Chapter Twelve: The Three Brothers of Noble Brotherhood

Outside the walls of Lusessen, beneath the city’s outer ramparts, lay a squalid slum. A group of laborers sat huddled inside a makeshift shack. The walls were constructed from withered branches, hung with dried straw, with gaps that let in shafts of light. On the dirt floor rested a few slabs of stone, covered with wooden planks and hay.

“I’ve had enough of living like a mangy stray, scrambling for scraps. I want to try my luck out there. Brother Otto, what do you think?” The red-haired, short-statured man broke the silence.

All eyes turned to Iron Arm Otto. Otto sat at the head of the group, rubbing a bruise on his right shoulder with his left hand. He looked up, glaring at the redhead. “Try your luck? Redhead, do you even know how chaotic the South is right now? Do you trust that patrol officer? Don’t forget, you have an old, infirm father back in the countryside depending on you.”

The man called “Redhead” was Kazak, originally a farmer from a village near Chug City north of Lusessen. Three years ago, his family had fallen out with their lord and were dispossessed, driven off their land. His mother and sister died one after another, and this autumn, while feeding livestock for a local squire near Lusessen’s suburbs, his father was trampled by an animal, breaking his foot. Now twenty years old, Kazak remained unmarried, surviving only by working with Otto and others as laborers in and around Lusessen, supporting both himself and his bedridden father.

Kazak fell silent under Otto’s reproach. He truly was weary of a life of constant oppression. Were it not for his sick father at home, he would have taken that patrol officer’s offer to head south and test his fate.

“Quiet, everyone,” Otto said, raising a hand. “I know you’re all tired of this stray-dog existence. But many of you have wives and children waiting for you to bring home bread and coin.”

“This is how I see it: tomorrow morning, those without families can come with me to the southern tavern to meet this patrol officer. If he proves trustworthy, we’ll discuss whether to join him. Those with families should stay behind. You’ve lived long enough to know there’s no such thing as free bread. Being a soldier is trading your head for food. If we go south to fight bandits, one day you might lose your head for sure. If you die, your wife and children will be worse off than wild dogs.” Otto’s voice rang out firmly.

The laborers fell silent. The room was still.

“Don’t deliberate here anymore. This is serious. You must decide for yourselves. Now go home, think it over carefully, and come find me tomorrow.” Otto ushered them out of his humble shelter.

Meanwhile, at the grain shop door, Art was bargaining with the owner, accompanied by Ron.

“Young man, I don’t think you or your master lack coin. One penny three pounds for hulled barley is already the lowest price in town, and you’re only buying a thousand pounds. I really can’t go any lower,” the owner grumbled, growing impatient with Ron’s haggling.

“But yesterday you said one penny four pounds. How come the price has gone up today? That’s untrustworthy!” Ron accused, pointing at the owner’s nose.

The owner feigned innocence. “Listen, young man, things outside are getting worse. Grain prices in many southern cities have nearly doubled. Yesterday’s price isn’t today’s price. Tomorrow it might rise again. If you don’t buy today, tomorrow’s price could be even higher.”

Art stood by, arms crossed, observing Ron’s back-and-forth with the shopkeeper. He suddenly sensed that Ron might have a knack for trade.

Seeing the stalemate, Art stepped forward. “Friend, although we’re not buying much this time, we’ll definitely need more grain in the future. If you can lower the price this time, I might consider ordering from your shop long-term.”

The owner scrutinized Art carefully and, seeing no deceit, agreed. “Alright, but you’ll have to buy some rye too.” The owner was tired of Ron’s pestering and eager to conclude the deal. The rye in stock had been sitting for years, some of it moldy, and he was anxious to sell it off.

Art nodded in agreement.

In the end, they purchased a thousand pounds of barley at one penny three and a half pounds, three hundred pounds of rye for one hundred pennies, several loaves of rye bread, and a sack of wheat flour. Ron also managed to extract a large bag of bran for feeding livestock as a gift from the shopkeeper.

After paying one hundred pennies as a deposit, Art instructed them to pack the grain for collection the next afternoon, then returned to the tavern with Ron.

***

Inside the tavern on the ground floor, Ron was stuffing a large piece of roasted meat into his mouth, his cheeks bulging. Without chewing, he grabbed a slice of fine wheat bread and mumbled to Art, “Master, why are you recruiting those laborers? There are plenty of refugees and deserters in the South. Why waste money on them?”

Art took a small sip from a wooden cup of light beer, smiled at Ron, who was devouring his food, and said nothing.

Recruiting laborers into his patrol force had been a spur-of-the-moment decision. During today’s brawl at the construction site, Art had witnessed their extraordinary fighting spirit—especially a man named Otto, brave and bold, understanding some tactics, with the potential to be an officer. Such men were rare. Yet, unlike the homeless refugees of the southern border, these laborers, though living harshly, still had families and homes. They would not abandon their kin lightly to risk their lives on the southern frontier. So Art wasn’t sure if anyone would come to him tomorrow.

“Ron, what do you think of this Otto fellow?” Art asked, taking another sip of beer.

Ron lifted his head from his bowl of soup, wiped the juice from his lips, and thought before replying, “I definitely couldn’t beat him. That guy’s arms are huge.”

“And?”

“He’s courageous and takes responsibility. When we went there, he was the only one brave enough to stand up.”

“Anything else?”

“Nope.”

Art was noncommittal but pressed on, “Do you think he’ll come tomorrow?”

“Definitely.”

Surprised by Ron’s certainty, Art asked, “How can you be so sure?”

