Chapter 272: Bonds of Men

Chapter 272: Bonds of Men

Bonds of Men

Lansius

Clouds parted overhead, letting bright rays of summer sun spill over the rotting battlefield as if the sky intended to erase the thousands of dead from the soil. However, the heat only hastened the decay, and foul fluids oozed into the ground, adding an even more horrible stench to the already grisly scene. Even with crude masks pressed over their noses, the bailiff’s men coughed and vomited, while the packs of carrion birds were unbothered, feasting without pause until many could no longer fly and had to rest, perching on their last half-eaten meal.

A harsh wind passed between Lansius and Lord Robert, carrying the same stench as if to warn them about their talk of kingship.

Their staff and men-at-arms watched quietly from a distance. None could hear their conversation except Francisca.

Lansius was still at a loss. He couldn’t believe he was hearing talk of kingship from Lord Robert. "Let's put aside ambition, or my willingness. Truthfully, can any lord in the Imperium claim legitimacy as king? The way I see it, none of us, aside from the Duke, has the right or the claim."

"The crown is just an illusion," Lord Robert stated boldly. "Wearing gold and gems on one's head and demanding to be called king over a region doesn't grant real power or authority. This is what the Lowlandian lords knew from the start. Our might is what made the Imperium bestow titles. That is why viscountcy were granted to my House."

"It would be too proud of us to force our views on the rest of the Imperium," Lansius said cautiously. "I doubt the Midlandians would honor that."

"The merchants I encountered on my way here would object. It's the first time, they said, that a lord actively promoted trade and even created great products to sell."

The Old Lion followed his gaze and let out a sigh, but said with confidence, "I'm sure you'll think of something."

Instead of confirming, Lansius said, "The way I see it, this is a matter of compensation." He gazed into the old man's eyes, which radiated a wealth of experience. "I think it can be solved without involving a crown. Let's discuss this later, when we have time."

"Of course. With this ongoing rebellion, I imagine a purge is next. I'm just letting you know so you have time to think it over."

Lansius nodded, grateful for the counsel.

"However," Lord Robert added with a thin grin, "would you mind letting me know what kind of compensation you intend to enact?"

With furrowed brows, Lansius replied, "I don't claim to have one."

Lord Robert fixed him with a penetrating gaze and pressed, "Well, I'm excited to be the first to hear it from you. That way I can give my thoughts, unless you deem my experience unimportant."

Lansius snorted softly and conceded, "I might have something."

A hint of a smile appeared on the Old Lion’s face. "I'm listening."

Lansius breathed deeply to gather his thoughts and began, "The main issue is that even as Lord Shogun, I can't grant land or titles to my retinue and allies."

"You've summed it up nicely. And how would you try to solve that problem without taking the crown?"

"In my place of birth, there is an empire that uses a different form of enfeoffment."

"Go on," Robert said, stroking his chin in anticipation.

"In this empire, loyal and meritorious officials are still granted land and titles, but the officials do not actually live or remain there."

Lord Robert furrowed his graying brow.

"They still become nobles of land, commune, town, or city, but without needing to govern it," Lansius explained, hoping to reassure his counterpart.

"But then who governs it?"

"The empire governs it for them. However, the official still receives all the revenue earned there, along with the titles and rights attributed to it."

Lord Robert’s eyebrows arched in mild suspicion. "No authority and no responsibility, but still gains the coins. Interesting idea."

Noticing the suspicions, Lansius reasoned, "Think about it this way. Former Lord Omin, who is now a knight, has gained plenty of merit. Someday, I intend to bestow some of his nobility back. But a baron can't make another baron."

"Not even a viscount can make a baronet," Lord Robert commented.

"Indeed," Lansius replied. "But what if I simply share with him the income from a land the size of a baronetcy?"

"Ah!" Lord Robert nodding in understanding.

"I doubt a lord giving money to his retinue would pose a problem to the Imperium?" Lansius pressed his point.

"I can see it. Yes. Any lord can share wealth from their coffers with whomever they want. I doubt there are rules against it. This is a clever workaround," the Old Lion said, satisfied. "Without letting them actually own the land, there's no issue at all."

Lansius was relieved that Lord Robert understood his point. "Well, I’m probably breaching some Imperium laws, but that's better than just proclaiming myself king."

"But still," the old man's tone turned serious. "You solve a problem, but without nobles, who settles local disputes? There's also land to manage, bandits to deal with, and taxes to collect."

