14 Chapter 14: Not So Peaceful Resolution

- Arthur -

"I see." He twirled his cup, watching the water he conjured move. "Those Danes, were they? Are open to trading with us, provided that we help them deal with their pests problem…"

"Yes, my lord." Ector passed him the parchment, written by the village's scribe from the words of its chief.

Taking a moment to read it, he nodded to himself before looking up.

"As expected, I cannot read norse." He raised a brow, urging an apologetic Eric to try and translate.

A bandit den, a good forty miles away from the village, had been blocking their most important trading route. Each and every caravan got sacked, its people taken as thralls leaving outsiders unwilling to travel and the village bereft of important resources.

"I'm still surprised that outlaws wormed their way in Iceland so fast, it's only been a few years since the magical beasts population was culled enough for human occupation." Arthur said, sprawling on his seat.

"If there is gold to be had, merchants will come and bandits will follow. " Ector provided.

"And new territories are ripe with opportunities." He continued, that would be very troublesome for them if new players wanted a piece of the cake that is magical Iceland.

Rich and numerous iron mines, pits of black powder and nafta, highly defensible locations, grazing land and fishing spots...so many riches a man could desire.

The wizards would want it all the same, or perhaps even more; so many creatures to harvest, precious gemstones and crystals bloated with mana.

His fort would be seen as a valuable strategic location, his people as relatively trained men to be either assimilated or subjugated. This meant a loss of power, a loss of control, which is utterly unacceptable.

But it also meant his own people could thrive, if he played his cards right.

"How many bandits are we talking about?" Arthur asked, his messenger could only shrug, the villagers either didn't know or didn't want to tell them.

"Large enough to pillage lightly protected caravans, small enough to live off their booty and flee any dangerous pursuers." Ector said.

He'd often tell him of the many campaigns he took part in, many smaller ones were against 'beggar lords'; leaders of large bandit groups.

His experience would once more be invaluable.

"They are bound to have amassed quite the wealth." He said, deep in thought.

"Yes, my lord. They've been here for months, and no peasant raid has successfully recovered their treasures." Eric said rather meekly a man of his size, standing taller when Arthur thanked him.

"Interesting." He smiled, a smile everyone under his command had learnt to love and fear equally.

He had a plan.

"We are dealing with a highly mobile, albeit undisciplined opponent, with irregular equipment and skills and numbers ranging anywhere from twelve to fifty." Arthur said, gray eyes bright with excitement "While we can only field a dozen of our men, none of the cannons and artillery pieces and have to venture on unknown terrain."

He chuckled, repressing a hearty laugh when he saw the faces his men were making. His talent for scaring people really needed to be weaponized and used against his foes.

- Battle Quest: Not So Peaceful Resolution

You have decided not to shed innocent blood without at least trying a more diplomatic approach. Fortunately, sparing the innocent means slaying the corrupt, giving you an opportunity to test your mettle outside the safety of a warship.

Lead your men against the Bandits of Faxaflói, take their booty as your spoil and earn the respect of the wronged villagers.

Condition 1: Subjugate the bandit camp

Condition 2: Seize their treasure.

Condition Bonus: Less than 10% casualties

Rewards: New Skill: Diplomacy, +5 Tactics, +5 Weapon Skills, +20 Reputation with group: Snæfellsnes Village

Bonus: New Skill: Intimidation, +5 Dark Arts

'Holy Cow.'

That was...unexpected. Welcome, but still unexpected.

The game was being awfully generous, but he wasn't going to complain. Arthur attributed it to the large amount of bloodshed he was about to cause, in addition to it being the first real military expedition he'd lead as a newly minted lord.

The game was called 'The War Game', after all.

"Go tell the men." He told Eric "Tomorrow at dawn, we shall ride off to the village to recruit more brave men."

"And then?" Ector asked, already knowing the answer.

"And then glory."

