After two rounds of cannon fire, the rebels in the mountain stronghold raised a white flag.
The knights cheered for their victory. Originally, the knights from the Duchy of Gisoreux had marched confidently, eager to enter the stronghold and demonstrate their power, intending to warn the serfs that betrayal would lead to the most severe punishment.
However, upon entering the stronghold, the sight that greeted them left their mouths agape.
Corpses littered the area—bodies of the rebel serfs, scattered carelessly on the ground within the stronghold. The fallen had died in various ways: in battle, from starvation, or frozen to death. The stench of decay filled the air.
Around a hundred surviving serfs huddled in the thatched huts within the stronghold, barely clinging to life. They were emaciated, with sallow skin and hollow eyes, whether they were old, women, or children. They pressed together for warmth, surrounded by the stench of excrement. Straw, a few tattered blankets, and some thin garments were all they had to fend off the cold.
Seeing the knights storm in, these serfs showed only a profound numbness. Many wore expressions of indifference, as if the judgment of the knights meant nothing to them.
Sir Coulson entered the stronghold with burning anger. He had intended to question the serfs: why did they revolt? Why did they rebel when the knights were sacrificing their lives on the front lines against the undead invasion? The knights had won their victory at great cost, only to be betrayed by these serfs.
What right did they have to do this?
But now, the knights were bewildered. The twenty or so errant knights from the Duchy of Gisoreux walked numbly forward. The stench of death and decay filled the stronghold. The serfs, dragging their deformed feet, frozen like the living dead, stumbled towards the soldiers. Some were thinner than twigs.
The serfs' expressions were a mix of fear and supplication. Many, barely recognizable as human, knelt before the knights, pleading for mercy. More serfs retreated in a daze, unsure what to do, knowing that the knights were here to suppress the rebellion and their fate was likely sealed.
Karad walked among the heaps of bodies, unable to find words for what he saw.
Is this chivalry?
What have we been defending?
"Where is your leader?" Bertrand sighed deeply, approaching one of the serfs. "Where is your leader?"
"Up in the tower. The explosion... killed him, sir," replied a serf who looked to be in his forties, eyes black with hunger. He knelt at Bertrand's feet, sobbing uncontrollably.
"How did it come to this?! Why?!" The enraged Raymond grabbed the serf's tattered shirt, shouting madly, "How could you let your people starve to death?!"
"There was no choice, nothing to eat. It's winter, and we ran out of the food we brought. We ate rats, gnawed on tree bark. The last of the food went to the healthy men because they had to defend the place. The mountains are full of bandits, beastmen, and greenskins. This was our last stronghold, our only hope was to stay and starve," the serf explained, breaking into tears.
"You could have surrendered to the knights!" Raymond shouted back.
"Rebellion is a capital crime, hanging, collective punishment, sir. It's death either way, my lord, death either way," the serf responded with a bitter laugh, covering his face as he wept dry tears. "Do as you will, knights. Execute us."
"Lady above," Karad muttered. "We must help them. These serfs need aid."
"We need to distribute food, boil water, and find more supplies from nearby towns... and blankets! Quickly!" Bellegar's face was grim. The Dwarf King suddenly regretted his decision to order the cannon fire. "Hurry!"
"I need to report this to the duke!" Sir Coulson felt a sense of disillusionment and frustration. Pacing back and forth in the stronghold, he cursed, "Damn it! Damn it! How did it come to this?"
All the escaped serfs were brought out. Soldiers tried to open some of the wooden huts, only to find them filled with piles of dead bodies. The knights stood together, silent and dismayed.
The bandit suppression force set up camp outside the stronghold. Fires were lit to boil water and cook porridge. The scene was chaotic as starving serfs scrambled for food, thinking it might be their last meal.
Eyes red with hunger, hands shaking in the cold, Sir Coulson's heart ached as he silently repeated, "I must tell the duke... I must tell the duke..."
"Don't let them eat too much at once! After starving for so long, they could die if they eat too much!" Bertrand shouted to his soldiers. Witnessing the misery within the stronghold, seeing rebel serfs crying over their loved ones' corpses, the knight felt a mixture of emotions. Wiping tears from his eyes, he sighed, "We must quickly organize and bury the dead, and pray, or else they will become undead."
"Sir, you might need this," a hand extended a towel from the side. Expedition Knight Karad, his face dark with grief, forced a smile. Sitting beside Bertrand, he said, "I thought this would be a bandit suppression mission. Now it seems we're more like a relief team."
"Commoners face more than you knights can imagine, Sir Karad," Bertrand said, looking at the campfire with a self-deprecating smile. "It's like that famous story of why serfs don't eat cake. Many knights don't understand the hardships serfs endure."
"Serfs have no bread to eat? Let them eat cake!"
—Queen Marie, wife of the former King John II, known as "The Tyrant"
"Under the knights' rule, serfs face heavy taxes, but at least they can request protection. In rebellion, they must arm themselves for defense. There are too many enemies in the mountains: greenskins, beastmen, bandits, even the undead. Every seemingly insignificant threat to you is a life-or-death struggle for the serfs," Bertrand explained to Karad. "In winter, food is scarce for everyone: serfs, beastmen, greenskins, and bandits. Normally, they could try their luck hunting in the woods, but in winter, they can only stay in their strongholds and wait to starve. You saw how we encountered a wyvern foraging earlier."
