Chapter 23: Milestone Complete
Inside the bandit stronghold, though the sky had just begun to lighten, people were already up and about, starting their labors. People of this era had no nightlife; they slept early and woke early.
A boy tightly gripped the wooden sword his father had personally made for him, gazing incessantly towards the village entrance, his face full of anticipation. "Grandpa, why isn't Father back yet?"
In front of a small wooden hut, a lame old man was sharpening a billhook. Hearing the question, he too looked worried. A whole night had passed. Could they have been overtaken by the guards of those noble lords? But he still forced a smile onto his face and comforted the boy, "He'll be back soon. Don't worry, your father will definitely bring back lots of meat and coins this time. Then I'll go to the tailor in the city and get you a new set of clothes."
The boy immediately broke into a smile, revealing a missing front tooth. "No, I don't want new clothes. Father should get Grandpa a crutch first."
The wrinkles on the old man's face crinkled into a smile. "My good grandson this leg of mine isn't much trouble. Let's get you new clothes first."
The grandfather and grandson chatted and laughed. But the boy's expression suddenly froze. He pointed behind the old man in terror. "Grandpa, it's a demon! The demon has come!"
The lame old man turned to look. At the village entrance, a terrified villager was being kicked to the ground by a man in an iron suit and a red surcoat. Bright red blood dripped from the blade in the iron-clad man's hand. Sword dripping blood, he walked slowly into the village, like a demon emerging from hell.
The lame old man almost instantly recalled the arrogant knightly lord from their original village; it was that knight who had broken his leg. No one knew better than him how terrifying a knight could be!
"Go, quickly, hide in the cabinet inside the house!" The lame old man pushed the boy, hissing softly.
Lothar put force into his arms and swung his sword down. The sharp edge of the hand-and-a-half sword seemed to meet no resistance, cleanly cleaving through half of the bandit's shoulder, along with the wooden spear he had tried to use to block.
"Ahhh—" A shrill scream pierced the air. Excruciating pain sent the bandit rolling on the ground. Blood pooled beneath him.
A flicker of pity crossed Lothar's eyes beneath his great helm. He gripped his sword with both hands and steadily thrust it into the man's heart. The screaming stopped abruptly. The slick sensation of metal grating against flesh and bone traveled up from the sword tip. He pulled out the hand-and-a-half sword and once again slashed at two more approaching bandits.
Banu stood by his side, following him like a shadow. She didn't intervene at first; these pathetically weak bandits gave her no desire to act. Until one bandit, apparently mistaking her for an easy target, tried to seize her as a hostage to make the rampaging, terrifying knight hesitate. But before he could even get close, a spray of blood blossomed from his neck. Blood dripped from the three sharp points of her demonic-faced triangular shield. Banu sidestepped the gushing blood, her expression still utterly devoid of emotion.
The blood gradually seeped into the shield. The demonic relief on its surface revealed a satisfied smile and immediately sent an urging thought, trying to make Banu kill more living beings. But Banu remained motionless, merely following silently beside Lothar, showing no emotion.
The able-bodied bandits were gradually cleared out. Lothar kicked over an old peasant armed with a dung fork, his gaze sweeping over the man's aged face. Then, without hesitation, he thrust his sword through the man's heart.
He dared not underestimate a ridiculous weapon like a pitchfork, because it was said that a certain Witcher had once been killed by one.
Since the man held a weapon, he should be prepared to die by the sword, regardless of whether he was old, weak, a woman, or a child.
Hans and Moder covered each other as they fought. Both their martial skills and equipment far surpassed those of these men. Coupled with the surprise of the early morning attack, no one in this bandit stronghold was a match for the two of them working together.
'Thump—' Hans raised his shield, knocking down a lame old man, and kicked the billhook from his hand. Beside him, Moder thrust out with his sword, piercing the man's throat.
'Gurgle—' The old man tried to say something, but the blood gushing from his neck choked his windpipe. He fell limply to the ground, his eyes looking towards his grandson hidden in the wooden hut, then his breath ceased.
"No!"
"Grandpa!"
The boy, tears in his eyes and hatred contorting his face, rushed out of the wooden hut. He picked up the billhook the old man had dropped and lunged at Hans.
