The Count’s padded throne, while modest, was much more comfortable than the rustic high chair back at Ugo’s manor. It even came with armrests!
I let myself sink into the soft padding despite the weight of the feelings on my mind.
We’d done it!
Standardised training, mass production, and modern technology triumphed over a force armed with superior might and magic.
Of course, there were losses, unfortunately so. Seven dead. We lost three on the battlefield—nothing could be done for them. Four more during treatment. I had already spent the walk up to the castle running the numbers, asking myself which of those four might have lived with a proper surgical theatre, with anaesthesia, with antibiotics. Or at least more medical knowledge besides the basics I remembered from first aid training. Probably two. Maybe three.
I knew the reasoning: these losses were within any rational projection for a force such as ours engaging in open battle with trained knights. Not to mention magic. But I also knew that rational projections had nothing to say to that one recruit who was still down at the mill, sitting beside the bodies of his parents.
I stared at the ceiling for a moment.
It was not the time to dwell on such thoughts now.
Forward. There is work to do.
All that mattered was that we were victorious.
I moved my eyes down and took stock of the Count's—now my—great hall.
Like the throne, it too was considerably larger than the hall at Rand. The ceilings were high enough that only an occasional flicker of torchlight caught the beams above. The polished stone walls held tapestries depicting hunting scenes and battle victories, the Count’s ancestors frozen mid-triumph in faded thread. A long oak table dominated the centre of the room. It was still set for a breakfast that was never eaten. A tipped pitcher of wine. Bowls of cold pottage. Scattered chunks of meat. A loaf of bread, the knife still buried in the middle of a slice.
I nibbled on a piece of cheese I picked out from the table as I stared at the people pressed against the edges of the hall.
Cooks. Housemaids. Stableboys. A few elderly retainers too slow or too stubborn to leave.
When the Count fled, I allowed for a bit of time before my army marched into the castle. Most of the higher-ranking retainers and the garrison's families had taken the opportunity to leave. These were the ones who remained. Ones with nowhere else to go.
They huddled next to each other, their backs pressed against the walls like scared mice. Their eyes darted between me and the several soldiers standing at attention around the throne. It was the same one the villagers of Rand had worn on that first morning—that careful, calculating stillness of people waiting to find out how badly things were about to go for them.
It was easy to understand why.
In this day and age, it was not uncommon for a conquering army to loot and abuse the defeated. Or even enslave or outright slaughter them. I have, of course, expressly forbidden my soldiers from such acts, and instead promised every soldier—or their family if they fell in battle—a gold coin once the castle fell. However, the servants had no way of knowing that.
And Prince Karl’s reputation certainly wasn’t helping, as evidenced by several young women who hid behind the older servants.
I rose from the throne.
A few servants flinched. One of the younger maids let out a small squeak.
"Right," I said, brushing crumbs from my tunic. "Let's get a few things straight."
The shifting and whispers immediately stopped.
“I don’t know what you have heard of me. Nor how the Count treated you. But I did not pit my army against overwhelming odds just to get a woman or two to warm my bed. And I have no need for slaves to serve me or heads to stick on pikes.”
The servants’ eyes told me they remained unconvinced.
“In other words, you are all free.”
I smiled and braced for a loud cheer.
Instead, there was only silence.
To my surprise, the news was not received like when I had proclaimed it to the people of Rand. This time, there was no cheering or celebration. Were they just afraid it was a test of loyalty?
“Y-your Grace…” An ageing, grey-haired man finally dared to speak up with a measured voice. Judging by his clothes, he must have been one of the few remaining higher-ranking servants. A steward or a chamberlain or something of the sort. “You speak generously, but we—we don’t have anywhere else to go. The Count's household has been here for four generations. Without the food, clothes and protection granted by the grace of a lord, we have nothing else.” He paused, choosing the next words with obvious care. "We are… grateful for Your Grace's generosity. We are simply not certain what it means for us in practice."
Several people nodded their heads in agreement.
“Ah, I see—“
Ugh.
It was just like Henrik and the stubborn few around him.
