Chapter 107

“In the Name of the Father”

“Three thousand denarii!? Where am I supposed to get that kind of money?”
“Oh? Then three thousand five hundred denarii.”
“Even if we emptied our family treasury, that would be impossible!”
“Four thousand denarii.”
“What is this! Where in the world is such outrageous behavior seen? This is completely unreasonable!”
“Outrageous? And your lord joining Rutger’s forces to kill me is reasonable? I don’t like your tone. Five thousand denarii.”

People had been sent from each noble house to retrieve their captured kin.
Some sent their wives, some their stewards, some their sons and daughters, some fathers, some scholars or envoys.
Yet not a single one succeeded in taking their captive back.

“No, earlier you only demanded five thousand denarii from Baron Kaltendorf. And now ten thousand!? What kind of tyranny is this?”
“I only demand compensation suited to each situation. And things have changed now. Eleven thousand denarii.”
“Y-you… you may not be holding a sword, but how are you any different from a bandit!?”
“You’ve only just realized?”

Each expressed anger and dissatisfaction, but Isaac merely picked at his ear with a calm expression.

“I heard Viscount Botmer is quite wealthy. Why not ask him? If he truly values your son, would ten thousand denarii even matter?”
“Have you lost your mind? With that amount, you could buy a small castle and still have money left!”

In the end, every single one who had come to ransom a captive left the camp empty-handed.

“Aren’t you pushing the nobles too hard?”

Carlson, who stood by Isaac’s side, asked.

“If not now, when else am I going to squeeze them?”
“They might resort to a show of force.”
“They’d rather cut their own flesh than tarnish their honor. A show of force in this situation would be like spitting on their own faces.”

There was a reason Isaac set the ransom prices absurdly high.
It was to pressure Botmer politically and economically, and to provoke internal conflict.
At the same time, by holding the captives, he intended to delay the war as much as possible.

“And Besimer?”
“He’ll live. The physician was astonished. His organs were damaged, yet there’s no necrosis, and they’re healing rapidly.”
“And the other wounded?”

“Heinmar died yesterday.”
“That makes four now.”
“Still, the other two are said to have a good prognosis.”
“And you? Are you alright?”

Isaac looked at Carlson.

“What do you mean?”
“You’ve memorized every single one of their names, haven’t you?”
“It’s just… a habit.”

Carlson answered in a dry voice.

Heh.

From outside the tent came the sound of tribal chants, part of a ritual that had been continuing day after day.
They called out the names of the fallen soldiers to bid them farewell, and the names of the severely wounded so their souls would not leave their bodies.

Drums resounded, and the eldest of the tribe recited a prayer.
The sound spread throughout the camp.

“Foolish and primitive people. Father, forgive them.”

Bishop Alquin made the sign of the cross.
The tribal chants grated on him.
But what tormented him more was not outside.

“This is hardly the time to pray for them, Bishop.”

Rutger spoke in a cold voice.

As noble captives, Rutger and Bishop Alquin were treated fairly well.
They were given meals every day, and Isaac always came to eat lunch with them.
His purpose was clearly to extract information about Botmer, but it also improved their treatment within the camp.
Of course, armed guards stood watch around their tent, and hellhounds patrolled the camp, making escape unthinkable.

“I hear an investigator from the Holy See will arrive in ten days. You understand what I mean.”

At Rutger’s words, Bishop Alquin groaned softly.

“If you don’t want to lose everything you have, do as I say.”

“Bishop.”
“I understand. I will follow your will.”

A deep worry clouded Bishop Alquin’s face.
Rutger was right.
The one who needed salvation was not the tribesmen outside—
it was himself.

“If you handle this properly, I will erase your sins. As if none of it ever happened.”

At Rutger’s words, the bishop gripped his rosary tightly.
He might deceive men, but he could not deceive God.

“So, testify properly. Tell them who it was that violated the sacred. You said it yourself, didn’t you? That even evil exists within God’s providence—that necessary evils exist in this world.”

Rutger’s words flowed smoothly, as if his tongue had been oiled.
The bishop shut his eyes tightly.
His own words were now binding him.

“And what will you do?”
“I’ll be out of here before the investigator arrives.”
“How? The viscount hasn’t even sent a representative for ransom negotiations.”

“There’s no need. The baron never intended to release me for ransom in the first place. He plans to keep me as a hostage and delay the war through the winter. If this continues, I’ll only hold my father back.”

“Then…?”

“The Chevalier will risk his life to free me.”

Rutger lowered his voice.

“Isn’t the Chevalier imprisoned elsewhere right now?”
“He can escape anytime he wants. He’s just waiting for the right opportunity to take me with him.”
“You sound certain.”
“We grew up like brothers. He started as an orphan, raised under my father’s patronage. To him, I’m no different from family.”

Sigbrand walked through Vinfelt with his squad.
More precisely, they followed at a distance, escorting Isaac, who walked ahead.
Isaac was conversing with his attendant, though they were too far away to hear clearly.

What drew Sigbrand and his companions’ attention more, however, was the strange scene of Vinfelt.

In the smithy, blacksmiths were repairing weapons and armor recovered from the battlefield.
Dented helmets, cracked breastplates, broken swords, and chipped axes were piled high in one corner.

All of them had been confiscated from the defeated.

