Chapter 61: Mercenaries and Shadows

"Take them out!" Old John pulled out a dagger and, without hesitation, hurled it at Hook.

Seeing the sharp blade slicing through the air toward his chest, Hook was so terrified his soul nearly escaped his body; the scream that left his mouth was twisted beyond recognition.

A hand darted out, deftly catching the airborne dagger. Hook, saved from death, exhaled in relief—then his entire body went limp, his joints like jelly, and he collapsed to the floor, a foul-smelling liquid spreading from his crotch. He had lost control.

"What’s going on?"

Seeing a sheriff in plainclothes hiding behind Hook and his ilk, the old mercenaries cursed their luck inwardly.

"Sir! They killed our companions! Yesterday, four of our fellows came here for a drink—just remarked that the ale was watered down, and they killed them for it. The bodies are still buried outside the town. Today we came to confront them, and they killed another one! Sir, look! Look! The corpse is still twitching… still twitching…" Hook, babbling incoherently, pointed at Barry’s corpse.

The sheriff cast a look of disgust at the stinking Hook. Fool! His story was riddled with flaws—better to say nothing at all.

"Murder in public! That’s a hanging offense! Arrest them!" The sheriff didn’t wait for John and the others to explain. With a wave of his hand, guards hidden outside the inn swarmed in.

"Sir, I did it! I’ll go with you!" Old John shouted boldly.

Everyone present understood: this was an elaborate trap. At this point, arguing was pointless. Better for one to take the fall than for all to be swept up—and there was still a chance of survival.

Old John discreetly gestured to an old comrade. The mercenary understood: John wanted him to fetch the family crest Victor had entrusted to them. That would prove they were vassals to a noble house—and that was John’s lifeline.

For a lord to see his town flourish, maintaining a semblance of justice was essential. Theft, robbery, rape, murder—such grave crimes were strictly forbidden.

For a killing in broad daylight, the usual sentence was hanging. But that was not an absolute.

Generally, when a freeman killed another freeman, hanging was the rule. But if a noble’s vassal killed a freeman, the matter became more complicated.

Vassals were the foundation of a lord’s rule, their fortunes intertwined. If one’s own vassal was slain by another lord’s hand, it would breed resentment and, given an opportunity, likely revenge.

Thus, when a vassal killed a freeman in the street, the common practice was to arrest the perpetrator and hand him over to his liege for judgment. No lord wished to jeopardize relations with another over a minor matter—unless, of course, the two families were rivals.

As for how the lord would handle a criminal vassal, that depended on the power dynamics and interests at play.

"Your man broke my laws; I return him to you. Now, what will you offer as compensation?"

"Naturally, I’ll pay you one hundred gold sols—a token of goodwill."

"And you, killing in public and forcing me to bow to that fellow—I’m not pleased. Forty lashes, then back to being a commoner! Let this be a lesson to the rest—don’t cause me trouble!"

That was how equals among lords settled such affairs.

"Your man broke my laws—I gave him a hundred lashes. You may take him back."

"Thank you, my lord. I’ll see to his discipline. Here is one thousand gold sols as compensation."

"Say no more. Recover quickly. I’m counting on you to expand our family’s domain."

Such was the relationship between a great lord and a lesser one.

If a lesser lord offended a greater, well… the outcome was obvious.

Of course, all this applied to vassals and freemen; if a vassal killed another vassal, that was another matter entirely.

Old John believed their predicament arose from having offended Barol, who then summoned the sheriff to deal with them—because the gang boss assumed they were rootless freemen.

This affair would cost dearly—at least four hundred gold sols. The thought made John’s heart ache.

To mobilize the sheriff against them would require at least two hundred gold sols. The Black Fort’s sheriff was, after all, a squire.

Once this was over, their covert mission here would be a failure. They’d have no choice but to return to their lord and confess. But first, Barol must die—Old John promised himself fiercely.

Originally, fearing retribution from the Wimbledon family, Victor had instructed the old mercenaries to conceal their identities and gather intelligence in Black Fort, watching for news from the capital.

Victor hadn’t shared the details with John, but the seasoned mercenary could guess a noble was planning to move against Victor. Thus, they’d concealed their connection, making themselves prey for the jackals.

