Chapter 46: The Bear of the Northern Lands

The piercing sound of bugles echoed across the hilltop encampment, shattering its usual disciplined order. Villagers immediately put down their work and gathered at the training field, surprise and curiosity on their faces, but not a trace of panic or unease. This was no alarm for an enemy attack; it was the rallying call for an expedition.

Squads of armored soldiers were already assembling on the training ground. All of them were militiamen chosen by Nelson from among the villagers; after rigorous training and selection, they had become the camp’s full-time guards.

There was a fundamental difference between a militiaman and a guard. Militiamen were chosen by the village chief from among the populace, equipped simply and given limited training—they received pay in times of war, but were still essentially villagers. Guards, however, were professional soldiers, well-equipped and well-trained, serving as the lord’s personal armed force.

Currently, Victor’s official escort comprised ninety-four guards—aside from thirty-six Bear Mercenaries, the rest were sturdy young men from the camp. Nelson commanded the entire force as captain without dispute, dividing the guards into three squads: one led by himself, the others by Gru and Hammer.

At Nelson’s request, Victor exempted the guards from all labor, assigning them solely to military training and rewarding each with ten acres of land. In addition, each guard earned ten work points daily, and rewards doubled during missions.

The guards wore the standard chainmail of the York family, iron helmets, hard leather boots, iron-oak round shields, and single-handed spears. Though not luxurious in a noble’s eyes, to the Bear Mercenaries, this was gear of rare quality.

Each set had cost Victor twenty gold solars from the greedy quartermaster at Blackcastle. Victor had objected, pointing out that twenty gold solars could buy five cattle at Blackcastle’s market. The quartermaster replied that the price was already halved, the gear sold as decommissioned supplies. Only then did Victor appreciate the high cost of maintaining a soldier. A single set of standard York armor equated to ten cattle—no wonder Baron Eskley could only afford a few dozen troops.

Maintaining these ninety-plus guards was the very limit of Victor’s resources. Today, these men would prove their worth.

“What’s Captain Nelson up to?” a villager asked his neighbor in confusion.

“They say they’re off to punish those wretched vagrants.”

“Ah! That’s wonderful! Those shameful thieves deserve a hard lesson!”

“About time! Well done!”

“Shane! Be sure to take down a few more of those damned bandits! When you return, I’ll buy you purple cane wine at the canteen!”

“Captain Nelson! Don’t show any mercy to those bandits!”

News that the escort was setting out to deal with the freemen spread excitement through the camp. The villagers hurried to share the news, as if it were a festival.

Victor stood on the upper terrace, gazing at the jubilant crowd below, and realized for the first time the deep animosity his people held for the freemen in the territory.

It was only natural. To the villagers, the freemen were a band of marauders stealing their property. No lord would tolerate a group of freemen dwelling long-term on his land; such organized bands threatened the safety of the domain. Only scattered individuals might be accepted, and then only for the most menial and hazardous work.

Squad after squad of fully armed guards filed out of the camp at Nelson’s command, setting off on their campaign. Victor did not accompany them; as the camp’s deadliest marksman, he needed to remain and guard the hilltop base. Yet he knew the day would come when he, too, must face this bloody reality. He was resolved to meet it.

—

In a wooden hut at a freemen’s camp, several men sat around a table, eating, drinking, and conversing.

“Who would’ve thought those worthless purple canes could be brewed into such fine wine! Here’s to the honorable young lord—thank him for inventing this marvelous drink!” One man drained his cup of purple cane wine, speaking with a mocking tone.

“A lord without a knight or a castle? Some lord,” scoffed another.

“Oh, he’s a lord all right. We should hope he remains so—it suits us just fine. He plays lord, and we live as we please. Who knows, I might even become a village chief one day,” cackled a skinny old man.

His name was Uze, leader of this freemen’s camp. Unlike other burly, boorish chiefs, Uze was frail and aged—his rule depended on cunning and malice.

“This purple cane wine will make us rich. We need people to gather more canes. Don’t cut any more near our camp—go to other camps’ territories and harvest there,” Uze ordered after finishing his own cup.

Uze had been the first to plant spies in the hilltop camp. Once he learned Victor was making wine from the purple canes, he began to experiment himself. Today was their first tasting.

“Boss, there’s still plenty of cane nearby. Why go so far?” a burly man asked, puzzled. To his mind, the farther they roamed, the greater the risk of conflict with other freemen, since each group had its own territory.

“There’s more to this than you think…” Uze drawled, eyes twinkling as the others craned their necks for his answer. He delighted in seeing his dull-witted followers look to him for guidance—he fancied himself a natural-born leader.