"The Shogunate will need to grow." Lansius inhaled sharply and explained, "We're going to need lots of talent. Good bailiffs to settle disputes, his men to enforce the law, and land officials to ensure tax collection. I'll also continue to empower each city and town’s night watch and firemen to do more than fight fires." He intended to make them a quasi-police force, similar to the Romans' use of prefects.

Lord Robert folded his arms, thinking it over. "You also have your Shogunate army ready all year round. I imagine there's less risk of banditry."

Lansius did not comment, merely watching his mentor’s reaction.

"Ah, I almost forgot," the older lord remarked with a blooming smile. "I actually brought talent from Korelia."

"You did?" There was genuine surprise in Lansius' voice.

"Yes, your city administrator, Meister Calub, arranged for some fifty young men and women to continue their education here. They should have brought letters, so you should consult them."

"Ah," Lansius muttered, nodding. "They must be the first graduates from the orphanage school and the recruits from the city's library."

"What are you going to do with them? Surely you're not planning to put them to work as bailiffs' men."

"No, they're still inexperienced. They'll enter the commoners' school that's thriving in Midlandia. From there, we'll select the most suitable, whether for castle scribes and staff, Office of Works, military posts, or the bailiff's office."

Lord Robert nodded, satisfied that a plan was underway to strengthen the Shogunate. "It seems you’ve thought this through."

Lansius let out a weary sigh. "But it won’t be enough. Then again, I never expected to rule Midlandia."

"She's vast, isn't she?" Lord Robert said, his words heavy with memories of rivalry, grudging admiration, and unrealized ambition.

"Mindbogglingly vast and populous," Lansius confirmed.

Their attention shifted to the distance, where the bailiff’s men were fighting off a pack of carrion birds which, despite thousands of bodies, stubbornly refused to yield their prey.

"Fat ones," Lord Robert said.

Lansius turned toward him, puzzled. "Pardon?"

"Fat ones," the older lord repeated. "Nobles tend to be bulkier, with softer and larger girth."

"Ah," Lansius mumbled at the grim remark.

Lord Robert suddenly exhaled noisily and returned to the previous subject. "Now that I think about it, I can’t help but realize you’re simply applying the Shogunate idea to your retinue. No need to stay on your land, no responsibility to manage it..."

"That will do us good," Lansius remarked, drawing the older man's attention. He explained, "If we count the nobility as great talents, then the Imperium spreads them too widely. They’re meant to govern the land, but when they’re scattered too far, the whole system becomes inefficient. Like a battle formation spread too thin, they become useless."

Lord Robert nodded in easy agreement.

"And worst of all, these talents become unavailable," Lansius continued. "Take Sir Omin, for example. If I grant him a baronetcy, he'll spend his time on his own land, and I lose a trusted advisor at my side."

"But it's common for kings to ask trusted lords to serve at their side," Lord Robert pointed out.

"But what if I already have you and Lord Jorge with me? Using the traditional model, would it not be wrong to ask so many lords to leave their lands and duties?"

"I see your point."

"The Shogunate will not thrive by trying to cook a cauldron with a single torch," Lansius continued. "We should gather as many torches as we can and build a bonfire."

Intrigued, the older lord asked, "But what about the rest of your domain? If you gather all the talent in one place, won’t the rest be left in darkness?"

Lansius met the older man's eyes and said, "The fire we build will be so bright that even the farthest corners will be better for it."

Now, Lord Robert could sense the strong resolve in Lansius’ words and pressed, "But won’t a fire that bright risk burning everything?"

"Even if things burn, the result will justify the damage."

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

"Result, you say?"

"Yes," Lansius confirmed. "Such a great fire will usher in a new age."

The Lion of Lowlandia was pleased by this rare show of conviction. "I like that kind of optimism."

Lansius exhaled, feeling slightly embarrassed to have revealed so much. "The Shogunate will also be beneficial for long-term stability. If we continue with the Imperium model, in just one generation, our sons and grandsons will end up fighting each other's houses, bickering over borders or inheritance."

"Yes. That's a major concern."

"With everyone gathered in one place, there will be trust from meeting and working together more often. If our younger generation receives their education together, they should forge better bonds."

"All this talk about the next generation." Lord Robert suddenly looked around until he found Audrey.

