Chapter 34: Judgment

Bayer patrolled the camp with his longsword at his side—this was his domain. Everyone he passed greeted him with reverence, and Bayer would return their salutes with a smile and a nod.

A group of children, laughing and wrestling with a freshly caught land lizard, spotted him from afar. In a flurry, they rushed over.

“Uncle Bayer, we just caught this using the method you taught us! It’s for you!” the lead child declared, holding the lizard up like a treasure.

“Very well, I accept your offering. And to reward you for becoming hunters, I’ll give it back. Now you can ask Aunt Marcy to help roast it for you—have a good meal and grow strong. When you’re older, you can come help Uncle Bayer hunt bears. How about that?” Bayer said with a grin.

“When I grow up, I want to be as great a warrior as you, Uncle Bayer!” the boy announced loudly.

“Work hard, and you’ll all be even greater than me,” Bayer replied, ruffling the boy’s hair.

The other children clamored for their turn.

“Me too!”

“I want one too!”

Helpless but amused, Bayer obliged, tousling each child’s head in turn.

At that moment, a tall, burly man approached. Seeing Bayer laughing with the children, he stood quietly to the side, posture straight as a spear.

Once Bayer had sent the children on their way, the man stepped forward. “Chief, Old Barton’s camp was wiped out by gnoll raiders.”

“Old Barton? When did this happen?” Bayer asked, frowning in confusion.

“It happened two nights ago. Two survivors just arrived seeking refuge. They said the gnolls smashed through the camp’s double-layered iron oak palisade. The people inside were caught off guard and the camp collapsed instantly.”

“Smashed through the palisade? Barton’s camp was built from two layers of iron oak. Has a savage gnoll lord come to this territory?” Bayer’s brows knitted deeper.

Savage gnoll lords were trouble wherever they appeared—always able to rally a pack and launch reckless attacks on humans.

“The survivors said they’d been mining mithril all day and slept deeply. They barely understood what happened—just fled with the crowd and brought a sample of ore. But Groh, that old scoundrel, said it’s nothing but fake silver,” the big man explained, struggling not to laugh.

“Mark, there’s nothing funny about this. They’re pitiful folk, no different from us,” Bayer said sternly, chiding his subordinate for his schadenfreude.

“They deserved it, Chief! You told Old Barton to join us, but he refused. Now I see why—he thought he’d discovered a mithril vein and wanted it all for himself. In the end, he got himself and so many others killed,” Mark said bitterly.

Greed always makes fools of men. Bayer didn’t care much for Barton’s fate; what truly troubled him was something else.

“Have you heard anything from the men I sent to Blackfort Town to make inquiries?” Bayer asked.

“They haven’t come back yet. Chief, what if the York family comes to bring us under their rule?” Mark asked, worry clouding his face.

Mark knew what troubled Bayer. Ever since they’d discovered Victor’s group establishing a camp, Bayer had stopped absorbing other small freemen’s camps and sent men to Blackfort to find out which noble from the York family was coming to take office.

“The Yorks are powerful—if they want us, everyone would be grateful. But if they see us as outlaws, they might drive us away, or worse. We could end up like Barton’s lot.” Bayer shook his head with a wry smile.

“Chief, our camp has over four hundred people—more than half can fight. If the Yorks aren’t fools, they’ll want us. What worries me is how they’ll handle us once they learn what we did at Whitespring Keep.” Mark shot a furtive glance around and lowered his voice.

Hearing Mark voice the fear that lurked in his own heart, Bayer squeezed the hilt of his longsword, his face expressionless.

It was a heroic sword, forged in Dordo Kingdom’s secret fires, its blade shimmering with a violet-gold sheen from the trace amounts of rare adamantine mixed into the steel—making it stronger, keener, and heavier than common swords.

The Heroic Sword was a special distinction, awarded only to warriors who slew at least ten enemies in a single battle. It was a mark of glory as well as quality; the recipient’s name and deeds were engraved upon the blade.

On Bayer’s sword was inscribed: “With this sword, honor the warrior Burg, who slew fourteen foes in one battle.”

Burg was Bayer’s true name. He had once been a vassal to Viscount Theo West, a Silver Knight of Dordo. At the battle of Whitespring Keep, Burg, as Theo’s captain of guards, fought with bloody valor, killing and wounding dozens of Sassanid soldiers. For his deeds, he received the Heroic Sword from Dordo’s king.

But the battle’s ferocity exceeded all expectations. In the ensuing siege, five Silver Knights perished—including Theo, Burg’s liege lord. Of Theo’s guard, only eleven—including Burg—survived.

