Chapter 57 Resuming the Journey

My lord, are we truly not going to hunt down the remaining bandits? Aldo asked, utterly perplexed as to why Baron Berengar was forgoing a sweep of the hills. Yet, as the border patrol was currently in the employ of another, they had no choice but to yield to the baron's command.

For Baron Berengar, compared to flushing out a handful of brigands holed up in the dense forest valleys, securing the grain and the newly recruited soldiers from Kitzbühel and returning them to Castle Calk as swiftly as possible was the matter of paramount urgency.

In the camp's surprise encounter, the patrol had suffered the loss of one soldier killed, two heavily wounded, four lightly injured, and countless others nicked and grazed by blades. In addition, two wagon drivers sent by Salpu had been slain.

The bandit force, on the other hand, had been virtually annihilated. Following the post-battle tally and interrogations, it was revealed that the brigands who launched the dawn raid comprised six distinct bands totaling fifty-seven men. Scarcely had the battle commenced when seven or eight fell before the shield wall; Roland, Jason, and a few others accounted for three more at the rear. Once the shield wall dispersed and the pursuit was ordered, four more were run down. Aside from two minor chieftains and seven or eight footpads who managed to escape into the thicket, the remainder of the bandits were either left behind as cold corpses or bound hand and foot to the wagon wheels as prisoners of war.

Initially, the patrol had slain little more than a dozen men in actual combat. However, the wounded and crippled brigands left writhing on the ground soon became targets for the blood-frenzied soldiers to vent their fury. Any bandit unable to drag himself up from the earth received a finishing blow, meaning that nearly half the brigands had been put to the sword by the end, with almost every patrolman's hands stained with blood. Furthermore, Baron Berengar and his two squires alone had cut down eight men.

Having lived in penury for so long, the bandits yielded meager spoils. When Bath led the men into the forested grove where the horses were hidden, only a single horse and a mule remained out of the eight mixed mounts and blue-grey pack mules the prisoners had boasted of. Though no shortage of weapons lay scattered across the ground, Yate held little regard for the crude staves, short blades, hand axes, and iron pitchforks favored by the brigands. Ultimately, they salvaged only two or three sets of leather and quilted cotton armor, three or four notched arming swords, a dozen long knives and short spears, some thirty small silver coins, and over a hundred copper pennies. Rumor had it that a wealth of gold and silver was still hidden deep within the hilltop lairs, but Baron Berengar was too anxious to transport the grain and resume the march to court further complications. Moreover, the surviving bandits had likely already emptied the hideout, leaving Yate to abandon the notion.

Lord Yate, my master requests your presence in his tent for a council. A squire of Baron Berengar's entered from without, cutting short the discussion between Aldo and Yate.

Yate rose, straightened his armor and tunic, and instructed Aldo: Make arrangements for the burial of our fallen brothers; I shall invite Lord Berengar and Lord Galvin to attend. Furthermore, have the two heavily wounded brothers placed upon the wagon brought by Lord Galvin, and I will ask him to take them back to Salpu for proper healing.

Aldo nodded in acknowledgment and strode out of the military tent.

Yate followed the squire, emerging from his own quarters and entering the pavilion of Baron Berengar.

Baron Galvin was already engaged in lively conversation with Baron Berengar. The unexpected ambush on the caravan had somehow resulted in the total eradication of the brigands who had long plagued the southern hills. The chokehold upon Salpu's throat had finally been released, and the merchant route leading to Provence was once again open.

Ah, Yate, you have arrived. Sit with us. I was just discussing your patrol with Baron Berengar. I truly never imagined you could rout the hill bandits with such ease. Baron Galvin's tone was laced with irrepressible excitement.

Yate walked straight over to a wooden stump serving as a low stool, sat down heavily, and looked toward the two nobles. Lord Galvin, none of us foresaw that the hill bandits would prove so brazen as to assault a heavily guarded caravan of several dozen men. Still, all is well now; there are no longer any large bands of brigands roaming these dozens of miles of hills. Yet, as you surely witnessed, our own casualties in this skirmish were severe.