Eric squirried off to spread the news, Ector took his leave to prepare the details of the voyage, not trusting the men to know what they should and shouldn't take with them for the coming battle.

Just like that, Arthur was once more alone in the large, cold solar.

All he could do was grab a Book of Spells, perfect the magic he already knew and search for new ones to help them in the coming battle.

He had dozens of spells in his repertoire, some useless beyond belief like the Clock Sabotaging Jinx or the Tea Stirring Charm. Others had obviously useful applications like Locomotor and its many variations; the movement charms. The stinging, slug vomiting and multiple unpleasant hexes or dangerous pieces of magic like the cutting, flaming or freezing spells.

His all time favorites however, were more subtle.

Magic could twist the mind, fool the senses and turn the idle and worthless into death traps. Why limit himself to spells of the laser beam variety? Casting a flurry of Expelliarmus somehow doesn't seem like a good tactic in most situations. Darker curses are also needlessly depleting, why use an organ liquefier when a bludgeon is enough?

Why use the most vile and degrading curses known to wizardkind, when easier less taxing spells that wouldn't get you thrown in prison are available?

Why even let your enemy battle you, when you could make him fight a pebble or a twig for hours on end? Or make them think they're being burned alive?

Magic was possibility, and he'd be damned if he didn't choose the best one on his own.

"If I made somebody think he's drowning, would he eventually faint and choke on his own saliva?" Arthur mutters, before letting his intrusive thoughts win and paying his old friend Ned Leed a visit.

The screams that echoed in the dungeons that day were a good reminder for the people of the fort; Arthur Black was scary.

Later that evening, the plan was exposed and the warriors chosen. They ate and slept early that day, enjoying a feast in honor of the brave men who'd risk their lives for the group.

There was no fear, for they had a monster leading them.

The seven silvers and share of the booty promised to each one of them also helped soothe their worries.

. . .

The next day at dawn, the gates of the fort were opened for twelve riders leaving its safety in the name of gold, glory and not-dying.

There was no paved road leading to the village, courtesy of the House of Avery's incompetence, so they had to spend two long hours trotting through potentially hostile lands for a trip that should only last one.

They rode in formation, with the archers and Arthur in the center where they are most useful while the remaining seven men surrounded them; they were primarily spearmen, but all had a measure of training with the sword.

Luckily, they were for the most unbothered, save for the occasional boar or pixy crossing their path.

The first they stabbed and stored in their Lord's pocket dimension for later trade or consumption, the other they scared off pretty easily.

"The gods are with us." Ector laughed "The trip is nice and smooth, I'm almost enjoying the ride out."

Arthur did not correct him, as he did enjoy riding immensely. It was not something he experienced in his past life, his first try being a day before as training for the expedition.

- Skill:

Riding 5

It wasn't nearly as hard to level up as Swordsmanship or Stewardship, he noticed. Perhaps it had to do with the actual experience he had with it, his sword skill rose easier when sparring compared to practicing his forms and footwork.

'And it rose even more when facing a real opponent.' He thought, recalling his altercation with the jailor whose name he had long forgotten.

Or did he even learn it?

It seemed like a lifetime ago, his transmigration and the confusion he'd felt were oddly tame even by his standard. His ascension and victories had felt natural, a smooth transition.

'Meh, it would be pretty boring if I started crying each time I killed somebody.'

"Sir Ector." Someone called out. An infantryman who favored the short sword, if he remembered correctly.

"I'm no sir." The old man sounded embarrassed, not that he could see below his helm.

Arthur had offered him the plate armor they'd looted from the fort's previous commander. Of course, Ector had refused a hundred times pointing out how improper it would be for a subordinate to wear the best gear, never mind that Arthur was simply too small to use the vast majority of the equipment in circulation.

Arthur won the argument, because of course he did. Ector now looked like a genuine britsh knight in shining armor, much like his namesake.

Both of their namesakes, actually.