"Now I understand why the count told us to bring extra provisions," Raymond said, his eyes red from crying. "Is this the fate of serfs? Heaven knows if I hadn't escaped from Lyonnesse with my mother and brother, I might have been hanged or starved to death."
Not far away, carts full of serf corpses were being transported from the stronghold. The dwarfs dug a pit, preparing for a mass cremation. Preliminary estimates suggested that two to three hundred serfs had died, while around a hundred survivors huddled in fear, awaiting their fate.
"There's nothing surprising about it," said Ivan, the tall Ulgol leader, holding a bowl of pork stew. His Low Gothic was heavily accented but understandable. "Do you know what it's like north of Kislev, beyond the Lynsk River?"
Without waiting for Karad's response, Ivan continued, "Eternal war. North of the Lynsk, there are hundreds of Ulgol tribes. We graze and hunt in the wastelands. The only arable land yields a meager harvest with the help of Ice Witches' magic. Every year, we fight northern marauders. Every year! Victory isn't a cause for celebration because we know the raiders will return next year. And if we lose, we face annihilation. Marauders show no mercy—they kill everyone: old, young, women. They take our livestock, burn our homes, and drink our vodka."
At the mention of vodka, Ivan's face contorted with hatred, his language slipping into curses in Ulgol.
"According to these serfs, there's another stronghold over the mountain, with more people. There are five or six such strongholds nearby," Sir Bertrand muttered. "We may not have enough supplies. We'll need Duke Harken's support."
"Survival is our only prize for defeating the darkness," Karad murmured. He felt he was grasping something elusive, the true light of chivalry. "But we must not waver. Knights are the last line of defense between helpless commoners and endless evil."
Gripping Durandal tightly, Karad felt a sudden clarity. He raised his sword, pressing the hilt to his forehead. "You feel the same, don't you, Ulysses?"
He was interrupted by a dwarf's shout, "Enemy attack! A greenskin warband! Boar Boyz!"
"About 150 of them!"
"Prepare for battle! Prepare for battle!"
Everyone sprang to action, readying for combat. But Karad wore a cold smile and gestured for them to sit down. "You don't need to go. Give me twenty minutes. I'll be back."
Mounting his horse, Karad charged out of the stronghold alone. Under the dwarfs' astonished gazes, he cut down five or six greenskin boar riders and plunged into the midst of the greenskin warband.
"Ahhhh! Feel the Lady's wrath, you greenskin scum!"
Fifteen minutes later.
Karad returned, carrying the heads of
the greenskin warlord and several boar boys, their faces frozen in terror. "Problem solved."
"The problem is not solved." Bellegar appeared, his expression stern as he confronted Sir Coulson. "Is this the Duke Harken's promise to the dwarfs? A group of half-dead serfs? How many can we save?"
"Uh… I didn't expect it to be like this, King Bellegar. We've sent messengers to Duke Harken. He'll give you a satisfactory answer," Sir Coulson stammered, unable to provide a solution. He was as shocked as anyone by the situation.
"Greenskins eat people, beastmen eat people, Chaos eats people, and humans... eat people too. Oh, mighty Taal, the god of nature, guide us so humanity doesn't destroy itself over such meaningless conflicts," Bertrand prayed, holding Taal's holy symbol close. "My blade and bow exist to protect and serve the count."
...
It took two weeks for the bandit suppression army to sweep through several rebel settlements near Blackstone Hold in a blitzkrieg fashion. The human and dwarf coalition wasted no time, demanding immediate surrender upon arrival. Those who refused faced relentless bombardment by dwarf cannons until the defenders were forced to capitulate.
Subsequently, around two thousand rebel serfs were gathered and surrounded by the army. Duke Harken of Gisoreux sat grimly on one side, while Bellegar, King of Eight Peaks, sat expressionless on the other.
"Oh! My god! The final moment has come!"
"Hanging, it must be hanging!"
"We are doomed!"
The serfs mostly wept in despair, anticipating their judgment. Many believed today would be their end.
But contrary to their expectations, a young pikeman stepped forward. "Ladies and gentlemen, I have some bad news for you."
"Before I share the bad news, let me introduce myself. My name is Raymond, from Lyonnesse!"
"I'm sorry to inform you that the duke has decreed that all rebel serfs must face execution by hanging, and it will be carried out immediately!" Raymond loudly and brutally announced Duke Harken's decision. The noble Grail Knight nodded affirmatively, "In any circumstance, rebellion by serfs is forbidden under Bretonnian law! Hanging, for everyone, without question."
The crowd erupted into wails and curses. Many serfs clung to their loved ones, sobbing uncontrollably.
"But..." After delivering the grim news, Duke Harken took over, his face showing a hint of reluctance. "Unfortunately, your execution may be delayed or even canceled for now."
"???" The rebel serfs were stunned, their cries and curses halting abruptly.
"The king and I have an agreement. Our esteemed dwarven ally needs workers to help with farming and harvesting. In return, he will provide protection for these workers," Duke Harken declared seriously. "This puts me in a difficult position because I no longer have any manpower to offer King Bellegar."
Bellegar, playing along, lifted his hammer dramatically. "Yes, Duke, you must honor our agreement!"
"So I have no choice!" Duke Harken feigned distress, though inwardly he pondered his performance.
Is my acting convincing enough?
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