Galvin turned his head to glance at the camp outside the tent flap, then said to Yate: You need not worry excessively. I shall personally see to it that your wounded men are safely escorted back to Salpu and given proper care.

My thanks for Lord Galvin's generosity and mercy. In addition, I ask that you take the bandit prisoners back to Salpu for confinement as well. I have already cleared away the chieftains and die-hard ruffians; the remainder are merely coerced lackeys, whom I intend to employ as laborers and slaves.

Very well, no problem at all. I shall not let them starve in my dungeons. Furthermore, I intend to dispatch an urgent, sealed missive to Viscount Pierre detailing your remarkable feats of arms. As he spoke, Galvin drew a deerskin coin purse from his bosom and placed it into Yate's hand.

Brother Yate, here is the suppression bounty I promised: thirty-five large silver coins. And to compensate you for your fallen and wounded soldiers, that horse outside the tent is yours as well.

Baron Galvin was indeed a man of means. According to the terms previously agreed upon—that Yate would deploy his troops to aid in clearing the southern hill bandits—Baron Galvin was to pay a military stipend totaling five thousand pennies, representing nearly two months of the patrol's entire operational expenditure. Now, Galvin had not only paid the sum in full but had also thrown in an adult, sturdy warhorse valued at over fifteen hundred pennies.

However, you must agree to one condition.

Knowing full well that there was no such thing as free bread in this world, Yate asked: What condition?

You must safely escort my caravan back to Salpu. This convoy represents one-third of my trading fleet, and I rely upon these wagons to earn my livelihood.

The condition was hardly unreasonable, and Yate readily gave his word.

Outside the encampment, Albert was under the direction of Sergeant Colin, hauling the corpses of the bandits one by one to a massive pit for burial.

Unable to stomach the sight of severed limbs, broken joints, and vacant, staring eyes strewn across the earth, Albert heaved violently, expelling the entirety of his breakfast of meat porridge. He wiped his mouth and muttered to Colin, who regarded the carnage with utter indifference: Brother Colin, does this not repulse you in the least?

Colin cast a glance at a corpse nearby whose skull had been cleaved in twain. Repulse me? Of course it does. The mere thought of eating meat makes my stomach turn right now.

Then why are you not even—

Frightened, you mean? You simply have not seen enough of it. Back in Augsburg this spring, the sight was far bloodier. For weeks after the battle, I could not touch a single morsel of meat; the sight of red-and-white porridge brought back memories of green entrails and shattered brains scattered everywhere, much like this— Colin lifted a clump of gore on the tip of his short sword and thrust it toward Albert.

Ugh—ugh—blerg!

Before Colin could finish, Albert dashed aside, clutched his belly, and retched violently. Catching sight of the projectile vomit erupting from Albert's mouth, another newly recruited recruit hauling a corpse felt his own stomach heave. Soon enough, the sounds of retching echoed ceaselessly from all directions.

A pack of useless, lily-livered greenhorns! Spencer, the mess steward, who had been scavenging the bandit corpses for any overlooked valuables near the edge of the pit, spat toward the recruits kneeling on the earth. He turned and used the pommel of his short sword to shatter a mouthful of protruding teeth from a dead bandit.

Spencer, you bastard, where have you gone? It is time to prepare the midday meal! Aldo's gruff voice boomed across the camp.

Coming, Sergeant Aldo, I shall tend to the fire at once! Spencer thrust his hand into the torn mouth of a corpse, pried out a silver tooth, wiped it against his tunic, kissed it fiercely, and tucked it into his breast pocket.

At noon, following the burial of the fallen soldiers, Baron Galvin, accompanied by half a dozen castle cavalrymen, set off for Salpu with the prisoners and the wounded, while the southward-bound caravan continued its journey with the grain.

