Chapter Sixteen: Recruiting Refugees

On the open ground south of Tinetz City, a large earthenware pot bubbled with white steam. A red-haired man was vigorously adding firewood to the blaze beneath it, causing the flames to leap wildly. The aroma of malt wafted from the pot, drifting into the shantytown. Soon, the area erupted with excitement as hungry refugees, drawn by the scent, poured out of their shelters. The crowd quickly surrounded the fire and the pot, a mass of ragged men, women, and children staring hungrily at the steaming contents. However, Odo, Bass, and Ron stood guard with spear and axe, deterring anyone from attempting to seize the food by force.

At the edge of the gathering, Art, who had been standing for some time, nodded to Odo as more refugees arrived. Odo turned to the crowd and shouted, “Quiet, everyone! I want silence! All of you, shut up right now!”

Gradually, the crowd quieted down.

Odo continued, “This is Lord Art, the newly appointed Southern District Security Patrol Officer. My lord is recruiting a group of refugees to join the army and help cultivate land in the south. Lord Art is merciful—until the new fields yield crops, he will provide food and shelter. Those who enlist today will receive ten pounds of hulled barley per household.”

The crowd stirred immediately; if food and shelter were truly guaranteed, no family would have to starve or freeze to death here.

Once calm was restored, Odo added, “The land we reclaim will be leased to you for cultivation. The first year will be tax-free. Afterwards, the tax will be only one-fifth of usual, and after five years of farming, the land will fully belong to you. The labor and taxes will be far lighter than those imposed by your former lords. Where else will you find such a deal?”

The listeners, who had been quietly attentive, buzzed with discussion at this offer.

One hesitant refugee asked, “Lord, isn’t the south at war? We barely escaped to the north. We dare not go back.”

Odo glanced at the gaunt man and raised his voice to address all, “The place we’re going is not northern Provence but a peaceful area to the southeast here. There will be no war there.”

The refugees murmured among themselves. Art observed them closely: most were thin and ragged, grouped by village or region, each cluster with one or two leaders discussing among their members.

One large group finished their discussion and sent forward a stout leader who asked, “Lord, are there bandits or mountain robbers in the area? If we encounter them, we might lose our lives.”

“Rest assured,” Odo replied, “Our lord is a patrol officer specializing in capturing bandits and exterminating robbers. No bandit would dare to attack you.”

The leader pressed on, “If we all go, can we have some supplies or money upfront? So we can prepare before following you.”

Odo’s eyes shifted. Clearly, this man was trying to take advantage. If given money and supplies, what if they fled? He shook his head. “Those who come with us will be arranged accordingly. Besides, we are selective. Not just anyone can join.”

The dense crowd hesitated; after all, they had risked everything to reach the north and were reluctant to return south. Though assured there would be no conflict or bandits, uncertainty lingered in everyone’s hearts.

Odo spoke calmly, “Think carefully. If you wish to stay here to freeze or starve, that’s your choice. But if you follow Lord Art and join the army to farm, you may soon enjoy bread at every meal and hearty porridge every day.”

Seeing the crowd still hesitant, Odo stepped aside slightly to reveal Art standing behind him. “This is my lord, the Southern District Security Patrol Officer, personally appointed by the Court Minister of Security. Follow him and you will be well taken care of.”

Art, clad in leather armor with a fur mantle and a longsword at his waist, radiated an imposing and authoritative presence.

One leader stepped forward and asked Art, “Lord, how many people are you recruiting?”

Art disliked this man. He intended to keep numbers small—too many in one group could unite and cause trouble. He had already decided not to accept this leader.

Ignoring the question, Art addressed the crowd loudly, “I am Patrol Officer Art. If you do not want your wives and children to freeze or starve here, follow me. Those I select will immediately get porridge tonight and meat soup with bread. We will not let you starve while cultivating the land. I am recruiting only ten households. Once full, no more.”

Hearing just ten households, the crowd of two or three hundred refugees—north of the city and those yet to arrive—felt the odds diminish. Some grew restless.

“Lord, do you remember me? Please consider me!” A short, dark-skinned man in his thirties stepped forward loudly.

Art recognized him as the man saved from thugs some twenty days ago and breathed a small sigh of relief. He nodded slightly to Odo.

Odo approached, inspected the man’s calloused hands, and pulled back his tattered clothing to reveal scars on his right shoulder—signs of a long-time ploughman or laborer.

Odo nodded and had the man stand before Art, who sized him up. The man resembled Skott—lean and sturdy with dark skin and a simple demeanor—though skinnier than when last seen outside the city.

Art inquired, “We were in a hurry last time and didn’t ask your name.”

“Lord, thank you again for saving my life. My name is Lawrence, from Arlsburg beneath the southeastern Borez Mountains. This fall, I fled here with my family.”