She waved at him, and Lord Robert waved back before turning to Lansius and asking hastily, "Pardon my impatience, but is it a boy or a girl? I assume congratulations are in order, yes?"

"Gratitude. Yes. It's a boy," Lansius answered, baffled by the older man's sudden change.

Lord Robert chuckled and muttered, "I can already hear Jorge complaining about this."

Still puzzled, Lansius refrained from commenting.

"My daughter, Astrid, has also given birth—"

Lansius replied at once, "Congratulations."

"To a healthy and beautiful daughter," Lord Robert continued, and Lansius knew where this was going.

They locked eyes, and Lansius chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief.

"So, how about it?" Lord Robert asked with bold confidence. "Shall we tie the knot now, or wait a few years?"

"I think it's too soon. Far too soon. We'll see if they like each other. I don't want to force them."

"Of course. I'm not the type to force such things. I say we let them grow up as normal. But let it be known that I offered mine first and therefore will have the privilege of certain arrangements."

"Arrangements?" Lansius furrowed his brow.

"Let the two grow up nearby. Have them study together. That is the essence of the Shogunate, yes? For the lords and their families to live in harmony in one city."

Oh, he got me good.

Lansius couldn’t believe Robert had just used the Shogunate’s benefit against him. "But I believe you just built a house in Korelia," he argued.

"And I shall use it," the older lord replied without missing a beat. "But right now, wherever you hold court is the capital. And the lords, barring trouble in their own lands, should ideally move with you in good faith."

That made Lansius recall their first meeting beneath the ivory tent. "Was it not the original arrangement between us that you would lead the court so I could focus on whatever I wanted?"

"Indeed. If you wish, I can always lead the court as a senior member of the Shogunate, so you can sit back and do as you please," Lord Robert confirmed warmly. "As men of war, I know court life and its intrigues are not for everyone. While I don't enjoy the charade, I have survived this long, and that should speak for my experience."

Lansius nodded sharply, making a mental note to discuss this with his staff.

Meanwhile, in the distance, the bailiff’s men were driving away several large carrion birds as they retrieved bodies. More men volunteered to help. Further away, more riders came and went from the arena, confirming it was truly empty.

Eyes on the same scene, Lord Robert asked, "Who do you think is behind this?"

"We have evidence pointing toward disgruntled nobles, backed by the monastery and hired sword companies."

"Be thorough, my Lord Shogun," the older lord advised. "A weak hand will be seen as a sign of weakness."

"I'll be thorough in my investigation," Lansius answered with conviction. "I shall find the culprit and purge them clean."

***

Canardia City

It was damp and reeked of a pungent smell, the stench of urine thick in the air. The ceiling was low, the stone walls rough, unplastered, and cold. The floor was always wet from being doused with buckets of water each day in an effort to keep it clean. Only a little sunlight filtered through a few small holes placed high near the ceiling for ventilation, never enough to dry or warm the floor.

The place was far from quiet. It was filled with distant sobbing and cries, teeth chattering, and the sound of nails scratching skin. Occasionally, there were screams without warning. Each time, the jailer would bang on the door to keep order. Failing to calm down would incur their wrath, which always ended in painful groans and more screaming.

This had once been a modest cellar, now repurposed as a dungeon since the building was made part of the bailiff complex. Where it once stored goods, it now held the city’s most notorious criminals. But since yesterday, there had been an influx of activity. Gone were the previous inmates, moved elsewhere as the place was prepared to house even more notorious prisoners: captured rebels and traitors.

After preliminary interrogations, each prisoner was brought here and locked in a small cell. They had no visitors or anyone to talk to except the jailer, who patrolled at irregular intervals, seemingly at random. With each echo of footsteps, everyone grew desperate, fearing it might be their turn to face interrogation again, which could lead to another bout of torture. They had only been there for two nights, and already they had heard screams and wailing from a distant corner.

But even that wasn’t the worst part. The dungeon still had the oubliette, or the pit.

Originally built to store ice, the oubliette was located at the bottom of the cellar like a shallow well, accessible by a small ladder. Now, it was used for waste drainage and sewer. And also a place where prisoners were lowered and forgotten.

Like a rite of passage, each new prisoner was brought to see the trapdoor, the only access to the pit, so they knew exactly what fate awaited those who refused to cooperate.

There was no hope inside this place.

