Chapter Fifteen: Collecting the Armaments

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Beside the stables of the Tinez military camp, Art stirred the porridge in a copper pot with a wooden spoon and asked Ron, who was sitting on a worn wooden stool eating the gruel, “Ron, how is your leg? Can you walk now?”

“My lord, it still hurts a bit, but it’s much better. What kind of herb did you apply? My wound is healing quickly.” Ron was curious about Art’s treatment method using crushed wild herbs on the injury.

“Ron, if you don’t want to be tied to a cross and burned by the Church Inquisition, it’s best not to ask too many questions.” Art had always been cautious about using such “heretical” healing methods. Having lived in this world for three years, he knew well how the Church dealt with so-called “heretics.” He feared that if anyone found out and reported him, he would get into irreparable trouble.

Art stepped forward and unwrapped the linen bandage around Ron’s leg to examine the healing wound. “Ron, since your leg is almost healed, we’ll have to return to the valley in a day or two.”

“My lord, Bass and Kazak should have arrived in Tinez by now. Why haven’t they caught up?” Ron was worried those two might have run off with the money.

Art was even more concerned something might have happened to them on the road. “Let’s wait a bit longer. Once we finish one last important task, we’ll head back to the valley.”

“All right, my lord. We’ve been out for a month now. I’m beginning to miss my parents and Camille. I wonder how they’re doing.”

“Don’t worry. Hidden in the wild valley, no one can threaten them. Besides, there are enough supplies in the cabin.” Art reassured him.

As they talked, Otto emerged from the storeroom beside the lord’s hall and came over to them. “Sir, last night the grain shop north of the city was robbed. Several hundred pounds of wheat were stolen. Luckily, we didn’t store anything there. I’ve already moved the grain cart and all our goods into the official warehouse, but the warehouse keeper is quite greedy. He actually wants to charge us two fenni for guarding fees.”

For the past few days, Art and his two companions had been lodging by the stables at the Tinez military camp. Otto had been sleeping clutching his battle axe on the grain cart at night, afraid the supplies would be stolen.

“Two fenni or not, it’s better than losing the grain. Otto, after dinner, go to the southern city’s free market and buy a large clay pot for cooking porridge. Do you have enough money? If not, I’ll give you some more,” Art instructed.

“It’s enough, sir. You gave me money for farming tools yesterday, and I still have over ten fenni left.” Otto said as he walked to the copper pot and scooped a generous spoonful into a wooden bowl.

“Ron, you’ll come with me to the armory later to collect the weapons Lord Pierre allocated to us. If we wait too long, it might be difficult to get them.”

...

In a small room beside the armory, a portly, broad-faced armory keeper examined a small piece of parchment stamped with Lord Pierre’s seal that Art handed over, flipping it over several times.

“Keeper, is there a problem with this weapon requisition form?” Art asked quietly.

The keeper glanced at Art and sneered, “The form itself is fine, but Lord Pierre has been recruiting many able-bodied refugees as city guards lately. The armory probably can’t muster that many weapons.” He then glanced at the pouch at Art’s waist.

If Art hadn’t understood by now, he’d be a fool.

Art turned away, took down his pouch, pulled out three fenni, then hesitated before adding two more and handed them to the keeper.

The keeper weighed the well-made copper coins in his hand and immediately brightened, breaking into a smile. “You must be the newly arrived district inspector, sir? Lord Pierre has already instructed the armory to prepare a batch of weapons for you. This morning, the sheriff wanted to replace them, but I persuaded him to let you keep these.”

Art cursed the sheriff under his breath and followed the keeper into the armory.

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The armory was the heart of the Tinez military camp. The storeroom was a stone-walled building with an iron door secured by a heavy lock, guarded by a spearman at the entrance.

Inside, the room seemed somewhat sparse. Weapon racks held scattered iron spearheads of various lengths, chipped swords, short-handled axes, half-round iron helmets, leather armor, long hooked knives, and war hammers. Most eye-catching were several crossbows hanging on the wall and neatly stacked bundles of arrows in the corner.

The keeper led them to a corner and pointed at a bundle of iron-tipped short spears and a few broad swords and battle axes. “District Inspector, these are the weapons Lord Pierre allocated for you. Please inspect them.”

Art nodded at Ron, who stepped forward to count carefully: eight short spears, one broad sword, two battle axes, and one heavy hammer.

