Chapter Eleven: The Laborers’ Brawl

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Art rode his horse to the church construction site but found a crowd gathered ahead, with timber and stones scattered all around. Dismounting, he approached and heard a rough voice shout, “What guild you belong to doesn’t matter. We only follow the rules set by Lord Hadar. He said loading and unloading must go in order. These timbers and stones are the work for us laborers today. No matter which guild you claim, I don’t recognize it. Anyone who dares snatch our work, I’d dare shed their blood.”

A sarcastic voice retorted, “Big-nosed Otto, don’t think you can bully everyone just because you’re strong. If you want to fight, we’re not afraid of you. If you want to argue, go to the guild, or even to Bishop Olof’s office, suit yourself.”

Art dismounted and pushed through the crowd. He saw a burly, big-nosed man standing shirtless in the freezing cold, glaring at a gaunt man with a goatee. Behind each stood groups of laborers dressed like construction workers. The goateed man was much shorter, nearly half the height of the big-nosed man, but showed no fear. It turned out his side had nearly twice as many people.

The big-nosed man sneered, “Bah, go argue with the guild? Everyone knows you’re guild people. Your guild forced the wagon company to hire your men for loading…”

The goateed man sharply interrupted, shouting, “What do you mean forced? I follow the rules and don’t charge a single penny extra. How did we coerce the wagon company? Ask them yourselves—we never pressured anyone!” His men echoed his words.

The big-nosed man sneered coldly, “The wagon company dares not offend you, I don’t need to ask them. I saw it with my own eyes—no need to debate. Whatever you say, this job is ours!”

Hearing this, the goateed man’s faction grew agitated, rubbing their fists and shouting, “If you won’t be reasonable, don’t blame us for being wild. I’ve despised you country bumpkin dogs stealing our bread for a long time. Today we fight to the death—no more talk! Everyone, attack!”

His men raised sticks and surged forward like a swarm. The big-nosed man’s side was equally fierce, pulling out stones and clubs from behind.

Clearly, both sides had come prepared.

The onlookers sensed trouble and quickly stepped back. Art led his horse back several dozen steps.

Clattering and banging echoed through the site as both sides, hardened laborers used to heavy toil, fought fiercely. Though lean, they were strong, bold men, brutal in combat. The goateed man’s side was larger, but the big-nosed man’s group, though smaller, fought with more cohesion—huddling in groups rather than rushing about chaotically.

For a time, the fight was evenly matched, with several men falling on both sides.

The goateed man stayed at the rear, directing his men to press the attack. The big-nosed man, fierce and experienced, swung his short club left and right, knocking down several opponents and forcing four or five to retreat. Seeing his own men fall and hearing the goateed man’s taunts behind him, anger flared. He charged forward a few steps, taking two clubs to the side, but knocked one opponent to the ground and then, ignoring others, spun his club like a windmill, beating down on the fallen man. Earlier, fearing fatal injury, he hadn’t struck the head, but now he unleashed a brutal flurry. The man on the ground clutched his head, screaming in agony as blood flowed from his wounds.

Behind the big-nosed man, a red-haired dwarf led reinforcements to block both sides. The four or five men facing the fallen man recoiled at the gruesome sight and quickly dodged the big-nosed man’s frontal assault. Seizing the opportunity, the big-nosed man dropped the battered man and dashed through the gap to the goateed man, swinging his club toward his head...

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By the time Ron arrived with the carpenter at the church site, the fierce brawl had ended. The goateed man lay unconscious from a heavy blow, while the big-nosed man was being pummeled by city thugs who had come to back him up. Armed guards from the monastery arrived just in time to quell the chaos. Both sides suffered injuries, but no one died.

Such clashes were common at construction sites and hardly surprising—the only difference this time was the scale and severity.

Finally, a labor contractor named Hadar came to the site. Clearly intimidated by the guild backing the goateed man, he mediated briefly before deciding the big-nosed man’s side was at fault. They were ordered to compensate for medical expenses and were expelled from the site.

Art watched the laborers supporting each other as they left, then turned to Ron with instructions: “Ron, you came just in time. Did you see that group leaving the site? Follow them and find out where they live. Report back to me.”

Suddenly, cries of pain echoed from a shack near the city walls.

Otto wiped sweat from his brow, feeling helpless and regretting his rage that had led him and his men to clash with the guild’s thugs.

Big-nosed Otto and a dozen others in the shantytown were mostly bankrupt farmers from villages near Lusessen. Some had lost their land to lords, others driven away by heavy taxes, forced into wandering and destitution. In this harsh world, they were like stray dogs, constantly bullied.

“Albert, hang on. I’ll gather some money soon to hire a medic,” Otto said, looking at Albert and the other laborers lying bleeding and pale on straw piles.

Stepping out of the shack, Otto joined a group of laborers gathered outside.

“Brother Otto, after paying the med fees for those bastards, we’re almost broke. We scratched together less than eight pennies. Not enough for a medic,” said a red-haired dwarf, handing Otto a handful of copper coins.

Otto was alone, and whatever he earned was either spent on drink or shared with his family. His generosity earned him respect among the laborers, and with his extraordinary strength, they called him Iron Arm Otto. The downside was he never had a copper coin left overnight.

As they fretted over the lack of funds for medical treatment, a man clad in leather armor and a leather coat, sword at his side, arrived with a companion. The crowd tensed, fearing city guards or guild men had come to cause trouble.

Otto pushed through and stood boldly before them. “It was I who urged everyone to act. They’re not involved. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me.”

“You’re brave,” Art said with a smile to Otto and his men.

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The crowd was puzzled. This didn’t seem like a confrontation.

“Who are you, sir?” Otto asked, eyeing the two men curiously.

“We come from the south. Today at the site, we saw you beat the guild thugs thoroughly. It was satisfying, and we came to make friends,” Art said as he walked toward the shack.

The crowd parted for them, and seeing no one else followed, Otto led them inside.

“They’re all hit with clubs, but their opponents showed some restraint—no broken bones. A medic can fix them; they’ll heal in a few days,” Art assured them.

The newcomers’ sudden appearance puzzled the laborers.

After a brief look inside, Art turned to Otto and asked, “Are you the big-nosed Otto?”

Otto glanced at Art and then Ron, confused. “Yes, I’m Otto. May I ask who you are and what you want here?”

Art scanned the crowd and declared loudly, “To be frank, I am the new Border Inspector assigned to the southern frontier of Tinetz. I need to recruit brave men to patrol the border with me.”

He paused, letting the words sink in.

“You’ve probably heard the southern border is chaotic now. By order of the Court’s Security Minister, I’m forming a border patrol to catch thieves, fend off mountain barbarians, and maintain peace. If any want to enlist and earn food and wages, come find me tomorrow before noon at the tavern next to the smithy south of the city.” With that, Art took two deniers from his pocket and handed them to Otto.

“Sire, what do you mean by this?”

“Since I’m here, I cannot ignore the brothers lying wounded indoors. Remember, tomorrow noon at the tavern by the southern smithy. Don’t be late.” Saying this, he led Ron away from the shantytown.