Aleks Kotov
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Vol 8, Chapter 21
🕑 Added 2025-10-02 18:35:20 +0000 UTC◆ First Duchy, Len POV ◆
The first week, everyone simply consumed the stored supplies. The most responsible ones left food for the children... but far from all were so considerate.
Hunger crept closer. Even in the city, no usable grain remained. Malicious tongues whispered that Baron Manus had hidden all the good grain in his castle. Perhaps they weren't just whispering idly, but what was the point? Even a small castle was an impregnable fortress for any crowd.
By the second week, people scoured the area, trying to find anything edible. Last year's dried nettles had been ripped up by the roots. The bark had been stripped from every birch in the vicinity. Anything remotely edible was used.
Many began carving sticks from the branches of blackwood and sucking on them. The sweet taste allowed them to postpone the hunger.
"You said the sap of ironwood is poisonous unless distilled," Len reasonably asked Dimitry the first time he saw him with a black stick between his teeth.
"True. But it still kills more slowly than Black Mold," he replied with a grim chuckle.
Black Mold... Len was starting to feel it wasn't a poison but a true curse. He had tried to cleanse the grain by every method he could think of. Boiling. Freezing. Filtering. Nothing worked... Except fermentation. That was the only consolation, the only thing that let them hold on at all.
Three weeks passed.
The workers' hands shook; even a conditioned body couldn't survive on nothing but alcohol without consequences. They say you can live a month without food... but surely they didn't mean a month of laboring like a lousy kobold!
Cursed Rik, even though he had lowered the quota to eleven trees, it was simply impossible to meet it. The workers no longer had the strength. And that led to tragedies.
"Out of the way!" Len shouted, leaping to knock aside a staggering lumberjack.
A moment later, a tree trunk crashed down where the man had been. The emaciated lumberjack rubbed his leg, bruised by a branch... but alive.
This time, tragedy had been averted, but...
Accidents were becoming more frequent, people could no longer maintain the pace. Moreover, with each passing day, their numbers dwindled further.
Today, Len counted one fewer again.
"Dimitry, what happened to Val?" he asked his comrade, rising from the ground and brushing off the snow.
His overseer had also deteriorated badly. Bags under his eyes, a dead-eyed stare.
"He's dead," Dimitry answered darkly. "Stole a bit of grain, cooked it and..."
"I understand. Abyss!" Len cursed. Hunger hadn't spared him either; he had never been fat or muscular, but during his time in the Duchy he had come to look more and more like a skeleton.
Today was the last day of hope. Saturday. A cart with grain was supposed to arrive from the city. If Dimitry was right, then... there would be nothing edible there. But what if he was wrong?
Everyone hoped for that. Even Len held onto a sliver of hope despite the fact... that the situation worked to his advantage. Even the Herald had been afraid to come; last week he'd nearly been stoned when he started speaking about temporary food shortages.
He had been fairly clever, but Rik...
"What are you standing around for, you sheep? Get to work, damn you! Get to work! You're not meeting my quota at all! Think you've grown bold?" the overseer shouted, but his yelling did little good anymore. The people simply had no strength for hard labor.
This time, though, they hadn't stopped from exhaustion. Olivia was trudging through the snow toward the clearing. People dropped their axes—now too heavy to lift—and walked to meet her, hoping for good news. Why else would she come?
"The cart arrived early today!" she shouted.
Everyone held their breath. A suffocating silence hung over the clearing.
"Don't drag it out!" one of the lumberjacks snapped.
"Well... same as before," she hesitated.
"Same how?"
"Mold," Olivia admitted, lowering her gaze.
"All right, that's enough! Talk's over, back to work!" Rik waved his arms.
But the people didn't disperse. Their brewing resentment was ready to spill over. Their hopes for a miracle had collapsed in an instant. Those who had believed the last time had only been a mistake now received a cold shower of reality. And given the winter, that shower could well be fatal.
Of course, a few naïve ones still remained. One suggested going to the baron, bowing before him, and telling him of the troubles in his lands. That he would harshly punish the wagoners who distributed the rotten grain and fix everything.
But Len hadn't spent these three weeks idly. Most of the crowd were already convinced that it was the baron himself who was to blame for their misery. That was indeed the case... but not entirely.
Irony of fate. The first time the Herald had spoken something close to the truth—he had nearly been stoned. No one believed him anymore. The boy who cried wolf...
Len bit his lip, caught the axe and strode straight for the overseer, but Dmitry barred his way. However, only he stepped in; no one followed him.
After buying the spoiled grain in another village, Dmitry had taken a lot of flak. People didn't understand why anyone would trade good liquor for poisonous grain, although, in truth, he was right.
Their village had a decent still, good enough to distill even rye struck by that black mold. Other villages had gained at least some source of energy, and they had only received raw material. That arrangement was advantageous to everyone. But Dmitry couldn't explain it without destroying people's faith in the baron, in the existing system. He held out until the end, which earned him Len's respect.