How did these people not understand that not being bound to their lords gave them freedom to pursue a better life? Was it not more fulfilling to live a free life by one’s own merit?
“Do any of you have any useful skills beyond just attending a noble? Reading? Writing? Numbers? Sewing? Or even baking or brewing?”
I had no need for servants. I can cook my own lunch and make my own bed. And I did not want to waste my gold on personal luxuries. However, I was in desperate need of more skilled personnel to support the army or work in the industries I planned to build.
To my disappointment, only a few of the servants raised their hands: the elderly steward, two cooks, and a couple older women. The rest—several young housemaids and stableboys—just stared at the ground.
“Right.” I cleared my throat. “Those who have some skills, we will find work for you. Proper work, paid in coin. Those who can read and write may become scribes, cooks will make food for the army, and those skilled with horses can attend the cavalry I am planning to make. We will also need seamstresses and bakers a-plenty. We will discuss the terms of your employment later. And as for the rest…”
I didn’t want to be cruel and send them away, but it was also very inefficient to keep them around without a clear purpose.
Without a good answer, I found my eyes wandering over to Erika to help.
As usual, she delivered.
“The rest can either stay and learn a skill or will have a chance to find a new home in one of the surrounding villages once my lord’s army secures them.” She explained with a calm smile.
Perfect.
Almost all the village lords either fell on the battlefield or fled with the Count, leaving their domains under my control. The soldiers were securing them as I was speaking. So there should be no problem sending away some of the servants to help with agriculture.
“Those who wish to stay and learn a trade may do so,” I continued, adopting Erika's phrasing. “Those who wish to seek opportunity elsewhere will receive travel provisions and a small stipend. No one will be left out hungry or unprotected."
The servants nodded slowly, some with relief, others still wearing that same hollow uncertainty.
But at least they weren't cowering anymore.
“You, steward, what is your name?” I pointed to the old man. He reminded me of Jost in a lot of ways. Whether it was just because they were both old and weary people, I wasn’t sure.
“A-alois, Your Grace.”
“Alois. You're in charge of taking names. Everyone's name, what they can do, and whether they want to stay or try their luck elsewhere. Erika will help you sort the list by morning.”
The old man straightened slightly, a bit of colour returning to his cheeks. Even if it was obvious he didn’t trust me, at least I gave him a purpose. I guessed that was all some people needed.
“Now,” I said, clapping my hands together, “Someone tell me there's food in this place that isn't cold pottage and half-eaten bread. We need to properly celebrate this victory and your newfound freedom.” I knew from my personal example that good food is a good way to soothe one’s heart. And everyone certainly needed it after the woes of battle.
One of the cooks—a boy with flour still dusting his apron stepped forward hesitantly. “The kitchens are still stocked, Y-your Grace. The Count's larder could feed the castle for a month, easy.”
“Then what are we waiting for?”
***
The kitchens, it turned out, were indeed extraordinarily well stocked.
Within the next few hours, the great hall had transformed. The cold pottage and scattered plates were swept away and replaced with roasted chickens, thick slabs of pork, a wheel of yellow cheese, a crock of pickled vegetables that hadn't seen the light of day in some time, and enough bread to rebuild the bridge we'd just fought across. The cooks—Rolf and his father Rulf—proved to have much more talent than I dared hope for.
I sat at the head of the table and ate an embarrassing amount of food. We were probably wasting way too much, but I couldn’t bring myself to dampen the mood once I saw the wide eyes of the soldiers as the food was being brought out.
Around me, the hall slowly came alive. The soldiers filed in in groups, still caked in mud and dried blood, and settled in beside the castle's remaining servants with the cautious wariness of cats who had been placed in the same room without introduction. But then one soldier asked a stableboy to pass the bread, and the stableboy passed it, and somehow that was enough to start things moving. I suppose there was much more unspoken fellowship between fellow common folk than between common folk and a noble. Even if the noble wasn’t actually one.
Dietrich had planted himself near the bottom of the table where the wine was, flanked by the other three poachers. All four were still in a loose kind of euphoria from the glider run.