As they were leaving with the weapons, Art’s eyes caught a broken wooden crate piled haphazardly with large iron spearheads. He handed his short spears to Ron, approached the crate, and picked up one spearhead to examine it. These iron spearheads were worn or had broken shafts and had been discarded for remaking or melting down.

Art wiped the sharp blade with his thumb and his mind brightened. Standing, he pointed at the crate and asked the keeper, “These are the worn-out weapons taken out for remelting, correct?”

The keeper nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”

Art’s heart leapt. He took down his pouch, smiled at the keeper, and said, “These discarded spearheads have already been sent to the camp blacksmith’s forge, haven’t they?” He then pulled out a handful of fenni...

In the end, Art spent fifty fenni—paying scrap iron prices—to purchase ten iron spearheads that could still be used with some effort. The pleased armory keeper also recommended several sets of old winter clothes and armor, which Art gladly bought.

When Art and Ron returned to the stables carrying a large bundle of weapons and clothing, Otto was ladling porridge into wooden bowls for two men sitting by the copper pot.

Indeed, they were Bass and Kazak, the two who had been slow to reach Tinez.

Seeing Art approach, the two quickly set down their bowls, stood, and removed their ragged felt hats, bowing. “Sir, we’re late and willing to accept punishment.”

Art put down the weapons and gestured for them to sit. “Why were you delayed for several days? What happened on the road?”

Kazak scratched his head embarrassedly. “Sir, we encountered some bandits on the way. To avoid them, we bypassed the main road... but we got lost. We took a long detour west before finally finding the road to Tinez.”

“How did you find this place?” Ron asked from the side.

“I asked a city guard, and he said the new district inspector lives by the military stables in the city. So we followed that clue,” Bass replied.

“All right, you’ve arrived just in time. If you had been a day or two later, we would have left Tinez.”

Art noticed both Bass and Kazak were holding large bowls of porridge and asked, “Have you eaten enough?”

Bass glanced at the bowl and sheepishly said, “We just got it, haven’t eaten yet.”

“Enough, don’t eat now. Since we’re all together, I’ll take you to the city tavern for a proper meal.”

Art then instructed Otto, “Otto, take Kazak and bring these weapons and supplies to the official warehouse, then have the Free Bison find us.”

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“Ron, Bass, let’s head to the tavern first.”

With that, Art led Ron and Bass out of the camp toward the largest tavern in the city...

...

It was still early, and there were no customers eating inside.

Dressed in leather armor with a longsword at his side and several burly followers behind him, Art caught the tavern owner’s attention. The owner hurried forward to greet the distinguished guest.

When the owner recognized Art’s face, he was surprised and smiled, “Isn’t this the hunter brothers? Are you back in the city to sell furs and mountain goods?”

He looked Art up and down and then at the sturdy men behind him, realizing this was no longer the taciturn hunter he once knew.

“Mate, what’s this about?” the owner asked, scrutinizing Art.

Ron stepped forward proudly, “My lord is no longer a hunter. He’s now the district inspector appointed by the court for the southern region!”

The owner looked incredulous and studied him for a moment. “So the notice posted outside the city was about you! You’re Art Wood Wells, the newly appointed district inspector of Tinez County’s southern district?”

Art smiled and replied, “Yes, that’s me, the guy on the notice.”

“Oh my God, welcome, District Inspector.” The owner bowed and stepped aside to let Art and his party enter the tavern.

They took their seats, and the owner brought several large mugs of beer to the table with a smile. “District Inspector, these are on me to congratulate you on your promotion. If you ever need anything, just say the word.”

Having been a merchant for many years, the owner was skilled in flattery and hospitality. Now that the once unknown hunter had transformed into a court-appointed inspector—though not overseeing city affairs—his attitude shifted accordingly. In these troubled times, those with swords and knives naturally held a higher status. Fortunately, the owner had never offended the hunter before.

Art was not surprised by the owner’s change of attitude; this was exactly why he sought a recognized status.

“Thank you. Please prepare us a hearty meal. I’ll pay you fairly.”

“Certainly, please wait here.” The owner turned and went into the kitchen to personally prepare food for Art and his group.

Otto and the others felt their faces brighten and spirits lift.

Art cleared his throat softly. “Everyone, I officially assumed the post of district inspector two days ago. Now that we’re all gathered, I’ll outline the next steps. The most important is recruiting refugees. Lord Pierre has promised to allocate a tract of land as our base and permitted me to recruit refugees to reclaim and farm the land. I intend to rally under this banner...”