Perhaps it was out of that respect that Len decided to give him one more chance... a last chance.
"You bastard," Dmitry grunted, blocking Len's path. "Look at them, they're ready to attack the overseer! You pleased now, huh? Everything turned out exactly how you wanted!"
"No, I'd hoped for something different..." Len shook his head. "Don't be afraid. I won't start a riot... right now."
Though that was his task, he truly preferred it to happen differently. Maybe this was the last chance for things to go another way; so people would know what they were doing and not act like cornered beasts.
He wanted them to fight not just for food, but for something greater.
Sliding Dmitry aside, who had completely given up, Len approached the overseer.
"Rik!" he shouted, cutting through the murmuring crowd.
"For you I'm a lord, serf," the overseer snapped, balling his fist, but he didn't strike.
He might have been a fool, but he sensed the mood: the people were like smoldering embers. One puff, and the flame would blaze. A stupid, irrational fire; no purpose or meaning, only to vent rage. But even a dozen starving men with axes... that was still a dozen men with axes.
"I have a proposition. Will you come with me?" Len asked.
"Deeper into the woods?" the man sneered. "I'll tell you straight: there's no food in my pack, don't expect it."
That was probably true; in recent days Rik had stopped eating in public so as not to provoke the people, yet he still carried that bulky pack for some reason.
"No. We'll go to the village. I want to show you something... and talk."
"Hm." The overseer theatrically checked how easily his sword slid from its scabbard and nodded. "Fine, let's take a walk. And you lot, get back to work!"
Snow crunched underfoot. The crowd in the village gathered again. People did not want to take the spoiled grain and did not know what to do. The carter was dragged from his cart and soundly beaten. Len turned away and led his guest straight to the cellar. He had no time for distractions now.
"You know... I was thinking," Len began, "if you gripe that we don't work as much as we should, maybe it would suit you if we worked more and better?"
"You work like swine with shit. The quota hasn't been met once this week. No wonder you get the worst food; you don't deserve anything better," the overseer snorted, making Len press his lips together.
This bastard even dared to accuse them of slacking?
Controlling his anger with difficulty, Len opened the cellar door and stepped aside to let the overseer enter. If the man wanted to strike a deal, Len would have to look friendlier.
"Go in first," the overseer ordered in a suspicious tone, but his doubts soon evaporated.
Despite the reek of mold, the cellar was a treasure trove... by the standards of the First Duchy, at least.
"Blimey, you've got a proper distillery here!" the overseer exclaimed and lightly tapped the kettle with his sword.
"We've also got good moonshine," Len added, handing the man a jug.
"Drink first," the overseer insisted, fretting that he might be poisoned. Silly.
After inspecting and taking a few swallows, the overseer relaxed.
"Good stuff. Usually in villages they brew such vile swill you can hardly stand it," he praised, and Len knew the moment had come.
"We thought as a village... it wouldn't benefit you, sir Overseer, if we starved. We won't be able to meet quotas, and you won't get profit. As you can see, we can pay you if you help find food..." Len said.
"Pff. Where am I supposed to find it? Pull it out of my arse? You should thank our baron! He didn't just leave part of himself on the battlefield protecting you ungrateful cattle; he's still giving some grain! Though he could give nothing. Times are hard."
"You could leave your post for a while and go get supplies..."
"First, I can't. Second, what, you think I'm stupid? You want me to go against the baron? One fellow tried that, I saw what happened; he got his skull caved in! The old overseer didn't know his place, but I do, so don't dream. I'll inform the baron and get a reward. For distilling the punishment is death... a serious offense and a solid reward for me. Maybe they'll even transfer me to the city!" The overseer smiled and leveled his blade at him.
Len hadn't thought the man could be this stupid.
The deal had been profitable for everyone…
"You're a real idiot," Len sighed, glancing frantically for a weapon. But all he had in his hands was a clay jug of moonshine.
He swung…
Rik, without thinking, cleaved the flying jug with his sword. Unlike his predecessor, he knew firsthand what it meant to hold a weapon. It was foolish of him to do it near a simmering kettle, though.
Sparks flared, then the burning liquor splashed, and the cuirass was doused in it.
With a furious cry the flaming man threw himself at him, paying no heed to the fire. Only with great effort did Len manage to dodge the sweep of the blade! He closed the distance, grabbed the arm that held the blade, and tried to wrest the sword away from Rik. The burning cuirass scorched both of them; Len tried to topple the overseer, but the man stood like a rock. Strength… He was simply too weakened by hunger!
The overseer's mail-gloved fist was already raised.
The blow came. A bell rang in Len's head; he collapsed as if cut down.
In an honest fight he had no chance. That meant he could not hold back.
He overturned the vat of mash, snatched another jug and hurled it at the overseer. The fire spread; it was everywhere now.
