Chapter Six: Refugees Fleeing North

Page (1/3)

To the southwest of Lyon, on the muddy north-south trade route, a long line of refugees trudged slowly toward the southern border of the Duchy of Burgundy, each dragging their families along. Scott Field stepped out of the line and stood on a stone by the roadside, gazing ahead where the faint outline of a village appeared at the end of the road.

"Emma, there's a village not far ahead. Hang on a little longer; there we can finally have some meat broth and wheat porridge," Scott said as he ran back into the group, supporting his wife with the help of their son and gently touching her forehead to encourage her.

“Daddy, I’m hungry. When will we stop and eat something?” Their daughter Camille, as thin as a skeleton, tugged at Scott’s shirt corner, tears streaming down her face.

“Camille, my little darling, just a bit further. There’ll be thick mutton broth and heaps of mashed peas waiting for you,” Scott said, wiping the tears from Camille’s dirt-streaked cheeks.

“Ron, hand me the pack, carry your sister on your back. Let’s hurry up and get ahead; if we arrive late, there might be nothing left to eat,” Scott turned his head, taking the heavy bundle from his son’s shoulders. The faint ease he had put on his face vanished instantly.

Scott was a farmer from the outskirts of Vernoux, south of Provence. Three months ago, Duke Wittot led thousands of troops to besiege Vernoux. Scott’s family fled with their lord to Aosta. Soon after, news came that Vernoux had fallen; thousands of city residents and farmers were either slaughtered or enslaved by the Lombards. Then word spread that enemy forces were advancing north into Aosta. Before they could catch their breath, Scott’s family had to flee further north.

After three months, Scott’s family had reached the northern border of Provence, but the south continued to fall to the enemy. After a hard decision, Scott resolved to take his family across the vast northern wasteland to the Duchy of Burgundy, which had not declared war on Lombardy and might be safer. So, Scott and a group of refugees with similar hopes began crossing the expansive northern plains. Along the way, small groups of refugees joined them, and the fleeing caravan grew larger. By the time they reached Burgundy’s southern border, there were over a hundred refugees—mostly like Scott’s family—out of food, with torn clothes and blistered feet.

Three days ago, Scott’s wife began running a fever. The last of their oats were gone, and their purse long emptied. But even money was useless now; no one on the run would sell precious food, no matter the price. The wild grasses and vegetables along the way had been stripped bare by earlier travelers, and the constant howling of wolves at night left them too afraid to stray from the group to forage. Their six-year-old daughter and seventeen-year-old son were gaunt with hunger.

Ahead lay a small village; perhaps there the refugees could sip some thin porridge mixed with wheat bran.

The group quickened their pace. Scott steadied his wife, who could barely walk, and urged his son to keep close as they pushed through the crowded masses.

Just as they neared the front, the procession suddenly halted. Scott set down his pack, leaned his wife against it, instructed Ron to care for his mother and sister, then pushed through the crowd to the very front.

What he saw froze him.

Three or four riders clad in leather armor, armed with short spears, sat astride horses. Before them stood a burly bearded man clad in iron armor, his long sword sheathed at his side. Behind him lined a row of soldiers wielding long spears, their faces fierce, with several archers poised behind them.

They blocked the refugees' path.

"You miserable bastards who have lost your homes and countries," the bearded man barked furiously at the crowd, "if you take one more step forward, I will send you straight to hell."

Silence fell over the crowd.

“Master, please, we’ve been traveling for nearly half a month, barely out of the wasteland. Please let us pass…” An old man with a white beard finally mustered courage to step forward, pleading in the common tongue.

The bearded man understood and spurred his horse toward the old man. The old man stepped back slightly, hesitated, then stepped forward again.

The bearded man rode up beside him, circled him once, then raised a scarred, ugly face to glance at the crowd.

Suddenly his expression changed. He drew his sword and struck the old man with a savage blow. Blood spurted from the old man’s neck, splattering the bearded man’s face.

A wave of terror surged through the crowd.

The bearded man swung his bloody sword forward. The soldiers behind charged into the crowd—

...

“Ron, quickly put your sister on your back and run south! Drop everything, run!” Scott had sensed the murderous intent in the bearded man’s eyes as he approached the old man. He pushed through the crowd, returned to his family, lifted Emma, called to Ron, and hastily fled the road, heading south away from the crowd.