Only small rays of the sun kept them company. Now, the spots of sunlight on the floor had crept toward the wall. Much time had passed since midday, and the light had faded to a hue of orange. Every prisoner shuddered, knowing it would soon turn not only much colder, but also far more sinister as the day ended. It was the time when the torturer came.

To live in such solitude, under threat of terror, even an hour felt like eternity. After only two nights, the traitors had sunk into despair and begun to regret their choices. Death felt like an easy way out. To be kept in such a state for an unimaginably long time was itself a torture.

A few wished to die, but all were chained to the wall to keep them from ending their lives.

In here, one needed permission to die.

It was ironic that only two days ago they had felt the most thrilling moment of their lives, taking heroic action against the foreign Lord, and becoming part of what they thought would be a legendary night battle. But now, they faced the consequences.

Although low in status, each of them was still a noble, and that made them oath breakers. They knew what happened to people like them. The Lord had survived the rebellion, and now not even the strongest House in Krakusa would survive. They knew a purge was coming. Thus, many sobbed, regretting their greed, but not their guilt in causing thousands of protesters to die.

Suddenly, a series of loud footsteps, creaking noises, and chattering echoed through the dungeon. A brief argument broke out, mingling with the sounds of heavy iron.

With panicked breaths, each prisoner waited, thinking the torturer had come for them.

Many shivered, their bodies weak. They hadn’t been given food, only watery gruel.

Then, the door to the cell burst open and a man in a brown doublet stepped inside, carrying a wooden stool and a leather bag. He looked like a scholar, but the prisoners knew better.

The jailer handed the scholar a spare lantern before stepping aside.

"Are you sure I have to do this here? It stinks,” the scholar complained.

The warden, short but broad-shouldered, planted himself at the doorway. “Well, what can I do?” he challenged.

The scholar just stared at him, trying to pressure him with a glare.

Unmoved, the warden launched into a mocking tirade. “We have a latrine,” he said, pointing to a corner where a crude block of mortared stone sat with a hole cut in the top. “But I was told to keep them chained to the wall, so tell me, what can I do with a bucket of water? This isn’t an inn. Nobody’s going to mop it up.”

The scholar had no answer, so the warden left with a chortle, not forgetting to lock the door behind him, even though it was hardly needed.

“Ugly bastard,” the scholar muttered under his breath, then turned to face the prisoner. The man was bare-chested, a dark bruise spreading across his side and chest from a so-called gentle sweep by a half-breed. He hung from the wall, arms stretched wide, his body suspended several inches above the cold floor.

The scholar sighed and introduced himself as he sat down. “I’m your interrogator.”

But he stopped and said, “That must be painful.” Genuine compassion crept into his voice. He stood up again, dragged the stool over, and propped up the prisoner’s feet.

The prisoner groaned, but then relief crossed his face as his numbed, pained wrists no longer had to support his weight.

“There, that should feel better.” The interrogator took off his cloak and draped it around the man’s shoulders to keep him from the cold.

“Gratitude,” the prisoner said hoarsely.

“Don’t mind me,” he replied. “We’re both Midlandians, and I don’t actually need anything from you. I’m just here because of my stupid job and my even stupider superior.”

His candor quickly drew the prisoner’s attention.

Before the captured man could think of anything, the interrogator was already at the door, banging on it hard. "Warden! Guards, I need a chair and a small desk. How can I write reports without one?"

"Just sit on the floor or use the damn wall," the warden shouted from outside.

"But it's wet. If Sir Omin can't read my reports, it'll be your name I report."

"Oh, fuck you," the warden shouted, before another, more reasonable one called out, "I'll be there in a moment."

"Gratitude," the interrogator said, then turned to the prisoner. "It's always crazy in here. But at least it's not torture."

The prisoner's heart shrank. He had seen it and heard plenty of screaming.

Noticing his reaction, the interrogator said, "There's no need to fear. I'll be leaving shortly after my work is done."

The prisoner looked at him with growing suspicion and curiosity, but his fear shifted to anger. "Your generosity can't fool me."

"Manners," the interrogator retorted, clearly offended. "Fool you for what, exactly? My superiors already know everything they want to know about Sir Hohendorf and the Saint Candidate. So just be grateful you escaped torture."

The prisoner said nothing. Shame and fear showed in his eyes, but distrust lingered on his face.

The cell door opened to reveal a jailer dragging in two wooden stools, setting them down one by one with a grunt. "There. Happy?"