While they recovered at Whitespring Keep, Theo’s brother Wendell seized the viscountcy and accused Burg and the other loyal guards of failing their lord, ordering them hanged.

Burg and his fellows, loyal to Theo and suspect in Wendell’s eyes for threatening his nephew’s claim, became targets. But Wendell’s treachery angered the army’s judges, and one of them—who had fought beside Theo—gave Burg and the others a chance to escape.

Though they fled Whitespring Keep, Burg and his companions were declared traitors by Dordo and hunted throughout the Lant Empire. Forced to abandon his name, Burg became Bayer. Only his Heroic Sword still bore witness to his true identity and deeds.

“The Yorks are an ancient house. They won’t care for a scoundrel like Wendell. As long as we prove our worth, they’ll shelter us. But if it’s some lesser noble who inherits these lands, they might hand us over to Dordo,” Bayer whispered to Mark.

As the two men brooded in silence, the alarm drum sounded atop the watchtower. The camp exploded into chaos—shouts, whistles, wails merging in uproar.

Bayer and Mark exchanged heavy, worried glances.

Victor sat astride his horse, surveying the camp that sprawled over a square kilometer at the base of the hill.

It was unmistakably a motte in the Dordo style—seven-meter-tall twin palisades of iron oak, a dozen nine-meter watchtowers rising behind the walls. The motte stood on open ground by the lake, with only a bailey and no main keep.

A five-meter-wide moat encircled the bailey, turning it into an island connected to the lake. Victor noted two piers on the lakeside, each with canoes moored alongside, and an island at the lake’s center.

Clearly, the island was the motte’s main stronghold. When the bailey could not be held, the freemen could escape to the island by canoe.

The once-noisy camp had fallen silent. Behind the seven-meter palisade, shadowy figures moved. The freemen had propped up scaffolds behind the wall for a temporary firing platform—if battle broke out, their archers would rain death from above.

“This camp is well-designed and its guards are well-trained. Whoever runs this place is no stranger to war,” Bruce commented, surprised at the military discipline on display.

“Milord, their fortifications and tactics are pure Dordo. I’d wager the rumors are true—this Bayer fought at Whitespring,” added Nelson, fully armored.

The Bear Mercenaries, long employed by Dordo fighting Sassanids, knew both sides’ martial traditions well.

“Nelson, send a messenger and summon the camp’s representative,” Victor ordered calmly.

Bayer and Mark watched the army across from them from atop the firing platform, bewildered. The force was a hundred strong, flying two noble banners—the Yorks’ boar and another with a nightingale they didn’t recognize.

“Chief, is it the Yorks or someone else?” Mark asked, uncertain.

“We’ll soon find out,” Bayer replied, unable to read the situation. But now that they’d come, the truth would soon be revealed.

Sure enough, a cavalryman rode up to the camp gate and shouted: “By order of Baron Wimbledon, lord of these lands, the camp’s representatives are to attend upon his Excellency for questioning!” He repeated the summons three times before returning to his lines.

The herald’s words crushed Bayer and Mark’s hopes.

They didn’t recognize the Wimbledon nightingale, but knew the house was even older than the Yorks. Yet it had long since fallen into decline, its members now mere merchant nobles.

Bayer could already see their fate—to be bound and handed over to Viscount Wendell as part of some sordid bargain.

He felt a bitter resentment. Eleven loyal guards had fled Dordo, braving monsters and bandits, hunger and wounds, to reach the distant Centaur Hills. Now, after founding this freemen’s camp, only five of the original brothers remained.

Bayer had poured his heart and soul into this place. He and his brothers had overthrown the camp’s former tyrant and taken his place. As chief, he’d led the people to hack out fields, fish, and hunt, ensuring their survival.

Whenever danger struck, Bayer led from the front, fighting with blood and sweat. He selflessly taught the others martial skills so they could defend themselves and their families.

He ruled justly and kindly. Even his closest followers faced punishment for wrongdoing, while the weak and elderly were cared for. He established a new order for the camp.

His courage, fairness, and compassion earned him the people’s love. Every soul in the camp respected him. Their admiration soothed his wounds, and he’d even taken three women as partners.

In little more than a year, the camp had grown from a few dozen to over four hundred. At first, Bayer had dreamed of being recruited by a powerful lord—better a subject than a wandering freeman. But as the camp flourished, he felt pride, honor, and responsibility. He now wished only for this life to continue, for he loved being cherished by his people.

“Take care of my sword. I’ll go meet the baron. Guard the camp well—if I don’t return, never open the gates,” Bayer said, handing the Heroic Sword to Mark.

