Day 63, 7:45 PM

“It takes something more than intelligence to act intelligently.”

― Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Manny is a natural at looming. Even seated behind the baron’s desk, she’s tall, her back is straight, her chin held high enough to show pride and dominance, yet not high enough to appear stupid or snobbish. The baroness, on the contrary, stands, shaking like a mouse before a cat.

Our assurances failed to convince her we have no horrifying plans regarding her, her children, and her husband, since baron Muire didn’t abuse the villagers. Not even Manny’s passing mention of ransom eased her worry.

We’re not kind. The hostage tactic is as much to bleed the king for money, as it is to soil his reputation should he refuse to fill our coffers, but the best outcome for everyone concerned is for him to pay to free his loyal subjects.

“My soldiers will escort you to Eaglegord tomorrow morning,” Manny repeats and waves Jude to take away the skittish woman and her two kids.

The door creaks, then clicks shut, and we are left alone.

“Bend over,” I say, but before the last syllable leaves my mouth, Manny passes me a folded scrap of parchment she was scribbling on while baroness Muire spoke up for herself and her husband.

I furrow my brows and open it.

‘You are ravishing in armor.

Bend over.’

“I am disappointed.” She smirks, piercing me with her gaze. “I expected a compliment. A superficial one at least.”

“You are a valkyrie, my muse.”

“I am unfamiliar with your alien words. Do elaborate.” Metal scales click as she folds her arms and crosses her legs.

I know she’s teasing me, but I still explain that valkyrie are armored beauties escorting brave warriors to an afterlife of eternal drunk and disorderly, while muses are beauties who drive human art and creation.

The first explanation leaves her thoroughly unimpressed, but the second one draws a grin, and two minutes later I discover that sex in scale mail armor is generally an unpleasant affair, one which we will not be repeating.

The disaster kills the fun, and instead of hugging me, Manny’s looking at a bruise on her upper arm where her armor pinched her. “If you go back in time, please let’s not do this.”

It was bad enough for you to joke about me dying?

Are you joking?

“Agreed. It sounded like a really good idea, though.”

“It was a horrid idea. Your worst one yet, and I cannot describe how grateful I am for armor padding.”

“Marching wouldn’t be possible with metal scraping against bare skin or thin shirts. But yes, I’m exceptionally glad armor padding exists, and I hope we never talk about this incident again. Ever.”

How uncomfortable would a chain-mail bikini be? I chuckle, and she glares at me. Did she start reading my mind? I swear Mary could do that.

The next morning I deliver the ‘we’re-not-gonna-take-it’ speech, and we rally twenty-three recruits healthy and old enough to wield the weapons and armor stored in baron Muire’s home. The rest of the equipment we leave to the villagers to distribute as they see fit.

“Are you sure it’s all right to arm them like that? What if the king conscripts them?” I ask Manny while we are waving Varren and fourteen men goodbye.

She shifts her attention from the fifteen soldiers escorting our prisoners and loot to Eaglegord and gives me the idiot look.

“What does Warfare say regarding unwilling conscripts?”

“Fear them for they might rebel. They are easy to bribe, and their morale is near null. Use them as fodder to whittle their numbers along with your enemy’s.”

Manny nods. “Even if the king rallies ten thousand loyal troops and cripples Garacia’s borders, he can at most conscript a thousand unwilling soldiers. And I do not believe he will empty the kingdom for our sake. At most, he will attack with five thousand strong and rely on traitors to open the gates for them, like they did last time.”

“But he could still do it?”

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

She draws a deep breath. “And if he does, he will lose to his own folly. You need not worry about that scenario. History has shown us repeatedly the consequence of using unwilling recruits.”

I hope you’re right.

“So, next up is Buckmir, and then we go back to Eaglegord, right?”

“You are the general. Making such decisions is within your area of expertise, not mine.”

You really can’t say I have an expertise in conquering towns and villages. I only killed some despised tyrants in their sleep and incited people into rioting against the authorities.

“If I’m supposed to be making war-related decisions, why didn’t you heed my advice about taking the weapons from Glenmir’s villagers? ”

“Because it was poor advice. A ruler who disarms his populace reveals lack of faith, admits his incompetence, and grows unpopular. A good ruler will arm their people and let them defend their own property. Meanwhile, a thriving populace will come, furious and armed with their own weapons, to protect their beloved ruler from his enemies and those threatening their rights.”

You sound like a National Rifle Club spokesman back home, but it’s not like I’m overly against your approach. Let’s move back to the main topic.