They had barely taken thirty steps when screams and cries erupted from the crowd, followed by chaos as people scattered in panic…

...

At sunset, a dozen or so trembling refugees stood in the clearing in front of the Lyon estate. They were survivors of the day’s massacre. Behind them stood a dozen fully armed soldiers, and a bald, pudgy man stood on a slab of stone, shouting harshly in the common tongue.

The bald man’s face twisted into a cruel sneer as he barked, “Listen well, you worthless scum! As long as you obediently work on the estate, my master will spare your miserable lives. But if anyone tries to run, my master’s sword thirsts for blood and flesh!”

Page (2/3)

Inside the manor’s great hall, Baron Bazel was tearing into a leg of lamb. He was in a good mood today. After slaughtering a large number of the old and weak, he had acquired a dozen strong young slaves. These were robust men, whom he planned to keep to clear and cultivate the wasteland around the Lyon estate rather than send to the slave market at Tinec.

“My lord, the slaves have all signed their contracts. Congratulations on acquiring another batch of fine beasts,” the bald steward said as he approached Bazel, flattering him.

“Hmm, Kus, your idea was excellent. After killing off the old and weak, only the strong remain. They can double the arable land of Lyon estate,” Baron Bazel said, draining a large mug of weak beer.

“My lord, I think we should starve these worthless beasts for a few days more; only then will they obey properly,” the bald steward suggested slyly.

“Hmm, you’re right. Do as you say. Anyone who resists, drag out and behead!” Bazel said, indifferent to the fate of the slaves.

“By the way, my lord, among the women caught today, I’ve chosen the cleanest and most pleasant-looking one. She’s been sent to your chamber,” the steward added with a lecherous grin.

Listening to the woman’s cries from the bedchamber, Bazel downed another mug of beer, rubbed his big belly, and laughed heartily...

...

Seventy miles southeast of Lyon, in an unnamed mountain valley stood a wooden cabin.

“My lord, there’s really no need for you to come; I can finish the winter wheat planting alone,” Cooper tried to dissuade Art, who insisted on helping.

“Enough. I told you not to keep expanding the fields, but you insisted. Now that we’ve cleared such a large patch, are we just going to leave it fallow? Besides, didn’t you say that if the seeds aren’t sown soon, next year’s harvest will fail?” Art sat on a stone at the cabin’s door, slipping on a pair of worn sheepskin boots.

“Today we’ll only sow the most fertile patch from the remaining land. The rest will be planted later. Tomorrow you’ll come with me to the northern wasteland. Before he died, that guy said his three companions fled east with most of the gold coins. I plan to try my luck,” Art said, hoisting a large sack of seed as he stepped outside.

The old man nodded, grabbed his iron hoe, quickly shut the cabin door, and hurried after the peasant lord.

...

Forty miles north of the cabin, on the vast wasteland, a huge pile of boulders had become increasingly lively. Last winter, a hunter and a dying old man had spent the night here; this autumn, four hooded riders and half a dozen light cavalry had fought here; now, a third group was about to arrive.

Scott stared at the boulder pile, despair hidden only with difficulty in his eyes.

They had been nervously traversing this endless plain for two days. Aside from occasionally spotting a herd of antelope in the distance, no other signs of life appeared. At night, the distant howls of wolves echoed.

Actually, the trade route they came from lay less than five miles west of the boulders. But now they were like lost lambs, wandering near the north-south road for two days without finding a way.

“Ron, come help your mother. I’ll check out that pile of stones,” Scott said, handing his ailing wife into his son’s arms. He drew a sharpened iron scrap from his belt and bent low as he approached the boulders.

After a while, Scott waved to Ron to bring his mother and sister over.

“Ron, bear with it a bit more. Gather some dry twigs and grass nearby. Your mother can’t walk any further; tonight we rest here. There are ashes here, meaning someone has been. There may be a village nearby. I’ll look around and dig for wild vegetables and herbs—maybe even catch a rabbit or two,” Scott instructed as his son slumped beside him.

“Camille, take care of your mother for me, okay?” He crouched and gently patted Emma, who leaned against a rock, then turned to his daughter.

“Dear, I feel a little better. You go ahead,” Emma mustered the strength to lift a frail, twig-thin hand and lightly pat Scott’s cheek.

...

The next morning, before the sun rose, Art and old Cooper set off early.