"You should've seen Ralf when we cleared the wall," Kurt was saying to anyone who would listen, gesturing wildly with a chicken leg. "He's supposed to land on his feet, right? What he did—"
"Ey, I landed on my feet," Ralf defended himself.
"You landed on your face and then your feet."
"That is not—!"
"We were all there."
"The castle was taken," Ralf puffed. "The rest is nitpicking."
Dietrich, beside them, was laughing. A deep, genuine laugh I hadn't heard from him before. It changed his whole face and made him look a decade younger.
And Wulf… well, he was there, too. He focused more on the food in front of him. But his mouth, a rare sight given he kept it covered by his red scarf, betrayed hints of happiness too.
However, what was even more surprising than seeing Wulf in a good mood was when Paul approached the table,
“Lord K—I mean, Sir,” he stammered with an uncharacteristic blush on his face. “There is something… I need to ask. You. Your Grace. Sir.”
“Hm, what is it, Corporal? Is everything alright?”
“W-well, you see…” He continued. “I promised myself that if I survived this battle… I would ask Lotti—one of your healers—to marry me. Or at least consider it. If she wished it. And since she is your… retainer, I wanted to ask your permission. If you will grant it. Sir.”
Ooh?
I raised my eyebrow with a grin.
But Paul must have misinterpreted it, as I could see a disappointed look flash across his face despite how well he tried to hide it.
“No, no, I don’t have anything against it.” I rushed to remedy the misunderstanding. “Though I don’t see why you would even ask me. You are not my subjects. So that permission can only be granted by Lotti herself.”
He blinked. “Oh.”
“So now go. Quickly. Before someone else gets to her.” I winked and sent him off.
From my end of the table, I watched him navigate the hall with considerably more purpose than he had arrived with. Lotti was near the far wall, still sorting through her medical bag. Paul appeared at her elbow. She looked up. I couldn't hear a word of it over the noise of the hall, but I didn't need to.
Lili appeared from nowhere and dropped into the chair Paul had vacated.
"He finally did it?" she asked, following my gaze.
"Apparently so."
"Bah, took him long enough." She reached across me to take a piece of bread, chewing on it with open mouth. "He's been making eyes at her since forever. Still, I was hoping it’d take a while longer. Guess I owe Erika that good knife after all.”
She then produced a folded piece of parchment from somewhere about her person and smoothed it on the table beside her plate. A barely legible list of numbers.
“Is that the castle stores?" I asked. “You work fast.”
“I gotta earn my keep.” She smiled with pieces of meat between her teeth. “But the good news is, we have plenty of iron to keep my dear ol’ dad busy for days. Lots of timber and wool, too. And a few dozen silver coins that they didn’t manage to grab when scampering off.”
I nodded and left her to her numbers, looking back out across the hall.
Outside, the twin Suns had sunk below the mountains.
At some point, a veiled minstrel had started singing somewhere in the middle of the table. Some kind of folk song, no doubt, a simple repeating line that everyone knows without knowing they know it. It was far from my taste, but it was much more pleasant to the ear as more voices gradually joined in, the melody slightly ragged from drink and exhaustion—but warm enough.
I let myself simply sit in it for a moment.
I had won. No, we had won. A handful of frontier peasants had taken a castle that the Count himself said had never fallen. It was probably a feat like no other in the history of this world. I wondered what the expression on Adalbert’s face would be when I came back to report the victory.
But this was just the beginning.
Because, along with the castle, I had also secured the mill, the iron mines, plenty of fertile land, and most importantly: a large population of future soldiers and workers. Future citizens.
In my head, the gears were already beginning to move again.
The mill could be converted into a blast furnace. The mines could benefit from a steam engine to draw out water. And agriculture would also need some—
The door to the hall swung open.
A young child, ragged and muddy, rushed into the room. I recognised him from the Eclipse Feast.
The minstrel's melody faltered. Everyone went silent.
“Sir Prince!” The boy pleaded as he collapsed on the floor, breathing deeply. “Rand… Henrik… Fighting… Fire…”
The boy fell unconscious from exhaustion.
The singing did not resume.