Chapter Twenty-One: Merciful Retribution

In the vast, snowy wilderness, a few figures stumbled forward.

Having escaped their pursuers, the group had trudged through the boundless night for hours. Art could discern a general direction, but they were lost nonetheless. They had headed east for the better part of the night before turning southeast, yet as dawn approached, the trade route that should have appeared long ago remained nowhere in sight. Panic began to set in; all around them was a vast expanse of white, with nothing but their own trailing footprints marking the frozen earth.

Bass ran over to Art, who was scouting from atop a boulder, and said anxiously, "My lord, Aldo is fading."

Aldo had suffered a deep gash on his forearm from a sharp blade. While not as severe as the arrow wound in Art’s chest, the bleeding had stopped, and it should not have been a critical issue. However, from yesterday noon until now, they had been fleeing and running incessantly. Combined with the freezing cold and the lack of food, his physical strength had been exhausted, turning a minor wound into a life-threatening affliction.

Art jumped down and knelt beside Aldo, who was sitting in the snow. He touched his burning forehead and unwrapped the rags from his forearm; the wound had already begun to swell and turn purple.

"Aldo, can you hold on?"

Aldo nodded, but his face was pale, his lips were turning blue, and his consciousness was drifting.

Art scooped up some snow and applied it to Aldo’s forehead, then instructed Bass and Kazak to scout the surroundings for firewood.

"My lord, look! There seems to be smoke in that direction. Could there be a village ahead?" Kazak, limping, ran over to Art with the exciting discovery.

"Let’s go. Head in that direction."

And so, the four of them leaned on one another, making their way toward the rising smoke.

***

"Oh no, oh no! A group of bandits is coming!" a refugee guard, standing on a boulder with a spear, shouted to the crowd.

Ron dropped his wooden bowl and sprang up. "Damn it! The smoke from our fire must have attracted them."

"Stay calm, everyone! Those with weapons, follow me. Everyone else, hide among the boulders."

Ron led Lawrence and four other refugee guards armed with short spears toward the direction of the "incoming bandits." He drew his sword and stood at the front, ready to meet the charge.

After a moment, Ron’s sword lowered, and his eyes widened in disbelief. "My lord? My lord!!!"

Art watched as Ron and the others rushed over from the rock pile, feeling a wave of relief.

"Ron, we’ll discuss the rest later. Quickly, go boil some water and cook some wheat porridge." Art tossed his horse bow and knight’s sword to Ron and headed straight for the fire, supporting Aldo.

"Brother Ron, what happened to the lord and the others?" Lawrence asked as he ran over.

"Do as the lord says first."

***

Kazak buried his face in his wooden bowl, using his tongue to sweep the last grain of wheat into his mouth. He stood up and scraped the copper pot over the fire with a wooden spoon, but no matter how hard he scraped, he couldn't find another grain. Turning to Lawrence, who was feeding Aldo, Kazak said, "Brother Lawrence, could you cook another pot of porridge? My teeth haven't even been satisfied yet."

Lawrence started to rise to cook more, but Art stopped him. "That’s enough. He’s been starving too long; he’ll burst if he eats any more."

"Kazak, you should learn from Bass. Eat, sleep, and wake up for lunch. I’ll make you all meat broth with bread at noon," Lawrence said. Kazak licked his lips and had no choice but to give up.

Ron was cleaning Art’s wounds. The arrow wound in his chest was shallow and the blood had clotted, but his arms and face were covered in scratches, and the blisters on his feet had burst. He did not ask what the group had endured over the past day and night; their scarred bodies and missing weapons told the story.

Art slept for a while—or rather, he slept through the entire morning. When he woke, Ron brought him a large bowl of stewed meat, bones and all. He tore into a rib, swallowing after only a few chews, before glancing at the two people tied to the supply wagon. "Ron, what’s the deal with them? Why are they tied up?"

Ron handed Art a piece of charred rye bread and replied, "Since yesterday afternoon, they’ve been clamoring to leave the group to save themselves. This morning, they even tried to steal the grain and run. What’s worse, that woman incited everyone to loot the supplies. If Brother Lawrence hadn't stopped me, I would have cut those bastards down before you got back."

Ron recounted the events that had unfolded within the refugee group.

"Hmm, you did well." After listening, Art understood the situation. Ron and Lawrence had handled it appropriately, stabilizing the group while punishing the thieves.

After eating, Art checked on Aldo and Kazak. Kazak’s bruised toe was swollen, but it was nothing serious; Aldo’s fever had subsided, and the wound on his arm was healing.

Once he was sure they were stable, Art donned his leather armor, took his sword, and walked to the supply wagon. The refugees gathered around him.

The two tied to the wagon were shivering, covered in grime, bruises, and scratches—the result of the refugees beating them that morning.

Art walked over to the man and lifted his head with his scabbard. Several of his teeth had been knocked out, and his right cheek was swollen like a loaf of fermented bread.

Art turned to the crowd and said loudly, "Everyone, you likely know more about their actions than I do. I won't rush to deal with these two, but I want to give everyone another chance. If anyone wishes to leave, just leave behind the grain I’ve provided, and I swear on my sword—I will not hold you back."

Art scanned the crowd with his sword held high. He waited, but the refugees remained silent.

"Good. Since you have all chosen to stay and follow me, I must tell you this: I did not recruit you so you could enjoy a life of leisure. If you eat my grain, you must follow my commands, do my work, and keep my rules! If you act with integrity, I will give you a stable life. If you harbor malice, then my sword will show you how God punishes wicked souls."

With that, Art pointed his sword directly at the man tied to the wagon. A gasp rippled through the crowd.

"What is your name?" Art asked.

"Nu... Nuldo," the man stammered, terrified.

"Nuldo, tell me, did you join my reclamation force of your own free will?"

"Ye... yes, my... my lord."

"Have I let you go hungry these past few days?"

"No... no..."

"Have I allowed bandits to plunder your property or threaten your life?"

"No... no, my lord."

"Then why did you try to steal the grain while I was away? Why did you incite others to go to their deaths?" Art’s question was nearly a roar.

The woman beside him, her mouth-gag removed, realized her fate and turned deathly pale.

"We were wrong! Please, spare us. We are willing to be your slaves, just don't kill us!" The woman wept, snot and tears streaming down her face as she begged.

"No, I will not keep two treacherous wretches by my side." Art’s eyes were cold with intent.

"I, representing God and the God of Justice, hereby pass judgment on your wicked souls." Art raised his sword above his head, aiming at the man’s skull.

"Ahhhhh!" The man screamed, eyes squeezed shut, as if his cries could ward off the terror. The woman beside him fainted, and the faint-hearted in the crowd turned away.

*Clang!*

The sword did not strike the man’s head; instead, it severed the rope binding him to the wagon.

"Leave the grain I gave you, take your woman, and fend for yourselves!"

***

Watching the two figures disappear into the vast, snowy wilderness, Ron asked softly, "My lord, is it too merciful to let them go like this? How can we deter the others if we don't kill them?"

"Merciful? Do you think they can survive in this wilderness? Ron, sometimes you don't need a blade to kill a man."

With that, Art returned to the refugee group and continued their journey south.