“Right now, only the young lord and us know the value of purple cane. But it won’t be long before every freemen’s camp learns the secret—their own spies are in the young lord’s camp. So, we must hurry to harvest the canes near their camps before they catch on. By the time they do, we’ll be rich.”

“And, if the young lord discovers the freemen are defying his orders, what will he do?”

“He’ll send guards to wipe them out. But he has no knights—he’s bound to suffer losses. When both sides are battered, we’ll join the young lord’s camp en masse and help him finish off the other freemen.”

“Then we’ll become his vassals, and the weakened young lord will be under our control. We’ll make more money selling purple cane wine, recruit more followers in his name, and then label Bael’s group as bandits. The knights of House York will take care of them for us!”

“In the end, the entire fief will be ours!” Uze declared triumphantly, his followers staring in awe.

“Brilliant, boss!”

“None can compare to you!”

They flattered him loudly, their eyes gleaming with excitement at the future he painted.

At that moment, a freeman burst in, pale and breathless. “Boss! Bad news! The lord’s guards are attacking!”

Uze was stunned—how could this be? It made no sense!

Nelson sat astride a sturdy warhorse, coldly surveying the freemen’s camp before him. His dark armor exuded an icy, merciless aura, mirroring his mood.

Victor was the most exceptional noble Nelson had ever met—possessing the nobility’s grace and wisdom, but none of its arrogance or callousness. Nelson could feel Victor’s respect for everyone, not just for a powerful, fierce warrior like himself, but even for the common Bear Mercenaries. This was why Nelson served Victor so loyally.

The only thing Nelson resented was Victor’s leniency toward the freemen—a flaw, perhaps, of youth and inexperience. Nelson believed the young lord did not yet grasp the threat these freemen posed.

Nelson had never liked unruly bands of freemen, even though the Bear Mercenaries themselves had been one such group just two months before. But they had always reported to the local constable and paid their taxes whenever they entered a noble’s domain. The Bear Mercenaries, Nelson insisted, were not like the others.

Moreover, his own kin had been slain by freemen. To see these rat-like thieves plundering the lord’s wealth filled him with rage.

Nelson’s powerful heart pumped blood to every corner of his body, his muscles tensing, the haft of his steel axe creaking in his grip. The purple cane fields around the freemen camp had been razed—an outrage.

Victor had explained the value of the cane fields to Nelson. At first, Nelson was skeptical, but the success of purple cane wine had convinced him. To him, those four- or five-meter-high canes were as precious as silver.

Why not gold? Because Victor had told him that the abundance of cane meant sugar could never fetch the price of honey. Nelson didn’t fully understand, but out of respect for Victor, he settled for silver. Even so, the canes represented unimaginable wealth.

That the freemen dared defy the lord’s orders and cut down the precious canes was unforgivable.

Nelson exhaled heavily, his breath turning to a cloud of white mist in the icy air. As an experienced mercenary, he knew never to let anger cloud his judgment in battle.

“Uncle Barrit, same as always—I’ll lead the charge and lower the drawbridge. You command the rest,” Nelson said to the thin, grizzled old mercenary at his side.

“Don’t worry, Nelson. You think a bandit camp of a hundred men can stand against the Bear Mercenaries?” Barrit rasped.

Barrit, one of the elder Bear Mercenaries, was neither as strong nor as skilled as some, but he was an expert archer and a cool-headed battlefield commander. Nelson always led the charge; Barrit directed the main force.

“I just hope the recruits don’t die needlessly…” Nelson glanced at the new guards, a hint of worry in his eyes. Though well-built and well-equipped, their training was brief, and in the brutality of real combat, casualties were inevitable.

“You’ve gotten soft, boy! Back in the day, our new recruits never had gear or training like this. They learned the hard way. If they forget what I taught them, then let them die,” Barrit scoffed.

Unlike the calm, indifferent Bear Mercenaries, the recruits were a mix of excitement, bloodlust, nerves, and fear. Such emotions led to mistakes—fatal to themselves or their comrades. Only blood and death could forge them into true warriors.

“You’re right, I have changed. We all have. We were once just freemen with nothing but our lives. Now we have land, wealth, and status. But one thing remains: we show no mercy to bandits!”

Nelson smiled, then turned to Gru. “Give the warning.”

Gru, holding a tower shield, strode to the camp’s main gate and called out in a loud voice, “By order of Lord Victor Wimbledon, you have one quarter of an hour to open the gates and surrender! Otherwise, you will be destroyed!”

The reply was a volley of crossbow bolts from the watchtower. Gru caught them on his shield and returned, grinning, to Nelson. “Well, they’ve made their choice.”

