The Butcher of Gadobhra-Chapter 480: Special Imperial Envoy

Ben recognized the Envoy from the Emperor as soon as his party arrived by teleporter. He found two things to be interesting: That they didn't go directly to Gadobhra to meet with Billy, and that the last time he'd seen them they were trying to collect taxes.

"Greetings, Sir. If I might enquire, what is the proper name by which I should announce you? My mission was to assist a special imperial envoy, but the last we met, your rank in the bureaucracy was Procurator."

"And Procurator is appropriate for this situation, Courier. My mission required an envoy and I am under no illusions that it is temporary."

Ben nodded his head in acknowledgment, "And where shall I escort you today, sir? To your lodgings at the in, or straight to a meeting with his excellency?"

"The inn will suffice. I have traveled much these last few days, and based on my last meeting with the Baron, wish to be well rested."

Ben nodded again, then assisted with the horses they had brought, checking girths and making sure all was in order before they started traveling. Besides Procurator Smythe, the group included his bodyguards Sanguine and Ebony, wearing heavy plate armor. The small man with a big nose named Huck was riding behind the Procurator's record bearer. Two nervous scribes took up the rear.

Ben said casually, "While the countryside is usually tamed, we've had a large amount of growth lately, both the flora and the fauna. Squirrel activity has been on the rise. Please don't pet, feed, or even look at them too long. Some of them are quick to anger and they're hungry this time of year."

The two bodyguards looked at him, and one said, "Squirrels?"

"Yes, squirrels. A large band refused to surrender at the end of the War of the Oaks and took refuge in the forest between the keep and Sedgewick."

Huck sniffed several times, becoming more and more alarmed, "He's right! I can smell predators. A whole pack of them, and at least one Boss!"

The Courier looked back at the group, "We should be fine, as I donated a large bag of apples on my way to the keep. But if you see them coming nearer the rode, ride at a gallop for the town and I'll hold the rear. There isn't a squirrel in the world that can outrace or outfight Mudhead."

Looking at the Courier's mount, Smythe had to admit he had never encountered a finer horse. He added it to the list of strange occurrences that always surround the Baron of Gadobhra. "He is quite impressive. Has he sired any colts equal to him?" It never hurt for a tax collector to own a fast horse.

Mudhead whinnied and tossed his tail. Ben patted his neck, "As a matter of fact, he has several progeny on the way. House Franklin provided the mares and we all look forward to what the unions produce."

Smythe gave up on the idea of buying a new horse. House Franklin took great pride in their mounts, and the expense would certainly be beyond his means. And it would mean dealing with the head of household, Harmonia Franklin, a formidable woman not known for liking tax collectors. Only Huck remained nervous and looking toward the forest, as the threat of the squirrels never appeared. Smythe enjoyed the ride and took the time to look over the countryside, noting the many new additions to the area. Much ground was under plow and the landscape to his left had several small gatherings of houses with large barns and silos everywhere. The fields were fallow now, but he saw the peasants out in the fields, mending fences, clearing irrigation ditches, and all the other chores that kept a farm running.

The activity that caught his eye, however, was the troops drilling near one of the barns. Nearly fifty people were marching and turning, or doing weapon drills. All of them were well-armed and wearing light armor. "I see that the Baron is training troops. Are they mercenaries he has hired and is housing?"

"No, sir. The Player's Mercenary Guild does have troops here, but it's for recruiting and rest. They train on the other side of the town. Won't be here long, heading back south, somewhere. The people you see training are from the Hamlets. The older veterans at the keep come to train them every day. Some of the adults train three days a week now. Quite a few of the older children sign up with the Legion for a two-year stint to further their training. The others want to be able to protect their land from beasts or monsters."

"I'm surprised they can be away from their work for that many days."

Ben smiled, "Well, they work hard and there isn't a lot to do this winter. Some are enjoying a break and getting caught up on their carving and knitting, but the coin they can earn from training is a good inducement."

"Coin?"

"Yes, I should have explained better. The Baron pays them to train. He's in favor of having a well-trained and well-armed peasantry. It's a little wild, here in the north, and a peasant who can protect their farm and family is an asset."

