no evidence, but you know as well as I, my lord, how Lady Ulrike has always—"
"I will make you one offer."
"?"
At Count Abner's words, Stefan's eyes went wide. What could His Excellency possibly be offering at a time like this?
"I have spoken with the Sharcasz Monastery. They will take you if you go. Inside, you will be safe."
"...!"
The Sharcasz Monastery. Its other name was the Silent Monastery. Unlike other monasteries, this cloistered order forbade its monks all social activity beyond its walls.
Once you entered, you never came out — not until the day you died.
Which amounted to social death in every way that mattered.
"F-Father...!"
Stefan trembled like a leaf. He had heard the rumors — noble sons and daughters bested in power struggles, shipped off to the Silent Monastery — but he had never imagined it would come for him.
"If you do not wish to go, you need not. But that is the last chance I can offer you."
With those words from Count Abner, Stefan understood.
This failure had made even Count Abner give up on him!
He had taken far too much for granted.
Even the bonds of blood ran out in the end. And for a Count charged with steering the fortunes of his entire house, all the more so.
"...I will consider it, and answer."
"You had best decide quickly. For your own sake."
"...Yes, my lord."
Johan and the Zarfen embassy were happily, thoroughly drunk.
With their diplomatic mission complete, all that remained was to be wined and dined and sent home in style.
For the sake of his own dignity, Count Abner had brought out his finest wine and cuisine, and Johan found himself genuinely impressed. It seemed the only thing that grew during one's travels was a more discerning palate.
"A toast to Sir Johan's exploits! A toast to that power God Himself has blessed!"
"Wahaha! I confess I never dreamed you'd simply trample that butcher into the dirt!"
House Abner's people wore smiles as they entertained the embassy, even as their stomachs curdled. Peace had been signed; there was nothing for it but to endure.
Such was the way of things — if the injustice rankled, you had to win to be rid of it.
"Hey! Hey, you there!"
"?"
When Stefan appeared at his side, Johan looked at him in puzzlement. He'd already collected his ransom — what was he doing back?
"What is it now?"
"I need a word. In private. It's urgent!"
— Grrrr.
"Karamap appears to be less than thrilled."
"Don't toy with me! It's good news — good for you too, I swear it!"
Now that Stefan had come at him like this, Johan's interest was piqued.
He'd assumed the man would be busy babbling at the Count's feet. Had things gone sideways?
"Fine. Let's hear it."
"Mm... you've been through a great deal. Travel well."
Johan came to say his farewells early. Once Stefan entered the monastery, they would likely never meet again.
"Don't spout that dog's-turds nonsense! What on earth are you saying!"
"So you intend to stand boldly against Lady Ulrike's blade instead? Well, there are worse fates."
Anyone but Johan could have been forgiven — with Stefan, one might have laid odds on him dead within the week.
"Stop babbling and listen to me. I have... an estate. A small village, mind you, but—"
"...?"
Johan wondered if the man had gone mad.
"Did you dream that?"
"I told you to listen! I genuinely have an estate. Well — not the estate itself, precisely. The tax rights to the estate. The right to collect its taxes, that is."
In this world, landed holdings were usually a tangled nest of overlapping claims. The owner of the land might be A, its steward B, the tax rights held by C, and the judicial authority held by D. Noble wars most often erupted over exactly such tangled webs of rights.
Tax rights meant the right to collect the estate's taxes and grain tariffs — one of the most valuable claims in practice. At that level, a man could fairly call the place his.
"Who granted it to you?"
"Count Abner, some time ago—"
"In front of everyone?"
"No. In secret. A single bishop stood as witness."
"...Now I understand why Lady Ulrike wants you dead."
It was no joke — he meant every word.
Nobles did not extend their own kin a grain of leniency, parents included. It was a commonplace occurrence for an eldest son to raise war against his own father for withholding the inheritance owed to him.
And this was tax rights to part of an estate, quietly handed to the third son, no less.
Once Ulrike learned of it, it would be grounds enough to invoke a war and march on his father in perfect seriousness.
"Damn it. Do you think I knew what I was taking? I was a boy back then!"
"Well, either way — you hold the tax rights, so that's that, isn't it? Sell them to a suitable buyer and run off to a city."
Tax rights to an entire estate fetched a price beyond imagining. With that kind of money, a man could settle in a city and live out his days in comfort and plenty.
"...I can't sell it."
"Pride talking?"
"No. The village is in a shambles, that's the problem..."
Stefan spoke with a face half-sunk in despair. If the village had been in decent shape, he would have sold it off long ago.
The monsters prowling the region had multiplied wildly, and under constant assault, the villagers had fled into the mountains and become mere wandering vagrants.
With the people gone, there was naturally nothing left to collect taxes from.
"I will grant you the tax rights to that land entire. Join me, Sir Johan — come with me to hunt down the monsters of this estate!"
"If you hand over all the tax rights, where do you draw your income from?"
"...I will grant you half the estate's tax rights."
"......"
Johan gave the matter serious thought: should he really clasp hands with Stefan?
Partnering with a man clever enough to deceive him was dangerous in its own right — but a hapless, scatterbrained fool like this seemed poised to be dangerous in an entirely different direction.
"What about troops? You're not suggesting I hire the soldiers myself, are you."
"......"
'Figures. What a shameless bastard.'
Only now, hearing it aloud, did Stefan seem to feel any shame — he flushed red and changed his tune.
"I-I can hire mercenaries with the money I've set aside."
"Knights? It would be far easier if we could call upon knights — each would bring his own retinue of soldiers along, after all."
"Are you insane?! Do you have any idea what the house knights think of me!"
Better that they despised or loathed him — some of them might well take coin from Ulrike and come to kill him for it.
"So mercenaries only, then. And I just show up in person, is that it?"
"You caught a troll, didn't you? Surely the other monsters will be easier?"
"It's not that simple."
Johan sank into thought.
Suppose he went through all this toil and actually won the tax rights.
Who would pay the highest price for them?
'...Selling to Ulrike would probably fetch the most, wouldn't it?'