Chapter 12: The Influence of the Knight

As noon approached, the mist that had shrouded Blackfort Town gradually dissipated. On the eastern edge of town, in the shantytown, the freemen crawled out one after another from their cramped hovels and began racking their brains for the day’s food.

In this world, “freemen” were anything but free; in truth, they were rootless wanderers without official status. The nobles called them “lowborn,” and they were unprotected by any lord.

They roamed from place to place, living from hand to mouth, often taking on menial or dangerous jobs—cleaners, porters, circus performers, vagrants, or even thieves, prostitutes, mercenaries, and brigands.

Ultimately, this world was simply too perilous; it was nearly impossible for an ordinary person to survive alone on their own frail strength. Of course, if you were strong enough or possessed an exceptional craft, you could live comfortably whether you were a freeman or a bonded subject.

Bob was one such freeman. He had once been a subject of a viscount in the eastern provinces, but war had ravaged his homeland, and even his lord had perished in the chaos. Thus, Bob became a freeman, joining the tide of refugees fleeing to the western frontier, hoping to be recruited by the local lord and once again earn the security of toiling as a subject—a task he knew well.

Unfortunately, Bob had spent a year in Blackfort Town without being recruited, as there were simply too many refugees from the three eastern provinces.

Feeling the emptiness in his stomach, Bob decided to look for some compatriots, hoping to find some odd job to earn his keep.

Bob and the other freemen usually survived by working on construction projects for the York family in Blackfort Town, but now that the town walls were finished, even if Bob wanted to haul stones, there was no work to be had.

He had barely stepped out of his hovel when he heard a loud voice bellowing nearby.

“Baron Wimbledon is recruiting farmers, miners, blacksmiths, carpenters! Anyone willing can bring their families and become subjects in Baron Wimbledon’s lands. Those who join will receive a day’s rations, as well as clothing and farming tools. We set out this afternoon—anyone interested, sign up here!” A one-legged old man in a black steward’s uniform shouted from the roadside, beside an open wagon loaded with black bread, cheese, bean paste, and even salted fish.

Bob swallowed hard, eyeing the four heavily armed, fierce-looking guards by the cart—especially the one-eyed brute with a face like a butcher, who looked particularly intimidating.

Bob longed to become a subject under a noble lord, but he had heard Baron Wimbledon lacked power. Shortly after arriving in the frontier, Wimbledon had been attacked by bandits, captured himself, and most of his followers were either slain or devoured by monsters in the wild.

Moreover, Bob heard that the territory to which the baron now recruited not only lay far away but was even more dangerous.

Bob had no desire to die on the road, so he decided not to answer this lord’s call.

Suddenly, the sound of galloping horses came from nearby, and Bob quickly stepped aside. As a freeman, if you were trampled or injured by a horse, no one would seek justice for you.

A troop of cavalry came thundering down the road, their equipment splendid—especially the three riders at the front, clad in scale armor.

Bob perked up immediately; he knew only esteemed apprentice knights wore such armor, which meant there was at least one true knight backing this troop.

It must be a knight come to recruit subjects or soldiers, Bob thought to himself, vowing to seize this opportunity.

The cavalry halted in front of the Wimbledon steward. One of the apprentice knights, after a sweeping, arrogant glance at those by the cart, said, “Are you Wimbledon’s steward and guards?”

“Yes, sirs, we are!” The steward in black bowed and fawned, offering deep courtesies to the apprentice knights.

His obsequious attitude and the honorific “knight” seemed to please the arrogant young man, who said in a somewhat more amiable tone, “We are the attendants of Sir Bruce, here by his order to deliver his banner. Sir Bruce says he will lead an escort this afternoon to accompany you to your territory and conduct an inspection.”

The apprentice knight produced a banner bearing Sir Bruce’s insignia and handed it to the old steward.

The steward received the banner with utmost reverence, and the cavalry promptly wheeled about and rode off without another word.

After they departed, the Wimbledon steward had the banner hung up and resumed his loud recruitment efforts.

He had barely finished his call when someone shouted, “I’ll go! I’m a farmer and know a bit of carpentry—count me in!” It was none other than Bob, who came scrambling out from the roadside, eager as could be.

The other freemen, who had been hanging back to watch, seemed to realize something and surged forward, each shouting their credentials.

“I’ll go too—I’ve farmed for nobles and know how to care for horses!”

“Take me—I’m a tanner!”

“Me too! Me too!”

The sudden rush of eager recruits brought a wide grin to the disabled steward’s face, who had endured two days of cold indifference.

Meanwhile, in Blackfort Town, in the room where Victor was temporarily residing, Nelson was reporting the progress of the recruitment.

“My lord, Gru just sent word—we’ve already recruited more than 350 subjects, and many more want to join us in the new territory. They’re asking if you want to take on even more,” Nelson said, brimming with excitement.

“No, any more and we’ll be overstretched. Of course, those with special skills are an exception,” Victor replied with a faint smile.

Yesterday, Victor had made a small request of Sylvia: to have Sir Bruce send someone with a banner to the shantytown.

Sure enough, once news spread that a knight’s party would accompany them, the once-cautious freemen became as if injected with new vigor, clamoring to join the barony.

“My lord, how did your talks with the church go? Will any priests be coming with us?” Nelson asked with anticipation.

As a mercenary, Nelson always hoped for a priest in the party when on a mission.

Victor could only shake his head ruefully. He had just returned from the Church of the Radiant Lord, where he had visited Bishop Pero.

The recent public cleansing of a witch had left a deep impression on him, and the thought that he might be targeted by a sorcerer left Victor restless and anxious.

Thus, he had hoped to persuade Bishop Pero to send a priest to serve as a missionary in his domain.

Priests of the Radiant Church not only wielded divine magic but were also skilled warriors, especially adept with maces and flails, and in combat were no less formidable than apprentice knights.

However, lords these days were wary of priests on their lands, as the clergy wielded great influence among the people and could limit the authority of the lord.

But Victor could not afford to worry about such things; to the fledgling barony, a priest who could heal, fight, and rally the people was invaluable.

Most importantly, having a Radiant Church priest nearby would deter anyone plotting against him with sorcery.

He had explained his intentions to Bishop Pero, even promising to build a church in his territory for the clergy’s residence.

While the bishop praised Victor’s devotion, he regretted to say that the church had no priests available to send to the frontier at present.

Disappointed, Victor nevertheless understood. After all, who would willingly accept a posting to so remote and wild a place? It was little better than exile.

“Well, if no priest is willing to come, so be it. Go and see to the newly recruited subjects. Choose some able men among them as militiamen and equip them with leather armor, wooden shields, and spears. We’ll join up with Sir Bruce’s party this afternoon and set out,” Victor said, clapping the captain of the Bear Guard on the shoulder. “The journey ahead is in your hands!”

“Rest assured, my lord—we will not let you down.”