Since Art had acquired an unexpected war horse, the blue mule had become Cooper’s mount. Though Cooper didn’t like riding, dealing with the mule daily now allowed him to ride it at a fast pace.

Art wore leather armor, his long sword at his waist. His chestnut saddle bore a bullhorn hunting bow on the left and a sheepskin arrow quiver on the right. Cooper wore a long linen robe, a tanned leather belt with a short sword, and the mule’s saddle carried a hunting bow and light arrows.

“My lord, it’s been so many days. Do you think we can still find any trace of those people?” Cooper cautiously followed Art through the narrow forest path, avoiding branches.

“I can’t say for sure. But first we’ll search east from the boulder pile on the northern wasteland. If we find nothing, we’ll head south to Wolf’s Den Canyon. Maybe the wolf traps there will give us a surprise,” Art said, standing in the stirrups, peering through the forest toward the open plains. Soon they would leave the woods and enter the wasteland.

At the boulder pile, Scott was turning a prairie rat skewered on a stick over the fire. The rich aroma of roasting meat filled the air.

Page (3/3)

“Dad, is it cooked yet?” Camille had asked several times, swallowing hard.

“Here, Camille, taste this and see if it’s done,” Scott said, breaking off a strip of meat from the small roasted rat, not much bigger than Camille’s fist, and placing it in her hand.

Yesterday, Scott had circled the boulder pile but found no sign of life. Before nightfall, he returned with a handful of wild vegetables. As darkness fell, occasional wolf howls in the distance kept the family awake.

Early that morning, Ron returned excitedly clutching a prairie rat he had caught while searching for water.

At noon, the family gathered around Emma, sharing the roasted rat and wild greens. She had been ill for days, weakened further by hunger, and now could no longer move forward.

Scott called Ron aside.

“Ron, you’re seventeen now—a man. I want you to take Camille and keep heading south until you find a village or castle. Don’t stop until you do. Remember, you must keep your sister alive.”

Scott could not bear to leave his wife, whom he had been with for over a decade. But he could not let Ron and Camille stay here to die.

“No, Dad, I won’t go,” Ron said, fighting back tears. Camille was already a tear-streaked mess beside him.

“Scott, my dear, you must take the children. As long as they survive… I will be at peace even if I die now,” Emma said, forcing her eyes open, her voice frail.

As the family faced their bitter farewell, the sound of urgent hooves came from the south across the wasteland.

Scott hastily silenced the children’s cries, drew his iron scrap, climbed a boulder, and looked toward the approaching riders.

Two horsemen were galloping swiftly toward the boulder pile.

“Ron, quickly! Take Camille and run to the lowlands east of here. Keep low, run fast! Don’t look back!” Scott slid down the rock, handed Ron the iron scrap, along with a water skin and fire striker from his tattered clothes, and pushed him toward the east.

But it was too late. The horsemen had already reached the boulders.

Art was the first to spot the people among the rocks. He raised his bow, aimed at the man clutching a small iron knife. Cooper also noticed, hurriedly drawing his hunting bow.

The man shielded the woman and children behind him desperately, his right hand trembling as he gripped the knife. After a tense moment, he dropped to his knees with a thud.

“Master, please, spare my family. We have nothing left,” the man pleaded in a southern accent, his head pounding against the ground.

Art glanced at the man kneeling and the woman and children behind him, then turned his horse.

“Cooper, let’s go!”

Cooper lowered his bow, stared blankly at the man and the dying woman behind him, pulled the reins, and followed Art.

“My lord—”

“I know what you want to say. Impossible. If you save these few, can you save the countless refugees fleeing north on the eastern road?” Art cut him off.

The old man fell silent, then glanced at the kneeling man and the large boy behind him before deciding to follow Art.

“My lord, I mean there are two strong men among them. I can take them to work the land and grow food for you. That way, you won’t have to toil in the fields or hunt in the mountains,” the old man made a final plea.

Art paused, turned his horse, looked at hopeful Cooper, then glanced at the two men—one old, one young—behind him.

On the boundless wasteland, a leather-armored hunter led a chestnut horse, followed by a blue mule carrying a sickly woman. An old man walked with the mule and the man, whispering softly, sighing constantly. A large boy carried a frail little girl whose small hand clutched a piece of smoked meat. In the sunset’s glow, their long shadows stretched behind them as they walked south across the wasteland...