Chapter 213 : News from the South
Chapter 213: News from the South
Baron Morn Turner’s territory bordered Lake Salvador to the north. To the southeast lay the land of a border earl—though that earl had recently fallen on hard times.
The old earl had been killed in Greenwood City by the rebellious Lord Pegira for taking part in the succession dispute there, leaving the young Earl Raul no choice but to inherit the title.
Naturally, moving up from third in line of succession to becoming the earl—since the two heirs ahead of him had been slain together with the old earl—should have been a cause for celebration.
That was, if the rebellious Lord Pegira had not massacred Greenwood City.
The entire Greenwood City, nearly a hundred thousand people, had recently been ordered killed by that lord.
Even though the besieged nobles in Greenwood City collectively offered to surrender, Lord Pegira refused. After blasting apart a city wall with an unknown Sacred Relic and flattening the Greenwood Castle, he let his men flood in and slaughter everyone.
Most within Greenwood City were related by blood to the Patlin Family, and most nobles with inheritance rights had been gathered there.
Thus, after this massacre, the main bloodline of the Patlin Family was completely extinguished, and the Principality of Patlin was, in effect, destroyed.
Morn found it rather ironic. The neighboring Principality of Corlay had already fallen entirely under the control of the Fishmen, yet since the Corlay Family’s main bloodline still survived, the state could not be considered destroyed in fact. Meanwhile, the Principality of Patlin perished outright because its ruling family had been annihilated.
Because of this, even he—a mere baron—was now a free lord.
And now, that same Lord Pegira who had slaughtered the Patlin Family was pressing further south with the armies sworn to him. Morn had heard it said he intended to kill the last border marquis who still carried a drop of Patlin blood.
So, Morn pitied the boy who had been forced to take up the earldom. Since the boy had inherited the Patlin name, with Lord Pegira’s cruelty, perhaps when returning to his original territory, he might conveniently kill him as well.
On top of that, the Fishmen who had seized the Principality of Corlay were also encroaching upon that unfortunate earl’s lands.
Every few days, Morn could faintly feel the earth tremble—that was the earl using a Sacred Relic to defend his land.
But Morn knew that each use of that Relic demanded at least a hundred human lives. How many times could the earl wield it, with only so many people in his domain?
Up until today, Morn had felt somewhat lucky about his own position.
With the Patlin Family exterminated and the principality effectively destroyed, all the lords who once owed them fealty had become free nobles. Ambitious lords wasted no time launching invasions and annexations.
Like those nobles to Morn’s west—last year, they had banded together to divide Viscount Logan’s Parker Territory and had built a wall to bar Lord Pegira’s northern forces. They should have been allies.
But once news of Patlin’s destruction spread, Viscount Youn turned on his supposed allies, launching annexations against the minor nobles of the alliance. In less than two months, his lands had nearly reached the scale of an earldom.
Morn only sneered at the farce.
Viscount Youn had only managed this because Lord Pegira’s rebellion happened to bypass his land entirely, and Pegira had continued southward afterward. But once Pegira had crushed the southern lords, he would surely return north. At that time, what could Youn do, trapped between?
After all, Youn had overseen the wall’s construction and even had magicians poison the surrounding lands.
Morn could not believe Lord Pegira would continue further south to provoke the Principality of Ackerman, for that state was under the protection of the Altlinsmann Empire.
But today, he received messages from two envoys—one from Viscount Youn, the other from Earl Raul.
Viscount Youn demanded his submission. Earl Raul demanded one thousand lives as tribute.
He could accept neither.
Viscount Youn, in his eyes, was doomed to destruction. And his land only held five thousand souls altogether—how could he possibly hand over a thousand to the earl’s Relic?
So today, Baron Morn was troubled.
He was weak, very weak—nearly the lowest rung of the baronial class.
His territory held only two knights, a little over two hundred standing soldiers, one town of three thousand, and three villages. Not even a single scholar would serve him.
His town had been built by Lake Salvador, with the villages circling its outskirts. His grandfather had arranged it this way, claiming it would best preserve the town’s safety.
Morn agreed. After all, the Principality of Patlin’s shipbuilding was unimpressive, and with the lake teeming with piranhas, it formed a natural defensive wall.
Of course, should Viscount Youn or Earl Raul march directly with their armies, Lake Salvador offered no protection.
No matter how he looked at it, he was cornered. Baron Morn grew more and more irritable.
Why had Lord Pegira not returned north to his own land after destroying the Patlin Family, declaring himself grand duke then and there? If so, Morn could have pledged fealty and lived on happily as a carefree baron under his protection.