“I would prefer us to keep attacking, liberating villages and robbing hostile nobles. But,” I stress the word, “Buckmir is two days of forced march away from Eaglegord, three days at normal pace. We will arrive there tomorrow around noon, spend a night, and if we keep pressing forward, we have to take our prisoners with us, which will slow us down even more. With two villages, our expedition will last six days, with three, it could take more than two weeks. I’m afraid of leaving Eaglegord for such an extended period of time.”

Manny smiles and nods.

Why do I have the feeling her expression means, ‘See, you do know how to use your brain’?

“Didn’t we agree you’d challenge me if I do something obviously stupid?”

“I did. I did not let you confiscate those weapons.”

I squint at her, and she smiles like an angel, then reveals her teeth.

“I will bite you if you say something stupid now.”

What did you think I was going to say?

I clear my throat. “We should get going.”

She doesn’t bite me, proving I said nothing stupid.

“Men! Move out,” I shout, and we’re heading for our next target.

Two days later, baron Cole’s corpse sways in the wind, his wife dead at the base of the gallows. We heard they were nasty, but this is the first time we saw peasants so enraged they stoned their lord’s wife dead. Manny heard their accusations, then allowed them to execute the woman.

The pair had no children, but several village children and young women had disappeared over the years, and the baron had covered it up. His excuses varied; wolves ate them, they wandered off, went in search of a better life in the city…

But the imprisoned twelve-year-old girl covered in bite-marks definitely hasn’t wandered off, nor did the wolves get her. The beast that bit her was human.

Maybe I should’ve made him suffer more? I gaze at the swaying corpse. He died instantly, in his sleep. The baroness, however, wasn’t as lucky. Most rocks struck her legs and lower torso. I don’t know whether the villagers wanted to extend her suffering, or simply feared the legal and moral burden of claiming her life.

I wonder whether wanting to torture the torturers comes naturally to all humans, or is it just a portion of us? Surely, I can’t be alone wondering how to punish the sadists and deter future incidents?

The vast majority of humanity preaches forgiveness, and yet when others attack our country we are immediately expected to pick up arms instead of forgiving the attacker and moving on with our lives. When our holy land is invaded, the pacifistic priests will first shout for war. Is it hypocrisy? Are they preaching forgiveness only because nobody has ever done anything unforgivable to them?

I don’t know. It’s not the first time I ask those questions, not even the tenth. The smarter I get, the more I think my thoughts are the correct path towards handling injustice and eliminating suffering; that forgiveness is a sham. Yet, as my intellect grows, so does the other voice questioning my choices and pointing out my fallacies.

I know one thing. No matter what you do, once people get hurt you can no longer make things right. At most you can help them heal.

I glance towards Manny and walk over to her. She seems better.

The subtle dent from her gnawing at her cheek is gone. Nobody should have seen her doing it, but she was seething with fury as the frenzied villagers screamed the names of seventeen missing youths.

“Are you all right?” I touch her back, and she stiffens.

“Perfectly fine.” She’s not. Far from it.

“You know I’m here for you, if you want to talk?”

She shakes her head. “Thank you. Please try to gather some recruits. Then we will take our leave.”

Manny walks away, her superior boots a slow, dirge-like drum-beat against the wooden stage, and We’re not gonna take it feels inappropriate for this situation. It would certainly get the villagers’ blood boiling, but abusing it now would soil hard rock for me.

Instead, I speak my own words.

“People of Buckmir!” The deflated crowd looks up from their mangled tormentor and stares at me as if seeing me for the first time. “You have suffered a tragedy. Incompetent, malicious rule has stripped you of your loved ones. Of your children, sweethearts, and neighbors.”

I pause to draw a breath, considering my conscience for the first time in a long while.

I’m not abusing their vulnerability. I mull over the thought and decide I’m not deluding myself.

I’m just giving them a vent and a way to reduce the risk of such horrors happening again.

“This past decade must have been hell of fear and uncertainty, of constantly wondering whether your child will be the next to disappear. I have no way of fixing that. What I can offer you is the means of ensuring such tragedies don’t repeat themselves. Fighting the king may sound insane, or like treason, but did he not betray you first? Did he not betray all of us?”

The people nod. The sorrow slowly drains from their eyes, and fire fills the damp emptiness.

Twisted Sitter does it better.

There’s no shouting, no singalong, but cold hard words and steely, passionate gazes.

“You may join duchess Eagleeye’s cause. We seek to overthrow the king and reform the state. To eliminate the nobles’ ability to punish without court and to make them accountable for their misdeeds. Even a king needs to follow his own law, let alone a mere baron.”

I gaze at the swaying corpse, and in the corner of my eye I see them looking at it as well. Silence fills the square, and the only thing we hear is the rope creak.