Had it been the Yorks, Bayer might have submitted, cowed by their might. But with the Wimbledon family in charge, he decided to take a risk, torn between ambition and reality.

“Chief, it’s too dangerous! Let me go!” Mark pleaded.

“Don’t worry. As long as the camp stands, they won’t dare kill me. I know what I’m doing,” Bayer reassured him.

“If they attack, don’t hold back! Fight as you must. If you can’t win, retreat to the island.” He gave his final orders, eyes shining.

Standing before Victor, the man looked every bit a weathered forty-something, battered by life, yet his muscles and gait spoke of youth and strength. Though he feigned timidity and anxiety before the hundred guards, Victor noticed his gaze—restless, yet intensely alert, quietly examining his surroundings.

Victor slipped into his heightened senses, and a stream of data appeared before his eyes.

Physique: 18, Spirit: 11, Perception: 11, Vitality: 15—this was a warrior in the throes of bloodlust.

As Victor observed Bayer, Bayer was also sizing up Victor’s retinue.

The young baron at the center had black hair, dark eyes, and handsome features—elegant, but with a relaxed posture, not a knight.

On the baron’s right stood a man in armor, wielding twin axes, sharp-eyed and lithe, with the Wimbledon nightingale on his breastplate—a guard, but not a knight, lacking that innate pride.

On the left, an empty-handed man radiated calm confidence, flanked by three boar-crested, scale-armored retainers—clearly a knight, and a powerful one, from the Yorks.

Bayer’s mind raced—this young lord and the Yorks must be allies. But this baron had no knights of his own; a lord would not ask allies to handle internal affairs unless he was weak. Victor Wimbledon was a weak lord.

The realization thrilled Bayer and strengthened his resolve to stand alone.

“What is your name?” Victor asked evenly.

“Milord, my name is Bayer. May the Lightbringer’s glory shine upon you,” Bayer replied, bowing his head and kneeling, hiding his delight as he exposed his unprotected neck to the blades.

Victor smirked inwardly at Bayer’s little ploy.

No lord liked the Church of Light meddling in their lands—the church curbed noble excess, forbidding them from treating serfs and freemen as mere chattel. Over the centuries, more than a hundred lords had been imprisoned in the monastery on Mount Radiance for massacring freemen, left there to die.

“Bayer, your courage impresses me. But you and your people are farming, mining, and hunting on my lands, encroaching on my wealth. Still, I am willing to show the mercy of a lord and grant you the status of subjects. Choose now—accept my rule, or depart my lands,” Victor declared.

“Thank you for your mercy, milord. It would be our honor to serve you. We accept your rule,” Bayer replied, feigning joy and bowing lower.

“Very well. Close your camp and bring your people to my settlement. I’ll resettle you there,” Victor said with a smile.

“Milord, you may not know, but we number 423. We barely scrape by as it is. If we abandon our camp and move to your settlement, we’ll face famine and become a burden to you. Please, allow us to keep our camp for now,” Bayer pleaded.

Victor’s demand made Bayer curse inwardly. Keeping the camp was his bottom line; he could not agree to the terms.

“Oh? Are you refusing me?” Victor’s noble smile remained, but his eyes were cold as ice.

“Milord, we are willing to pay eighty percent in tribute, provide labor, and accept a village chief of your choosing. Just let us keep our camp for now, so we can survive the coming cold season,” Bayer begged, bowing and knocking his head to the ground.

Bruce, the knight beside them, grew impatient. “Victor, if the freemen refuse a lord’s order, they can be deemed outlaws. My men and I can clear them out—make your ruling.”

A wooden motte was no match for a knight, but Bruce didn’t want the stain of slaughtering freemen. Before acting, he needed Victor to make a formal judgment.

If Victor declared Bayer an outlaw, Bruce would storm the camp and kill the outlaws until the threat was ended. If Victor judged them freemen, he and his men would withdraw, leaving the matter to Victor.

Victor recalled how, after interrogating three freemen, Edwin had sternly advised: if the camp could not be subdued, it must be wiped out! It was a greater threat than bandits, for it had already established a protector-protected relationship—something that could never be tolerated.

Bruce wholeheartedly agreed.

In his heightened senses, Victor saw the sweat on Bayer’s neck. Though he still knelt, every muscle was tensed, ready to spring like a beast—either at Victor or back toward the camp.

Victor’s own palms were slick with sweat—not from fear of Bayer’s attack. Even a blood-maddened warrior could not seize a lord under the eyes of a knight, and Victor, in his apotheosis, could kill Bayer in an instant.

Victor was tense because he had to decide the fate of hundreds.

Outlaws? Or freemen? Kill them? Or spare them?

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