But no—Pegira bore grudges like no noble at all.
In his study, Baron Morn let out another sigh.
Knock, knock, knock—the study door rattled under frantic blows.
“Master! A ship is crossing the lake!” a voice shouted anxiously from outside.
Morn jolted, fear overtaking his irritation.
He flung the door open to find his old butler pale with dread.
“Did you see whose banner it was?” Morn hurriedly asked. “Youn’s? Raul’s?”
Surely only those two would come now. But with their strength, wouldn’t it be faster to march in overland than come by ship?
The old butler swallowed hard. “Neither—it is Lord Pegira’s banner.”
Morn froze. He had never heard that Pegira’s lands could build ships. If they were only small fishing boats, the piranhas would have torn them apart.
“You didn’t see wrong?” Morn pressed again.
“No, no mistake, absolutely none. It was a red banner with golden dots!” the butler said.
“No, no, no, Lode, you’re senile,” Morn shook his head. “Red field, golden edging, and a dragon painted upon it—that is Lord Pegira’s banner.”
The butler lowered his head. “No, master, when Lord Pegira and Marquis Demitri marched south, they bore the red banner with golden dots. Only after declaring war on the Patlin Family did they raise the dragon banner.”
Morn fell silent, then asked once more, “You are sure you recall correctly?”
The butler dropped to his knees. “Yes, master, I am certain. At that time, when I carried Marquis Demitri’s demanded gold and food into their camp, I saw Lord Pegira’s tent flying that red banner with golden dots.”
Morn paced, then kicked the butler. “Go quickly—see whether the Rat Path men have returned. I need intelligence, no matter the cost in gold. I need news from York Territory.”
“Yes, yes, master, I will go at once!” the butler cried, rolling on the ground, clutching his fractured arm as he bowed before retreating.
Morn returned to his study, donned his finest robe, summoned his squire, and went to the barracks to muster his men.
Only once surrounded by knights and soldiers did he mount his carriage and ride with his force to the lakeshore.
His town lay a short distance from the lake. When he and his troops arrived, they saw three large ships anchored there.
And upon those ships indeed flew the red banner with golden dots.
Morn’s heart wavered.
Was he not planning to pledge to Lord Pegira? Should he negotiate with these old retainers of Pegira’s now?
Yet he was a noble. Fealty should be sworn before the lord himself, not to mere men aboard ships.
Would it not cheapen him otherwise?
As Morn wrestled with indecision, a knight riding at his carriage suddenly shouted.
“Everyone, form ranks! Prepare to repel them!” the knight bellowed, then leaned close to the carriage. “Master, they charge—mounted knights in full armor. No other banners fly. I cannot be sure whether true knights are among them, but even without, these cavalry we cannot withstand. Return to the fortress, quickly! With its walls, they cannot break through in such numbers.”
Morn’s eyelids twitched. He shoved open the carriage door, leapt down, and felt the earth trembling faintly beneath his feet.
Looking up, he saw a dark wave of cavalry thundering forward.
He did not know how many, but he knew his soldiers could never stop them.
His hesitation vanished. He seized his squire and shouted.
“Quickly! Lower my banner! Shout to them that I request to parley!”
The squire nodded frantically. With a charge like that, who would not fear?
But even after the banner fell and the cry for parley was given, the riders did not slow.
Morn’s heart pounded. He pushed his squire down to the ground, scrambled atop the carriage, and roared, “I am Baron Morn! I admire the valor of Lord Pegira! I am willing to pledge fealty to him! I request to parley!”
He screamed so loudly his voice cracked.
Hearing him, his two knights looked both furious and ashamed, while the terrified soldiers, trembling as the ground quaked beneath them, seemed to ease, as though a great weight had lifted.
Who would not fear such a charge?
But before they could truly breathe easier, the cavalry drew forth a small box. From it, five short bolts shot out in quick succession.
The front-line spearmen burst into blood, crying in pain, though most, spurred on by their knights’ shouts, still held their line.
Then the leading rider hurled away the box, drew a short sword ill-suited for mounted combat, raised it high, and bellowed.
At once, before all eyes, a translucent shield enveloped the charging cavalry.
“A Sacred Relic! He has a Sacred Relic!” Morn’s scream rose sharp and thin, choked with terror.
And then, before him, the cavalry trampled through.
The soldiers’ spears shattered against the shield, horses crushed the lines, hoofbeats drowned the sound of cracking bones. His two knights vanished beneath the tide. His carriage splintered beneath the blow of the short-sword rider—who reached out and seized Morn.