Chapter 313 : The Bards
Chapter 313: The Bards
The next day, the Comrades Group, who had reveled in the manor all night, departed. Yet before leaving, someone attempted to snatch away a woman.
Snatching people—such a thing was common among the Northern folk, especially when the strong seized from the weak. Moreover, this woman had no ties to the local gentry.
The gentryman merely watched coldly, showing not the slightest intention of speaking on her behalf.
However, Hode directly severed the man’s head, raising high the still-open eyes filled with lust, and declared to the entire Comrades Group:
“We are the Comrades Group, true warriors! One who dares only to oppress the weak is unworthy of being our comrade, unworthy of being called a true warrior.”
Such barbaric conduct was a hallmark of the North, but Hode was certain Greenwood would never allow it.
The men of the Comrades Group exchanged uneasy glances. At that moment, Cooper stepped forward and shouted:
“Yes! Those who strike only at the weak are not worthy of being comrades. Look at this fellow—if he truly had guts, why not seize this gentryman’s daughter instead? She is far more buxom!”
The gentryman’s cold face turned grim. But the Comrades Group paid him no heed. Seeing someone side with Hode, they too cried out:
“Yes, this fellow dared raise his hand against the weak. He is not fit to be our comrade!”
“The captain killed well! Our Comrades Group has no need for such cowards.”
“He is no different from the cowards of Greenwood!”
Hode merely swept his gaze across their faces. In their eyes, he saw not conviction, but only fear of his identity and strength.
Even Cooper was no exception. Cooper obeyed Hode’s orders, yes, and now received awe and benefit for it. Yet he was dissatisfied that he had not been recognized as a warrior.
But Hode told him that after some time, he would grant him the warrior’s recognition.
Thus, Hode cast aside the severed head and scattered the three hundred extra gold coins given by the gentryman.
The mercenaries scrambled greedily, fighting so fiercely over the coins that they even swung fists at their own comrades.
Watching them, Hode suddenly laughed—first a chuckle, then louder and bolder, until his laughter boomed.
…
When Hode once more led the Comrades Group back to the mercenary tavern in town, all eyes inside fixed upon him.
He did not disappoint them. With a flourish, he tossed out a handful of gold coins, and the tavern erupted into revelry once again.
But this time, Hode had scarcely drunk before the tavern-keeper led him into a dark chamber.
“Captain Hode, I wonder if you still remember me?” The man bowed slightly.
Such simple courtesy left Hode momentarily dazed.
Soon he recollected himself and replied:
“Of course I know you—the tavern-keeper of the Half Horseshoe, Isaac Rich.”
Isaac smiled.
“If you still remember me, then things will be simpler.”
He placed a box on the table, opened it with care, and revealed a thickly bound book.
“Hall of Heroes,” Isaac said. “It was entrusted to me by my master for you. It is the posthumous work of Scholar Caleb. You know, Scholar Caleb was once the senior of history at the Monastery, exceedingly erudite. Before his death, he recorded the stories of warriors and heroes throughout Northern history, finally compiling them into this book.”
Hode’s face grew solemn. He immediately picked up the book and began leafing through it.
“Please be careful,” Isaac urged. “This is a precious first copy.”
Hode ignored him, absorbed in the pages. The deeper he read, the more serious his expression became. Only when the oil lamp in the chamber nearly burned out did he finally close the book, having read but a small portion. He sighed and asked:
“Is this his will—or their will?”
Isaac sipped his honey wine and said with subtle meaning:
“This is no one’s will.”
Hode fell into deep thought.
Isaac continued:
“This is the first copy. Soon, there will be more. They will be spread through the North by merchants and bards.”
“And when those bards sing the stories within, they will also sing of the Comrades Group.”
Hode looked at Isaac, slowly nodded, and said:
“I understand.”
Isaac smiled.
“After this, I will be overseeing the arena matters in the North. When there is something you must do, someone will inform you. But if you need anything, you may find me at the arena in Frozen Furnace City.”
Hode nodded.
“Arena?”
Isaac replied:
“Northern warriors delight in duels. Such battles of honor are worthy of song. My master favors such warriors and is willing to pay to build arenas. In these arenas, the victors not only win glory but should also receive reward.”
“If Captain Hode has no task at hand, in your leisure you might enter the arena. I think that a warrior who wins ten or twenty consecutive duels would be sung of, and if one were to win a hundred battles without defeat, he would be remembered by all the North.”