“Because his eyes never left the sword at your waist. It looked like a starving man seeing a steaming bowl of meat soup.” Ron returned to his meat.

“Ha! Ron, you’re quite perceptive. Come, drink with me...” Art laughed.

***

The next morning, after breakfast, Ron rode the green mule with eighty pennies to the carpenter’s shop to retrieve a discarded iron-plated four-wheeled cart they had bought for one hundred fifty pennies. The eighty pennies were for repairs. The cart’s spokes were badly damaged, the side panels worn and broken. The old carpenter promised to fix it as best he could, but even after repairs, it would last at most a year or two.

Art sat at a long table outside the inn, watching passersby.

He waited all morning but saw no sign of the laborers. Disappointed, he watched as Ron led the mule and cart back to the tavern stables, unhitched the cart, and returned the mule to its stall.

Ron entered and saw Art sitting alone at the door. “Master, they still haven’t come?”

Art smiled ruefully. “Ron, looks like your judgment was off.”

“Alright, go pack your things. We’ll load the grain from the shop soon and set off for Tinetz this afternoon.” Art spoke with some regret.

As they turned to head upstairs, a red-haired man glanced around the inn’s corner, peered inside, then slipped away.

Outside, Otto and a burly man looked inside the inn. Seeing Kazak sneak back like a thief, Otto slapped him on the head. “Why sneak around like a thief? Can’t you just walk properly?”

Kazak scratched his head and forced a smile. “The patrol officer is still here, but it looks like he’s about to leave. We need to hurry...”

“No rush. Remember, don’t blab.” Otto led a few men toward the inn.

The barkeep knocked on Art’s door. “Honored guest, three men say they’ve come to see you.”

Art quickly set down his bag and followed the barkeep downstairs.

There, Otto stood with two laborers at the inn’s entrance.

Seeing Art come down, Otto stepped forward and bowed. “Sir, we have carefully considered what you said and decided to come see you.”

Art gestured them inside. The men entered the tavern.

***

“Please, have a seat.” Art invited the three laborers to the long table.

He surveyed the three: all had been at the forefront of yesterday’s fight. They wore coarse short shirts, arms partly bare, their skin darkened, muscles robust, exuding a reserved yet fierce courage. His gaze settled last on Otto, black-haired, blue-eyed, stocky—a clear leader among them.

“Otto, will you and your men join my patrol force?”

“We are laborers of Lusessen, tired of begging and being trampled upon. We fear no hardship, no toil, and no death,” Otto replied.

Art nodded encouragingly.

Feeling bolstered, Otto took a deep breath. “Sir, forgive my boldness. We want to follow you, but we must be sure your words are true.”

“Understandable. Nothing to forgive. Ron, fetch the commission from my room,” Art instructed.

“Could you introduce yourselves? Otto, you first.” While Ron left, Art examined them closely.

“I was born near Steifa in the north, in a village called Soro. My parents and brother starved to death in the famine. I was left alone and wandered to survive. Three years ago, I came to Lusessen to work as a laborer.” Otto briefly recounted his past.

He glanced at Kazak, signaling him to speak.

Nervously, Kazak looked at the other man, who made no move, so he stammered, “S-sir, my name is Kazak, but everyone calls me Redhead. I... I...”

“Where’s your usual courage?” Otto slapped Kazak’s back, then smiled apologetically at Art. “Sir, Redhead talks a lot, but don’t let his size fool you; he’s a fierce fighter.”

Art smiled warmly at Kazak. “A fine fellow indeed.”

Otto also gave a brief introduction to the third man, called Hammer Bass. Otto and Bass were both alone, while Kazak had a bedridden father at home. Otto had initially hesitated to let Kazak join but relented due to Kazak’s insistence.

Just as they finished, Ron appeared with the parchment. Art took it, untied the ribbon, and laid the commission before them. Kazak reached to take it, but Otto slapped his hand away. Kazak smiled sheepishly and sat down.

“Sir, please don’t mind us; we’re rough folk. We can’t really read what’s written here, but it gives us some peace of mind. If what you say is true, we have no objections. I had a few others who wanted to come today, but I didn’t let them. I don’t know how many men you need, and I worry they won’t be chosen. Most of them have families. If they die following me south, I can’t face their relatives.”

Art nodded. “You’re all good men. Otto and Bass can come south with me. But Kazak, what about your father?”

Kazak looked anxious, worried Art might reject him, and glanced pleadingly at Otto.

After a moment’s hesitation, Otto quietly asked, “Sir, we want to ask if there is pay for joining the patrol? Bass and I don’t mind, but Kazak has entrusted his father to a comrade’s care and promised to bring back wages to support him.” His voice was low.

“Otto, as I said, following me means being a soldier for your bread. If you’re willing to risk your life with me, I won’t shortchange you. To be honest, right now it’s just me and Ron. Before spring, we’ll form a patrol force of over ten men. Until then, there’s no pay, but I’ll cover your food and lodging. Once formed, besides full board, you’ll receive no less than fifteen pennies a week. There will be bonuses for killing enemies or securing loot. But be warned: the South is chaotic and dangerous. Injury or death is a real risk. If you’re afraid, stay here as laborers. Once you take my food and pay, you must give your soul to God and your body to the devil. So, what do you say? Will you join?”

The three of them huddled, whispering. As laborers, they earned less than two pennies a day—barely enough for one person to eat. Those with families often considered a full meal a luxury. Compared to this, the patrol’s offer was generous. As for life and death—if they dared to come, fear was not an option.

In unison, they declared, “We are willing to serve, sir.”

“Ron! Tell the barkeep to bring more beer and roast meat. I want to drink with these brave men...”