"Gratitude," the interrogator replied so lightly that anyone could tell he didn't mean it.

The jailer grunted again and left, locking the cell door behind him.

"Now, where were we? Oh, yes, I just need to finish a few records about you. This will be an easy one," the interrogator said. "And if you're smart, we might even strike a deal."

The prisoner frowned. "A deal?"

"Yes," he replied lightly. "Unlike the other poor souls my superiors ended up torturing, you seem like an intellectual who might appreciate an offer."

There was no answer but silence.

"You see, I'm half Midlandian, from a small town on the western outskirts. There, most of the educated folk speak Elandian. As you can probably tell, I have their accent too. My uncle always said that if I could speak proper Midlandian, I might have landed a better job." He ended with a chuckle, making it clear he thought little of his uncle’s words.

The prisoner merely listened. To him, a babbling fool was better than the alternative.

The interrogator cleared his throat before continuing, "My uncle is a simple man. He eats. He fucks. He laughs. He's content to eat scraps from the lord's table. But powers come and go. In a few short years, we had the old Lord of Midlandia, then Lord Reginald, and now this black-haired man from Ancients know where."

The interrogator's boldness sparked something inside the prisoner.

"Even the Imperium is gone now. Unbelievable..." The interrogator shook his head. "We are living in changing times. Don't you agree?"

"So it seems."

Nodding, the interrogator spoke. "The world is changing rapidly. Too fast for anyone’s liking. But for little people like me, it makes no difference." He paused, combing his damp brown hair back with his hand. "Whoever the lord is, I'm just an interrogator under the bailiff. I still have a family to feed and clothes to buy for years to come. And you know, I could use friendship and favors from higher places, like yours."

A touch of brightness returned to the prisoner's eyes. Now, he dared to guess where this was going.

"You seem to be a fine gentleman. Undoubtedly from a well-off family. I can make your little adventure last night appear as nothing more than an unfortunate mistake. It's a heinous crime in the eyes of the ruling House, but with my help, I'm sure that after a lengthy process, they'll eventually let you out."

With wide eyes, the prisoner stared at the interrogator.

Suddenly, someone screamed from outside, high-pitched and desperate, several times in quick succession.

"A little too soon for torture," the interrogator remarked lightly. The comment unsettled the prisoner.

More screams followed, along with harsh shouts and the clinking of chains being dragged across stone.

"Oh, perhaps it's the oubliette," he added, still sounding unconcerned.

At the mention of it, the prisoner tried hard to keep his teeth from chattering.

"It's a brutal way to die," the interrogator lamented. "Nobody gets out. They won't even bother to fish the corpse out. Even in death, these poor souls become part of the dungeon. No burial, no ritual, no salvation. They're simply forgotten."

Hearing that, something inside the prisoner broke. Weakened, cold, and in pain from being suspended, with almost no sleep, it was hard to tell reality from a nightmare. His mind kept replaying the old story he had heard as a youth about the oubliette. Even a strong man, faced with thirst and hunger, ended up drinking wastewater to survive. But worse came when the next prisoner was lowered in. The newcomer might have been a lesser man, but he was still in better shape than the first, who had spent days in waist-deep filth and was unable to even sit to sleep without drowning. In his hunger and desperation, the newcomer beat the first man and ate him. Down there, there was only madness, rotten limbs, and bones.

"Hey, calm yourself," the interrogator urged.

When the prisoner's breathing eased, the interrogator went on, "Let me tell you a secret. Everyone who works down here hates ruining our clothes." He laughed, the sound odd and forced. "Sir Omin is a bastard for making us wear clean clothes when just an hour of work leaves us covered in blood, especially if we start pulling nails and teeth. And now, they have a new barbaric way to make candles out of a living man's limb. By the Ancients, it's gruesome. They even dock my pay if I refuse to participate. And the stains are the worst part. Human fat sticks to the fabric."

The prisoner nearly flinched but forced a chortle, trying not to lose control again.

"You're fortunate. They don't consider you important, so you can slip through if you know how to play this right," the interrogator carefully suggested.

The man nodded, shifting his feet on the wooden stool. Even in despair at the depths of this dungeon, the light of Saint Nay still reached him and offered him salvation.

It was a shadowy deal, forged between two unlikely allies. By dawn, the region would tremble. What began in darkness that night would shape Midlandia for centuries.

***