“I recall you have a wife and children? How old are they?”

“My daughter is twelve, my lord.”

“Very well, you are selected. You may go drink porridge.”

Lawrence hurried back to his family, brought his wife and daughter before Art, then knelt deeply. Only afterward did they approach the pot where Kazak had prepared several large bowls of thick barley gruel. The family ignored the heat and drank eagerly.

Seeing Lawrence’s family devour the porridge, several refugees could no longer restrain themselves and stepped forward to register with Odo.

Odo, noticing the growing crowd, quickly said, “Alright, one at a time. Only ten households in total—if you’re late, you’ll miss out.”

The refugees scrambled into line. Odo examined them individually; several households met Art’s criteria and were sent forward for his final selection.

Several families passed Odo’s inspection—strong men, no young children, or children over ten years old. They passed Art’s scrutiny and rushed to the pot to eat.

The sight of others eating made those waiting salivate uncontrollably. The crowd broke formation, surging around Odo. Bass and Ron brandished spears and axes, shouting warnings to prevent a riot and theft.

These refugees were pitiful: all winter, they had survived on thin gruel from Tinetz County’s relief, mostly water. Now, faced with steaming, fragrant porridge, their hunger overwhelmed restraint. The crowd swelled, pushing forward amid shouts and scuffles.

Another refugee approved by Odo approached Art. “Name? Age?”

“Sir, my name is Linn, twenty-one years old.”

“Children?”

“Yes, a son and a daughter.”

“How old?”

Linn grew nervous and his voice trembled, “Four and six years old.”

Art considered carefully. He needed able-bodied farmers. Such small children could not work, and feeding them would waste precious supplies. He intended to reject this family.

“You—” Art began, but before he could finish, the two children stumbled forward toward the pot, eager for porridge. Their father hurriedly stopped them, saying, “Lord, not yet! Wait!”

The children were scantily clad, their hair matted and dirty like coarse ropes. Their outstretched hands were as dry and brittle as sticks. Behind them came a frail woman, similarly unkempt, holding their hands.

The children looked up at Art with faces smudged in dirt and streams of snot. Art could not distinguish boy or girl. Their eyes had lost all childish innocence, replaced only by pleading. No one knew how long they had gone hungry with their fleeing parents.

Art’s word “You—” lingered on his tongue but never completed. Ron, Kazak, and others watched silently, awaiting his decision.

Finally, Art said, “You are… selected.” He cursed himself inwardly.

The man anxiously waited, then gratefully knelt with his wife and children, bowing repeatedly. Art helped them up and urged them to go drink porridge.

“Lawrence, come here.”

Lawrence rushed over.

Art whispered in his ear, “From now on, stand before me. Anyone Odo selects with elderly or children under ten years old will be rejected.”

Art delegated the unpleasant task to Lawrence.

Henceforth, the selection process involved three steps: Odo checked physical strength and simple demeanor; Lawrence questioned family details; Art appeared at the end to make the final decision.

Several families passed Odo but were rejected by Lawrence. Old and young knelt before Lawrence in desperation. Having fled north with his parents, Lawrence was familiar with worse suffering and remained unmoved.

Watching Lawrence’s cold resolve, Art sighed, “This world allows no place for my false kindness…”

By late morning, Art and his men had selected twelve households totaling thirty-one refugees. Most came from various areas of Provence, thoroughly vetted. Aside from the one family Art had specially approved, the others were hardy men and women, along with adolescents capable of farming.

The fortunate thirty-odd were ravenously eating by the pot while others looked on enviously, reluctant to disperse.

“Odo, ask among the refugees if there are any craftsmen—blacksmiths or builders would be best.”

After a while, Odo returned with a grizzled old man.

The old man’s name was Bard, a carpenter from Osta City. After his only son died in battle, Bard fled to Tinetz with his wife and young grandson. Lord Pierre had already recruited all craftsmen within the refugees into the city, but Bard, frail and burdened with family, had not yet entered.

Odo had also dismissed him outright during the earlier selection.

“Lord, he’s just an old carpenter, still caring for his wife and grandson,” Lawrence reminded Art.

Art was reluctant but aware that skilled craftsmen had all been taken into the city by Lord Pierre. After a moment’s thought, he said, “Bring him along. Let him assist Cooper—perhaps he can help make farm tools.”

He then called over Odo, Lawrence, Bass, and Kazak and gathered them in a small circle. Art instructed, “Have them assemble here this afternoon. Separate out the able-bodied men, learn their names, and then distribute rations by household.”

...

The next morning.

Snowflakes fluttered down, blanketing the earth in white. A mounted rider led four armed men guarding a group of refugees carrying heavy bundles along the road southward...