But Victor didn’t know that the Marchioness had sent no one to punish him. In Sophia’s eyes, simply cutting off family support was punishment enough—she believed Sylvia would devour Victor utterly! But she too didn’t realize Victor was no longer her pet—and that he had even piqued Sylvia’s interest.

Her discarded pawn had become someone else’s idle piece—but even an idle piece might still stir up the board. In this turbulent, ever-changing world, who wasn’t a pawn?

"Stop! Move one more step and you’ll be shot! Take them all away!" As the old mercenary moved to fetch the family crest, the sheriff barked him back.

With a dozen cocked crossbows aimed at them, the mercenaries’ hearts sank. This was a death trap.

Something was off today. Law or no, for a sheriff the death of a freeman was no great matter—money could settle it. John’s plan to use the family crest was only to secure a footing for negotiation; a freeman’s status gave him no leverage.

But now, with crossbows brought to bear, the sheriff’s intent was clear—he’d come to crush them, not extort them.

John realized instantly: they were finished. They must have been careless, their wealth exposed, and the jackals had caught the scent. Barol, realizing he couldn’t swallow them, sold the sheriff a favor and worked with him to set this fatal snare.

Resisting was pointless—even without the crossbows, the sheriff alone could handle these worn-down veterans.

Revealing Victor’s crest and claiming vassal status was equally futile—too late now. If they’d declared themselves before the sheriff revealed his murderous intent, he might have backed off and settled for a bribe. They’d have been expelled, but not killed; after all, an undercover agent who revealed himself was rarely a threat. Lords everywhere used such spies—no need to kill them.

But now, with crossbows aimed at their heads, the sheriff’s murderous intent was unmistakable. Revealing themselves would only yield two outcomes: if their background was substantial, they’d be detained and handed to their lord—perhaps earning the sheriff merit. If they were minor vassals, they’d be eliminated—better to clean up quietly than risk losing a lucrative post. The little lords could only pretend ignorance.

And their Lord Victor didn’t even have a family knight… just a petty lord.

John understood this well. They’d helped Lord Dodd clear out Sassan spies before—plenty of other families’ agents had been swept away in the process, and the sheriffs had profited handsomely. He’d seen these methods before.

John tapped his wooden leg on the floor, leaving a covert sign for Nelson—two clues: the gang and the sheriff.

He didn’t expect Nelson to seek vengeance, but to leave him leads to follow. If their disappearance was left unexplained, Nelson—out of old camaraderie or a desire to uncover any plot against the family—would pursue the truth.

Better to point Nelson in the right direction than let him stumble blindly, risking more harm to the family.

John noticed several comrades doing the same. He smiled faintly—brothers who’d shared so many hardships understood each other without words.

Death would be just that—death. Many would pay with their lives alongside them. Once the sheriff learned their vassal status, Barol’s lot would be silenced. Truth be told, they’d long outlived their usefulness; had it not been for Victor’s favor, their mercenary group, the War Bears, would have collapsed under their weight. Still, they couldn’t bear to leave.

If anyone was to blame, it was themselves for being too sloppy and costing Victor a fortune. He could only hope Victor wouldn’t hold it against Nelson and the others.

John thought all this in silence.

Had Victor known, he’d have regretted it bitterly. His only reason for leaving the aged and infirm mercenaries in Black Fort was to spare them the hardships of travel—and on a whim, he’d told them to gather intelligence in secret. Yet neither of his two personalities had any experience running a family, or even understood the art of espionage. Nor did the old mercenaries know how to conduct themselves as spies. Thus tragedy unfolded.

Such is reality—a great man’s idle fancy often spells disaster for lesser folk. And while Victor was but a petty lord, to common men he was still a figure of power.

"My lord, we surrender. We’ll go with you."

"One by one. No tricks," the sheriff warned.

Seeing the old mercenaries file out obediently, the sheriff couldn’t help but admire them—true mercenaries, bold to the end.

"Seal this place and take the prisoners," the sheriff instructed his men.

"Wait—my lord, this isn’t what we agreed! Lord Barol didn’t say this!" As the sheriff’s men drove them from the inn too, Hook panicked; they’d yet to get a single copper sol.