Hode’s eyes turned sharp, fixing Isaac in a chilling stare.
Isaac’s legs trembled despite himself.
He was indeed a third-rank upper warrior—but only because he ate well and exercised. He had little true combat experience, relying more on his wit, which was why Puniel had recruited him. But under the gaze of this savage Northern warrior, he felt tremendous pressure, even catching the faint scent of blood.
Yet he held his seat firm, meeting Hode’s eyes without flinching.
Soon, Hode lowered his gaze to the book and said:
“I will go—if I have the time.”
He rose, took the book, and left.
Only after Hode’s departure did Isaac bend over the table, gasping for breath.
…
The tavern remained lively. Hode’s absence and return went unnoticed.
When he came back, he carefully wrapped the book, then laughed boldly as he drank his ale, as though he had merely stepped out for a moment.
Late at night, as mercenaries lay drunk across the tavern floor, Hode sat alone in his chamber, oil lamp burning, poring over the book Isaac had given him.
…
Recently, strangers had arrived in the North. They often came in groups of three, dressed neatly, a slender sword at the hip, and in their arms or slung on their backs, instruments such as hand drums, lutes, or flutes.
They usually appeared in mercenary taverns. Though finely dressed, their behavior was anything but refined. They leapt onto tables, twisting their bodies like women, and told stories in strange tones.
The mercenaries despised their antics. One drunk rushed at a flute-player.
Yet the slender bard proved nimble, darting through the tavern, stirring chaos.
The others did not help, for all saw that the bard was but a second-rank fighter, while his pursuer was third-rank. To intervene would only insult the mercenary.
Instead, the bard’s companions beat their drums and strummed their lutes, singing mockingly:
“On oak tables the ale was set, he drank like iron sinking yet!
In beast-hide boots he kicked a stool, and cursed the coward—don’t you fool!
I twirl my flute around the beams, he crashes barrels down in streams,
Foam splashed his whiskered face so red, he cursed the wind that struck his head!”
“Hey-yo! That dolt still runs, blundering like a drunken swine!
Spilled ale and broken chairs galore, the tavern he turns upside down once more!
Like a blind bear he flails about, see the shadow stumbling out—oh ho! That pig again, no doubt!”
“Better not to drink so deep, or end up like him in foolish sleep.
Sit and listen to my lute so fine, don’t make yourself the tavern’s swine!”
Just as they sang, the mercenary’s face turned crimson as he chased harder. Their mocking verses only made the others laugh, until even some stuck out their feet to trip him, aiding the nimble bard.
Finally, the enraged mercenary cursed loudly, burst through the tavern doors, and fled.
The bard then leapt atop a table with his companions, bowed flamboyantly, then blew a note upon his flute.
The drummer struck his hand-drum and proclaimed:
“We are bards, wandering the world, singing tales. We praise the brave and mock the timid.”
The lute-player strummed and added:
“If we have pleased you, perhaps you might buy us a cup of ale.”
A generous mercenary slapped the table and shouted:
“Just a cup of ale! Here’s a gold coin besides!”
At once, the three sang again, improvising verses lauding his generosity, their comic antics bringing roars of laughter.
So they played and sang until it was enough, then departed. Outside, the mercenary who had chased them and the one who had paid for drink awaited.
The five gathered and set off for the tavern of the next town.
Most Northern mercenaries were bold and combative, and sixteen- or seventeen-year-old bards could hardly contend with them. These bards, with only second-rank lower-level physiques, were trained more in evasion and escape.
Thus, the “conflicts” were staged.
The North was unlike Greenwood, where men found diversions. Here, save for killing and rutting, they had only bragging and drinking. Their blood would never allow them to perform so.
Therefore, they required guidance to understand the role of bards.
Once the mercenaries grasped vaguely what a bard was, the bards began to sing stories from Hall of Heroes.
They had a mission—to praise. Crude tales of killing and rutting, commissioned by Oscar, were sung less often on their journey North, for though such stories roused Northerners, Oscar still bore the Church’s oversight.
And so, as bards and merchants spread the stories of Hall of Heroes, Hode’s revelry ended. By then, his Comrades Group had swelled to over forty men.
All the mercenaries of the tavern had joined him. The newly arrived “mercenaries,” however, were in fact elite soldiers dispatched by the lord.
For Hode had accepted the lord’s contract of war—declaring battle upon another barony. Such wars were not for ordinary mercenaries to meddle in, so the lord reinforced his group with seasoned veterans.