The journey south proceeded smoothly, free from the threat of bandit raids. After a day and a half, the convoy cleared the mountain region and reached the northern borderlands of Provence.

Once within the borders of Provence, the atmosphere abruptly turned stern. Every major thoroughfare, village, and fortified outpost was guarded and patrolled by fully armed troops. Checkpoints grew increasingly frequent, and inspections grew stringent. Fortunately, the caravan flew Baron Berengar's banner, allowing them to pass through every barrier unhindered.

That evening, the convoy sought shelter at a border fortification named Simplon. The lord of Simplon warmly entertained Baron Berengar, while the patrolmen were permitted to find a measure of relaxation within the stronghold. With heavy purses of accumulated pay weighing in their pockets, the veteran patrolmen set off with wicked grins to conquer the battlefields of Simplon's alleys and avenues. The newly recruited soldiers, however, enjoyed no such fortune. For one, they were ordered to remain at the camp to guard the grain wagons and forbidden to venture out; for another, their meager pay offered little hope of affording the steep fees demanded by the women of Simplon.

Watching the veterans depart in boisterous groups to seek their amusement, a newly enlisted laborer from Lucerne muttered bitterly: Damn it all! Once I've saved enough coin, I'll eat my fill, drink my fill, and pay two wenches to keep me warm through the night!

Catching the tail end of the recruits' conversation as he walked past, Kazak paused and said: Gel, you won't need to wait until your pay piles up. The lord has promised to distribute campaign bonuses the moment we reach Kitzbühel. Since you slew a bandit, your share of the loot will net you at least sixty pennies. Your wish will be fulfilled soon enough.

Brother Kazak—no, Sergeant Kazak, is that truly the truth? Will the bonuses be handed out so soon? the laborer named Gel asked his familiar comrade-turned-superior.

Lord Yate told Aldo himself. He said the fighting was hard-fought and we must not shortchange our men. Kazak left the unspoken half of the sentence unsaid: *Spend it now, for you might not live to spend it later.*

The taverns within Simplon echoed with laughter and merriment throughout the night.

In the grey dawn of the following day, the soldiers reassembled, and the convoy resumed its march toward Kitzbühel, situated to the east of Simplon.

Although occasional scouts from scattered bandit bands eyed the grain caravan along the road to Kitzbühel, the patrolmen, still bearing the dried blood of previous engagements upon their hands, maintained a sharp vigilance. Seeing that the prey possessed far too sharp a set of fangs, the roving brigands prudently kept their distance.

At their intended destination, an unprecedented soldier-recruitment drive was currently underway. Acting on advice received earlier, two other squires of Baron Berengar had hired a few city cooks to brew large cauldrons of porridge and stewed meat, attempting to lure recruits and laborers south to Castle Calk with the promise of warm food.

The two squires had spent over half a month executing Baron Berengar's orders to enlist troops in Kitzbühel, yet whenever vagrants heard that the destination was the war-torn Osta region in the south, they shrank back and slunk away. Despite offering high military wages for half a month, the pair had managed to attract only thirty-odd desperate cutthroats driven entirely by greed and devoid of fear.

Left with no alternative, the squires had unfurled Baron Berengar's banner and petitioned Aldo Coppola, the lord of Kitzbühel, to send men to assist them outside the city walls. By offering handsome wages, they managed to draft a motley crowd of refugees, varying greatly in strength, old and young alike.

One squire stirred the cooling barley porridge in the pot with a wooden ladle, speaking with bitter frustration: What are we to do now? That clerk was nothing but a liar, claiming we could scoop up scores of able-bodied men simply by boiling a few pots of porridge in the refugee camps. If the master returns and finds we've recruited only this pitiful handful, how are we to answer to him?

The other squire wore a similarly gloomy expression: I told you not to believe it, yet you wouldn't listen. Who in their right mind would march south to their death for a bowl of grain mush?