Smythe's head whirled with the contradictions. While some barons tried to train private armies, they didn't start with peasants and train them in plain sight of the Legion. And no one wanted well-armed peasants! The first famine or year with double taxes would mean you had an armed mob at your gates. Things simply didn't add up right. There was more to the situation than he was seeing. Perhaps he needed a first-hand look?

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"Courier, please inform the Inquisitor that my plans have changed. I'm going to make a small tour of these new villages. My scribes can go with you to prepare my rooms at the inn. Please invite Diego to dine with me." The Courier saluted and rode off with the scribes.

"Now, let's see what we can see. Eyes everywhere and give me a report on anything strange, Huck."

The sniffer nodded and then his eyes got wider, "Squirrels!" The party spurred their horses, moving off the road and into the open fields. Behind them, a dozen hungry squirrels chittered and made aspersions on their honor. They hadn't dared attack while the Courier was with them but hadn't had enough time to get close stealthily. They returned to their woods, making plans for their next ambush.

Smythe slowed his horse as they neared the men doing drills. The Legion veterans were obvious from their uniforms. And from their wounds. Two were missing a leg, and another an arm. But their lungs and minds were in good shape and they ran the men through their paces, marching them up and down the yard. A second group received specialized weapon training from a grizzled Centurion who was missing an eye and a foot. His pegleg didn't slow him at all as he moved from man to man giving instructions and correcting their stance. Each man was throwing blows against a wooden pell, chipping away slowly at the hard Ironwood post. The assortment of weapons was odd, to say the least. Two men were using double-handed scythes, and another a long-handled hoe. Shovels, pitchforks, and adze were popular with many people practicing with them. The Centurion noticed Smythe's curiosity and walked over, snapping a salute.

"How can I assist you, Procurator?"

"Satisfy my curiosity, Centurion. Why are they drilling with those weapons?"

The Centurion had expected that question, "These aren't soldiers who will form up with spear, shield, and sword. Their farmers. When they have to fend off a wolf or other predator, those are the weapons that they'll have close to them. And the elemental creatures that can spring from their fields are most vulnerable to harvesting weapons. One hamlet was attacked by a mob of animated scarecrows a month ago. Three farmers with scythes made short work of them, cutting them at the knees and buying time for people to bring fire to finish them off. These people take their training seriously, as they should. A walking potato may seem amusing and harmless, but you change your attitude when they pull you underground and start beating you up."

"But why isn't the Baron taking responsibility for these creatures? Surely the farmers could run to their homes and wait for the Baron's troops or the Legion to deal with these monsters."

One of the farmers overheard. He put his back into his next swing and his scythe glowed bright red and cleaved through the Ironwood pell. Wiping his brow, he stuck his thumbs in the straps of his overalls and addressed Smythe. "Because it would waste half a day and if one of us turns up a critter through hard work, we earned the enhancement points, not the Baron's troops." He paused at a thought and yelled at another farmer. "Does the Baron have any troops yet?"

"Not that I've seen. Just those mechanical death machines guarding the city. I don't think he wants any troops. Troops cost money. He's a frugal man that knows the value of a gold piece." There were nods all around at this.

Smythe looked to his bodyguards, who shrugged. Their job was to keep Smythe safe, not argue economics or politics. "But what if a huge monster comes from the wilderness? One a few farmers can't handle. Surely you've heard the tales and legends of such things happening."

That brought some chuckles. "It's happened before, sure. Gopherean Behemoths bigger than a barn, Starspawn, and treant invasions. We missed some of those. Looking forward to the next one. The Baron and Baroness will lead the charge and every one of his people will come running. Hard work, and dangerous, but the rewards sure can't be beat."

Smythe would have asked more questions, but a boy of fourteen came running up, followed by several friends. "Pa! Some big rock thing just spawned in the Smith's field. Derry said it was a level 10 Elite! And it's got some little ones popping out of it. Can we go fight it? Please!"

The old Centurion nodded to the farmer, smiling.

"Sure, but you obey the Centurion. Grab a spear and shield and let's get moving." A hectic minute later half the farmers and the Centurion were running alongside the teenagers, hunting down the latest foe that had dared to invade the Hamlets.

Smythe shook his head, bewildered, "Let's visit one of these villages. I wish to see what sort of living conditions these people have. If the Baron isn't paying for troops, I shudder to think about what the little hovels look like.