Molten metal glowed in the furnace, and hammers struck the heated iron without pause.
In rhythm with the blacksmiths’ whistles and muttering, sparks flew from the anvil.

Isaac paused briefly at the smithy, as if checking the workload, then moved on.
Together with his attendant, he headed out to the open fields beyond the village.

Though now, it was less a field—
and more like farmland.

A sight came into view—giant wolves harnessed to yokes, plowing the land.
Not long ago, they had been beasts that tore into enemies on the battlefield, spreading terror and dread.
But now, they were dragging large plows forged by blacksmiths, cutting through the heavy earth.

Their rough claws dug into the soil as they moved forward, the iron-reinforced yokes tightened firmly around their sturdy bodies.
Whenever the cold wind blew, the hellhounds’ jet-black fur shimmered faintly in the sunlight.
From time to time, steam rose from their harsh breaths.

Behind them, the elderly and the women removed blue-flowered weeds and fine roots, breaking apart large clumps of soil to level the ground.
Where the soil had been prepared, tribal children walked about carrying seed pouches, scattering seeds.

Whatever amused them so much, the children laughed loudly, running alongside the wolves pulling the plows or playing with one another.
As always, the hellhounds would glance at them with red eyes, then turn their heads and continue stepping forward in silence.

Sigbrand and his companions walked on in silence, watching the scene.
The ringing of hammers from blacksmiths sharpening weapons, the sound of massive beasts pulling plows, the laughter of children, the sharp whistle of the wind—
Amid those sounds, not entirely harmonious, Vinfelt soldiers could also be seen jogging and training.

It was peaceful, and yet alien at the same time.
A deep-rooted hatred of magical beasts and the strange tranquility Isaac had created clashed within them.

Why had the count sent them here?
That question cracked their ghostlike, expressionless faces.

Sigbrand unconsciously noticed his pace had slowed.
Isaac was already heading back toward the camp surrounded by wooden palisades.
The distance had grown.
Sigbrand quickened his steps along with his companions.

“So, you’re saying you won’t go back?”
“Yes.”

“Haa…”

At Hans’s stubbornness, Isaac let out a sigh.

They had circled the camp several times, talking it over again and again, but it was useless.

“You almost died, you know?”
“I know.”
“You couldn’t eat for days and couldn’t sleep either, right?”
“That’s right. Every time I closed my eyes, it was a nightmare.”
“Then why not go back? This time you were just lucky. There’s no guarantee that luck will follow you again.”
“I know.”
“You know, and still? You have a wife, and Peter too. What will your family do if something happens to you?”
“I won’t die. I’ll become much stronger than I am now.”
“If becoming stronger were something you could decide at will, I wouldn’t be saying this.”

Isaac frowned.

“You told me to learn the sword from Sir Carlson. Wasn’t that all so I could assist you?”
“That was then, but things have changed.”
“Nothing has changed. I am still your attendant. Ah—no, Baron now, I suppose.”

Hans tried to laugh it off, but with his hollow face, it only made things worse.

“Hans. I don’t want to see you die.”

Isaac looked straight into Hans’s eyes as he spoke seriously.
He had thought it would be fine as long as he kept him close.
Even if only in fragments, he knew the future—knew knowledge of what was to come.
He thought things would work out if he used what he had well.

But after going through a single war, he realized something.
Just because you know things doesn’t mean you can grasp everything in your hand and control it.

Besimer was proof enough.
Before Besimer went out for the duel, Isaac had told him to keep the Chevalier occupied.
Because the only variable in that war was the Chevalier.
If he ended up confronting Carlson, the war would turn into a prolonged battle—
and in their numerical disadvantage, the longer it dragged on, the closer defeat would come.

No matter how much fear the hellhounds inspired, humans would eventually adapt.
That was why Isaac entrusted the Chevalier to Besimer and ordered Carlson to capture the enemy commander.
He never imagined the result would be Besimer’s severe injury.

He had resolved to protect his house, and to protect those precious to him.
Yet the more he tried to protect those dear to him, the more such people increased.

One day, he would have to decide—
who must be protected, and from where they became mere pieces on the board.

He did not want to place Hans on that line.

“Did you know? Peter and you are only a year apart.”
“Why bring that up all of a sudden?”
“I’ve known you longer than Peter.”
“So what, are you going to start acting like my father?”
“No, that’s not it.”

Hans slowly drew in a breath.

“I don’t want to see you die either. At the very least, I won’t accept you going before me. I thought that during the duel… people die so easily. Even if I return to the estate… Young master?”

Hans trailed off.
Isaac had already dashed far ahead.
Toward the tent prepared for the noble captives.

“Carlson!”

Isaac shouted.

Chevalier… why…?

Rutger stared at the blade that had pierced straight through his heart.
The one holding the sword was the Chevalier.
The knight—his teacher and friend, who had grown up with him since childhood—filled Rutger’s vision.

“Forgive me, young master. It is an order given in the name of the father.”
“…Fa…ther?”
“Our father.”

The Chevalier twisted the blade and pulled it free.
An irreversible hole opened in Rutger’s chest.
His life drained away in an instant.

Leaving the fallen Rutger behind, the Chevalier turned his gaze to Bishop Alquin.

“L-Lord—”

The bishop, sensing his end, closed his eyes.

“There is no malice.”

The Chevalier swung his sword.