The overseer tried to put himself out. He had a chance, since moonshine is not exactly flamethrower fuel. Slipping on the slick floor, Len lunged for the still and shoved it with his shoulder. Steam and flame filled the cellar, searing his lungs.
A scream rose behind him, but Len paid it no heed. With his eyes shut to avoid being blinded, he groped for the exit. A step! Len tripped and fell. A blade sliced the air so close he felt its wind on his balding scalp. Had he not fallen, he would have lost his head. An armored mass fell atop him, pinning him to the stairs. Len blindly clawed, trying to reach someone's eyes, but realized there was no point: his eyelids bled. He took the hits. Again. Even if Rik could not use his sword, that didn't stop him from simply pounding the far weaker opponent.
"Len!" someone shouted from the cellar entrance.
Within seconds the crowd surrounded them. Each hand was weak on its own, but together they hauled the overseer off him and dragged Len out of the burning cellar. Tongues of flame chased them, unwilling to let go.
The sounds of blows landing on cuirass and body rang out. The people took savage pleasure in exacting revenge for everything that had built up. Dimitry helped him to his feet. Olaf stood nearby, holding the trophy sword, his hand wrapped in cloth to avoid burns.
After stroking their fists with satisfaction, the mob forced the bloodied overseer to his knees. The snow at their feet was red with blood. Everyone looked at Len and Dimitry and waited. Some habits die hard.
Olaf handed the sword to his father. He accepted it, gave it a tested swing to feel the balance, then, surprisingly, passed the blade to Len.
"You wanted this more than anyone. You won," Dimitry admitted.
"We all won," Len answered, taking the sword that seared his hand. He looked at the serfs, no, at the free people, and addressed them.
"You all know... nobody wanted this. By the One, we all wanted to live like before: to work in peace and get our ration, to feed our children and love our wives. But they declared war on us; they declared war on our kin. How many have we lost this month? Yag—who killed himself, unable to bear the hunger; his wife who, after strangling her daughter, followed him. Val—who died writhing from poisoned grain... The grain that was handed to us as payment! Such was his generosity for our honest labor! He sent this overseer to torment us. Let us restore justice. Strip this bastard's pack and see what he hides from all of us!"
The heated crowd enthusiastically set to obeying the order, not forgetting to land another pair of blows on the overseer. They tore the pack's fastenings to reach its contents as quickly as possible. Everyone dreamed of seeing food, but…
Coins rained down onto the blood-streaked snow. Silver… even gold.
"Money that was taken from us!" Len cried. "This is our labor! The One made us commonfolk, but this man decided he had the right to take from us. Who is he? Not a mage; not a noble! He's just a leech who's latched onto them! We will wrest freedom from his cold hands!"
"Kill him!" the shouts rose in many voices.
A swing of the sword. An approving murmur. Dimitry watched the madness around them with a silent shake of his head.
Len wiped the blade and gave the order.
"Throw his body into the cellar! Let him burn in the fire he himself kindled! But don't be quick to think justice has triumphed. Did the baron not know of this? Did he accidentally push us to starvation? He knew! Then what makes the baron any different from this man? His noble blood will be no purer, and I promise you, we'll smear our banner with it! We'll avenge all those years they lived in splendor while we wallowed in the mud! He lit this fire! He will burn in it, as his servant burns!"
The ringing in his ears grew louder. Despite the chaos, Dimitry stepped forward.
"I wouldn't want to spoil your triumph… but what now, elder?" he asked.
The crowd exploded with suggestions.
"Maybe we attack the patrol? Horses are tasty. We need food, or we'll all starve!"
"They're beyond our teeth…"
"We must try! There's no turning back; for killing the overseer they'll kill us anyway, so let's take as many bastards with us to the grave!"
"Len, what shall we do, Len?"
"You're right. There is no way back! From now on we are bound, like blood brothers. If you trust me, then follow me… I'll show you a new path." Staggering, Len headed toward the edge of the village, toward the road.
He did not walk at random but toward a place prearranged, hoping the Hardans had truly prepared it.
He counted his steps from the road, scanning for a fir tree. There it was. Under its boughs lay a wooden box.
"Food? Is this food?" the crowd cried.
"No. This is not food. We cannot live on someone's handouts; we must provide for ourselves." Len opened the box and drew out an intricate mechanism with wires attached. "Olaf, can you help? We need to hang this on the tree."
Olaf nodded, took the antenna in hand and began to clamber up the pine.
Len checked the instructions, connected the device. He clicked the handle and began to crank. The dynamo hummed, generating electricity. Keeping a steady pace, he closed the circuit. There was a crack; for several minutes he beat the rhythm specified in the manual until the apparatus answered with a hoarse shriek.
The signal was sent.
Comments
HF3d3d HF3d3dHF3d3d
Hah, that could very well be. :3
PVersusNP
Wireless telegraphy for the win! Oh, and will Lariël become a Park ranger for Reikland?