Nelson nodded, spurred his horse to the front, and shouted to the guards, “Soldiers! The bandits have rejected our mercy. We will raze this camp!”

“Listen up! Form groups of five—three spearmen in the center, two sword-and-shield men on the flanks.”

“Kill every enemy in your reach—man or woman, old or young. Let none survive behind you! Show no pity or hesitation! Remember: the drums do not stop, and neither does the fighting!”

“If you’re wounded, fall back. If you can’t walk, lie where you are! If your group falls to three men, join the nearest group!”

He returned to Barrit and whispered, “Uncle, don’t kill too many. Lord Victor dislikes needless slaughter, and we don’t need the Church of Radiance causing trouble.”

Barrit alone decided when to end the fight—until his order, the guards would continue to battle relentlessly.

“Don’t worry. For what Lord Victor did for our old, wounded comrades, I won’t let him down,” Barrit replied gravely.

When Victor had taken up his post, he spent two thousand gold solars to provide for the wounded Bear Mercenaries—a staggering sum.

“Good! I’m off!”

“Go on, let these bandits taste the wrath of the Northland Bear!” Barrit called, referring to Nelson’s infamous moniker in the Kingdom of Dodo.

“Fire!”

Under tower shield cover, the Bear Mercenary archers fired their heavy crossbows at the defenders in the watchtowers. Though at a tactical disadvantage, the military-grade crossbows proved their worth—bolts whistled across dozens of meters, piercing the bodies of the freemen’s archers, who tumbled screaming from their towers. The survivors dared not expose themselves again.

With the watchtowers suppressed, Nelson moved. His two-hundred-pound armor felt weightless as he leapt over the three-meter-wide trench and charged the stout wooden palisade.

Crossing his axes over his chest, he rammed the iron-oak barrier head-on. Against a brute with a strength of twenty, the palisade splintered like paper, leaving a gaping hole. Nelson burst into the camp.

A chorus of Nelson’s roars and screams of slaughter and agony erupted from within. Outside, the Bear Mercenaries wasted no time—planks were quickly placed across the trench, and over a dozen locked-and-shielded elite warriors followed Nelson through the breach, intent on lowering the drawbridge for the main force.

Nelson was a raging bear incarnate—bulging muscle beneath black-blue armor, battleaxes his claws. Any enemy within reach was cleaved apart, their bodies sometimes torn in midair, blood spraying everywhere, survivors howling in agony.

For mercenaries, brutality was a necessary mercy in close combat. It broke the enemy’s will, forcing them to surrender and saving lives on both sides.

Such was the cruelty of mercy.

The freemen dared not face Nelson directly. They began shooting at him from afar with hunting bows and crossbows, but their arrows could not penetrate his full armor.

A javelin skewered one crossbowman aiming at Nelson. With the arrival of the elite Bear Mercenaries, the freemen’s resistance finally collapsed.

Soon, the drawbridge’s chains were cut, and the rest of the guards surged into the camp.

The battle ended swiftly. Once the main force entered, the surviving freemen fell to their knees in surrender—the hard-core resisters had already been slaughtered by Nelson and his elites.

The drums of ceasefire soon sounded. The guards, surprised, realized the fight had been easier than expected; most had not even bloodied their blades. Only one unlucky soul had been seriously injured, falling into the trench while crossing the drawbridge.

Flames roared as the camp was set alight—the freemen’s settlement burned to cinders.

Hiding among the prisoners, Uze watched his camp go up in flames, his heart bleeding.

Damn it! They said the young lord had no knights—then what is this captain who broke my camp if not a knight? An ogre in disguise? Liars! Damnable swine! Uze cursed his spies bitterly.

But Nelson was not finished with him.

“You are the bandit chief, Uze?”

Nelson approached, hand on his axe. Victor had given him all the freemen’s leaders’ profiles before the campaign.

“Sir Knight, I’m no bandit, just a humble freeman,” Uze pleaded, bowing repeatedly, terrorized by Nelson’s bloody display.

“To defy Lord Victor’s order is to be a bandit. Prepare to die!”

Nelson raised his axe coldly. Not a single freemen leader was to be spared—Victor’s command.

“Wait! A knight cannot slay surrendered freemen! The Lord of Radiance forbids it! The Church will punish you!” Uze cried desperately, making one final bid for life.

With a wet thud, Nelson cleaved Uze in two without hesitation.

“I am no knight. I’ve killed knights. I am Nelson, the Northland Bear!”

Drenched in blood, Nelson stood before the burning huts, tossing his writ of execution into the flames—a document signed by Victor himself.

“Next camp!” Nelson mounted his horse, his expression resolute and cold.

From that day on, the name of the Northland Bear spread across the land, carried on a tide of blood and fire.