"What kind of trouble did you run into in your previous campaigns, sir?" The youth asked, ignoring the blushing old man.

'I better remember to give him a rise.' Arthur chuckled, but he guided his horse closer to them, eager to hear his right hand man's answer.

"The kind you don't expect, that storms your camp in the dead of night and leaves a dozen good men drained of their blood. The kind of trouble that flies above an entire army without fear, whose scales are mightier than any shield the goblins could forge and whose flame leaves nothing behind but death and ashes, so much ashes…" Ector seemed to age thirty years in an instant, his brown eyes turned steely as he gazed into the horizon.

"The worst kind of 'troubles' can and will track you for days, it'll force you to abandon your horse lest you get torn to shreds, leaving you alone in hostile land with nothing but your legs and a few prayers to carry you." He sighed too grimly for such a jolly man. "I wish I could tell you not to worry about it, but you should. Worry is good, it keeps you prepared and might just save your life one of these days...world isn't a pretty place, huh."

Arthur wasn't sure what kind of monstrosity the old man was talking about, what kind of beast could turn his friend like this...but he did know something.

'I want one of those.' His eyes shone, already imagining himself taming a mighty beast to do battle.

His comrades didn't seem to share his opinion, the group fell into a grim silence as each and every one of them grew wary...all but one of them that is.

They smelled the village before seeing it, the scent of burning logs and baked goods and all the better aspects of civilization felt like heaven in their nostrils.

They heard children playing, farmers working in the outskirts. A few curious shepherds watched them from afar, getting startled when they waved at them before returning the gesture. Then it was the fields, and those who worked them.

Men and women busied themselves with the Fall harvests; grown pumpkins and beetroots and eggplants and apples ripe for the picking.

From the state and size of their fields, Arthur could tell that the village was prosperous.

A village was after all mostly built on farmland, a couple thousands of farmers gathering for safety and convenience on a suitable spot. They'd lend each other help when needed, each of them reaping what they sowed and nothing more.

In the absence of a manor lord, who owned everything and sometimes everyone, the villagers would simply elect a leader among them; oldest and wisest, or perhaps a founder. They owned all the land they could claim, as long as they worked it. And while conflicts over it did happen, it was always possible to expand outward instead of coveting a neighbor's livelihood.

This one was on the larger side, counting nearly a thousand households and stretching over large expanses of land near the river.

Eventually, Arthur and his men came closer to the wooden walls of the village's center. He saw a couple militia guards, and urged Eric to explain the situation.

The villagers were wary, but relaxed as the gates opened. It meant they were friendly, quickly the caution became curiosity and many braver folks approached them.

They were being hounded by the masses of men, women and children they could scarcely understand when they parted to make way for a larger figure...literally.

He was a big man, with green eyes and long red hair. Towering over both villagers and foreigners...even Boris seemed short in comparison. His presence alone demonstrated the might of a warring chief!

He had a very large and muscular body with barely visible freckles, and his hair in a thick braid in the back. The trend of braiding carried on his beard which was intricate in its many strands.

His attire consisted of a large fur cloak draped over his shoulder, a dark green tunic from shoulder to knee, metal shoulder pads, a chainmail skirt with striped pantaloons, and fur boots. On his head he wears a large winged helmet, hinting at a past of glorious battle.

He also wore rounded-spiked braces around his wrists, it looked as terrifying as it was impractical, painful too.

He didn't speak much, but what little he said seemed to satisfy the villagers who left them alone after a couple more curious glances. He addressed Eric, the only one of us who understood him.

The nervous rider turned to his leader.

"My Lord, this is Wulfrik the Red, the village's chief." He said, trying to sound less intimidated than he was.

"Red, like his hair?" Boris asked, not looking nearly as bloodthirsty now.

"No." The giant like man bellowed. "Því at ór blooðinn ór minn óvinr"

"What did he say?" Arthur asked his translator, who looked even less comfortable than before.

"Like the blood of his enemies."