"Out!" The sheriff lashed Hook to the ground, who rolled and wailed in pain, while the mercenaries smirked—these jackals had no idea their doom was upon them.

The sheriff’s guards marched the mercenaries down the street toward the station. Bystanders scattered—they wanted no trouble for their curiosity.

"Stop!" A thunderous shout froze the sheriff’s party in place. A burly man in armor, twin axes in hand, blocked their path—the recently arrived Nelson.

"Nelson, lad!"

"Captain!"

Nelson’s appearance filled the old mercenaries with hope—their lives might yet be spared. The sheriff’s hope of silencing them was dashed.

Across the way, dozens of well-armed noble retainers surged forward, faces grim. The sheriff felt a chill—this was bad.

The burly man radiated menace; just lifting his axes, he exuded the reek of iron and blood. His fine armor and the quality of his men marked him as a lord’s retainer—possibly a knight.

The sheriff drew his sword, regretting now that he wasn’t wearing mail, but retreat was not an option; duty compelled him.

"Who are you, blocking the Black Fort sheriff’s escort of prisoners?" he demanded coldly. Even a knight wouldn’t make him bow—who dared challenge the York family’s authority here?

"Enough!" Just as bloodshed loomed, a familiar voice called out from a nearby carriage.

"Lord Bruce!" the sheriff exclaimed in relief—then hesitated, seeing Bruce walk over to the strange knight, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Shax, what’s going on?" A clear, melodious voice came from across the way. The sheriff, Shax, saw a tall, graceful woman approaching—Nicole.

"Nicole?" Shax called in astonishment. He knew her as the countess’s personal guard, and now she seemed allied with the strangers.

He then saw four familiar squire-knights of the family emerge and crowd around Nicole…

"Lord Bruce, these are my old comrades…" Nelson put away his axes and pleaded with Bruce.

Bruce nodded and turned to Shax. "What happened?"

Shax, inwardly cursing his luck, recounted the events simply.

"Release them. It’s only a freeman—they’re Baron Wimbledon’s vassals," Bruce said coolly; he was well aware of Shax’s schemes—just angling for a bribe.

With a wave, Shax’s men untied the mercenaries.

"Shax, who are those people?" Nicole, her pretty face stern, gestured at Hook’s gang with her sharp chin.

"Them? Scum," Shax replied carelessly.

Nicole’s eyes flashed coldly; she drew her sheathed sword and advanced on Hook’s thugs.

Her movements were fluid as water, the sword’s scabbard cracking smartly against the back of each villain’s head—one after another, they dropped, dead before they knew it, not a cry uttered, not a drop of blood spilled.

Let them covet Victor’s property now!

"Nicole! You… you’re a knight now?!" Shax exclaimed. He recognized the family’s martial techniques, but Nicole wielded them with such mastery and restraint—each blow precise and deadly, yet never brutal, each victim killed instantly with a stroke to the nape, skulls intact, not a drop of blood.

Nicole snorted, shot Shax a glare, and stalked back to the carriage, Bruce’s four squire-knights trailing behind like puppies.

That scoundrel! He’d set his sights on Victor—she’d be sure to report him to the lady. Still, he had a keen eye, noticing she’d become a knight.

Who knew—if Victor ever saw this ruthless side of Nicole, would he dare be so intimate with her again?

"Shax, let me introduce you. This is Nelson, captain of Baron Wimbledon’s guard—the Northern Bear who slew a Tartus family knight in a single blow!" Bruce said, pulling Shax over. As sheriff of Black Fort, Shax was well connected; it was only proper to introduce him to Nelson—a small misunderstanding was easily forgiven.

"Sir Shax, join us for a drink. I’ve brought fine wine from the estate—you’ll enjoy it," Nelson said warmly, appreciating Bruce’s goodwill.

"Oh—very well!" Shax exclaimed, still in shock.

"Not so fast. Shax, have your men tidy up here and escort our caravan to Rose Manor—we’ve killed a mutant rat," Bruce interjected quickly.

Shax was stunned anew; today, it seemed, was his day for astonishment.

As for the thugs, Bruce and his party spared them not a glance. Soon, someone would drag the bodies away—perhaps to be buried in yesterday’s pit.