Hans hesitated for just a moment and was nearly struck. It was Moder beside him who reacted in time, blocking the blow with his shield.
"You horned demon! I'll kill you!"
"I'll kill you!" the boy shrieked, wildly swinging the weapon in his hands. But the billhook was too blunt, and his strength was insufficient. Once Hans was prepared, he kept his shield in front of him, and no matter how frantically the boy hacked, it was like an ant trying to shake a tree.
"Stop it, child! Drop your weapon immediately!" Moder roared. "As long as you don't attack us, considering your youth, we will spare your life."
"Milord, what should I do?" Beneath his great horned helmet, Hans's expression was somewhat bewildered. By now, the sounds of fighting had ceased. Those left guarding the bandit stronghold were mostly old, weak, sick, or disabled. Even the few bandits armed with hunting bows had arrows tipped with bone or wood, posing no threat to the four of them. This was an overwhelming slaughter.
Moder was getting impatient. If it were up to him, this ungrateful brat should have been cut down with a single sword stroke. They were just bandit offspring; raised in such an environment, they'd grow up to be villains deserving the gallows anyway.
But he hesitated. His lord was clearly a benevolent man. If he committed such an act of slaughtering a child, wouldn't it seem too bloody and cruel, unfitting for the spirit of knighthood?
One had to remember, just last night, their lord had indicated he might enfeoff them as knights in the future! This mentality of fearing loss and hoping for gain prevented Moder from acting.
Not far away, Lothar flicked the blood from his sword blade and walked over unhurriedly. A brief glance told him what had happened. He remained silent for a moment, then said, "Since he has taken up a weapon, he is an enemy."
"Squire Hans, Sergeant Moder, you don't need me to teach you how to deal with an enemy, do you?"
'Thwack—' Moder shield-bashed the little boy, sending him tumbling onto his backside.
Lothar stared at the little boy before him, whose face was filled with hatred, a look of pity in his own eyes. "When your father was slaughtering other people's fathers, he must have witnessed such expressions too. When you were eating the bread your father dipped in others' blood, you certainly wouldn't have thought it sinful. Instead, you would have looked at your father with adoration, thinking how amazing he was. Right?"
Lothar held up one finger, his expression cold. "I'll give you one last chance. Put down your weapon."
The little boy stubbornly gripped the billhook, gritting his teeth, the hatred in his eyes so intense it seemed about to flow out like ink.
Lothar shook his head and turned his back. "Do it, Hans."
Hans gritted his teeth and raised his hand-and-a-half sword.
'Swish—'
Blood flowed freely on the ground.
Lothar lowered his head slightly and made a sign of the cross before him. "Heavenly Father above, whether they are guilty is for you to judge. I cannot meticulously discern, nor can I judge if their crimes do not warrant death, so I can only send them to you. Amen."
"Continue. Those who hold weapons and still dare to resist, if they cannot be persuaded, then dispose of them all." Lothar gave the order.
A short while later, this small, tranquil village, once like an idyllic sanctuary, had undergone a cataclysmic change. Bodies were everywhere, blood flowing freely. Women and children screamed, hiding in a building that looked like a meeting hall.
"Milord, are we any different from these bandits?" Hans's expression was bewildered.
Lothar felt the same. He didn't know if what he was doing was right. But he knew he couldn't show any hesitation in front of Hans, this retainer who admired him.
He said gravely, "Everyone must pay the price for their actions. Besides, we only killed those who took up arms and did not involve others. This is already the greatest mercy, is it not?" He did not order an attack on the meeting hall where the women and children were, but instead instructed, "The enemy has been mostly cleared out. Moder, go inform Ryan and the others to come here and receive the supplies... Remember to leave some rations and seeds for those who did not resist."
Lothar approached the "meeting hall," looking at the somewhat numb and terrified faces, and said nothing more to express that he represented justice.
Among these people, there might be abducted women, but more were likely the bandits' own families. They, including many of the dead, might have been very innocent and never harmed anyone. But when they enjoyed the food and wealth brought by those who were guilty, they were no longer so innocent.
This was Lothar's way of handling things. Benevolent, yet cruel.
In his ears, the notification sound of a milestone completed chimed. Lothar's expression was heavy as he was the first to leave the village.
"Heh, Chivalrous Knight," Lothar muttered to himself with self-mockery.