Volume One: The Forest Knight Chapter 24: Striking It Rich

In the early spring night, the temperature remained low. The cold wind lashed at their faces, making their cheeks sting. In the reeds to the east of the dock, Berion and his men lay in wait, braving the chill as they kept their vigil. Just as everyone was shivering from the cold, the sound of furtive footsteps came from the grass behind them.

“I am Shuke, reporting in!”

“I am Beta!”

After confirming the password, the sentry led a man to Berion—a man who turned out to be none other than Barin. Barin, breathless from his hurry, spoke at once upon seeing Berion, “My lord, the steward and his men have already gone to that wretch’s house. There were ten of them in total. That means only twenty-two remain to guard the two ships—eleven on each.”

Berion listened, then spat out the sweet grass root he’d been chewing. “Good. Brothers, we move now to seize both ships. If they resist, show no mercy—kill them all!”

“No mercy! No mercy! No mercy!” The men whispered their battle cry in unison. Then Berion led fourteen men, and Iomir another fourteen, dividing into two groups to take the ships.

On the eastern jetty of the Waterside Town’s dock, two large cargo vessels were moored. At a glance, it was clear these were not riverboats; their deep draft and broad beams, each fitted with three masts, marked them as coastal trading ships in this world—fast under full sail.

On the prow of one ship, a blood-red wolf was painted. Two night guards lounged on the deck, idly chatting. “I’m telling you, Fatty, the bosses really have no decency. They go off to chase women, drink, and feast, while leaving us to freeze here all night. Damned bastards,” the short, stout guard grumbled.

“Shut your mouth, you fool—what are you, a country bumpkin? You’re just a farmer’s second son. Remember that new guy who joined us yesterday? Sure, he’s just a guard like us, but the steward is his cousin’s brother-in-law. That’s how he gets to go off and enjoy himself, while we small fry stick to our posts. Still, we’ll each get a dozen or so denars for this run. When we’re paid, I’ll take you down south to sample the girls there, ha!” the tall, lean guard said, leering.

“All you need to do is stop gambling away all your money on the ship. Otherwise, when you’re broke, you’ll just have to watch the rest of us with the girls while you entertain yourself,” the tall guard continued, needling his companion.

Fatty, stung by the jibe, punched his friend on the shoulder. “You bastard, always making fun of me. If I really run out of money, I’ll just steal yours and go have my own fun.”

He made a show of reaching for his friend’s purse, and the two began to scuffle and curse on the deck. Meanwhile, Barin and another man had already slipped up from one side, hiding in the shadows. They could see there were only these two guards on the deck; the rest were below. Barin signaled his companion, and together they cocked their crossbows, taking aim at the unsuspecting men.

After a bout of roughhousing, the two guards slumped against the rail to catch their breath. The tall guard was about to make another jibe when, with a faint twang, an arrow embedded itself in Fatty’s throat, spraying blood across his companion’s face. Before the tall guard could even cry out, another bolt pierced his hood, skewering his head clean through. Both died instantly.

With the sentries dispatched, Barin lowered the gangplank, and Berion’s team boarded in single file. They gathered at the hatch leading below, from which the sounds of drinking and gambling floated up. Berion and Barin exchanged a smile. First, they sent two soldiers ahead to check for ambushes. Once the way was clear, the rest followed.

The vessel’s cabin had two levels. The upper deck was for the crew—not much room, but enough for a man to stand. The lower level was the cargo hold, usually chained and locked. Now, the ten remaining men were gathered in the central cabin—three gambling in the middle, the rest drinking and watching, their laughter echoing. They had no sense of the danger closing in.

At Berion’s signal, seven crossbow bolts flew into the crowd, killing five and wounding two at once. At such close range, none missed their mark. Before the survivors could react, Berion and his men drew their weapons and charged, cutting them down with ruthless efficiency. They captured three, slaughtered the rest. Only one of Berion’s group was lightly wounded.

Berion crouched before a guard bound on the floor. “I’ll ask you three questions. Answer truthfully and you live. Lie or refuse, and I’ll hack you to pieces and feed you to the fish of the Carl River. Do you understand?”

The guard, trembling like a leaf, nodded frantically. Berion pulled the gag from his mouth so he could speak, mindful not to let their voices carry and alert the dock’s sentries. Berion dragged over a cask and sat.

“What’s the cargo on this ship?” he asked.

“Grain, my lord. The hold below is full of wheat—one hundred sheffers,” the guard replied.

A sheffer was two thousand pounds; one hundred was two hundred thousand pounds, or about a hundred thousand kilos—enough grain to feed the population of Norland Castle for three years, and then some.

Berion was inwardly delighted, but kept his composure. “Anything else of value besides the grain?”

The guard glanced at a cabin at the end. “The steward’s cabin, my lord. He handles all the expenses for this journey. There should be valuables there.”

Berion nodded and motioned Barin to search the room with another man.

“Where did the grain come from?” Berion pressed.

“I—I don’t know, my lord. We sailed empty to the Snowlands Mine. One ship loaded with grain, the other with pig iron. As for where the grain came from, I really don’t know,” the man stammered.

“The other ship is loaded with pig iron?” Berion asked, excitement in his voice.

The guard, alarmed by Berion’s tone, quickly replied, “My lord, I swear it’s true! I really don’t know where the grain came from.”

“I didn’t ask about the grain—I’m asking if the other ship holds pig iron!” Berion kicked him.

“Yes, yes, my lord. It’s all pig iron bricks from the Snowlands Mine,” the guard blurted, terrified.

Berion interrogated the other two captives separately and got similar answers. He ordered Barin to set guards over the prisoners, then led his men to support Iomir on the other ship. As Berion emerged from the hold, he saw Iomir already approaching, clearly successful.

“My lord, it’s done. The fools were drinking and gambling on deck when we struck. We caught two alive, killed the rest. Only two of ours were slightly wounded. And guess what was in the hold?” Iomir, flushed with excitement, reported.

Berion kicked him playfully. “Look at you, getting carried away. I already learned from the prisoners—the hold is full of pig iron.”

“Heh, so you know. The lowest deck is packed with pig iron and heavy sailcloth—at least fifty thousand pounds of iron, nearly two hundred bolts of sailcloth, and several dozen rolls of cured leather,” Iomir grinned.

Berion laughed. “We’ve struck it rich! Show me!”

With torches, Berion and Iomir descended into the cramped, dark, musty hold. Despite the stale air, Berion was overjoyed. Norland Castle was not short of coin, but it sorely lacked two things: pig iron and grain. Now they had both in abundance—development could finally accelerate. No wonder Berion was pleased.

When they emerged on deck, Larr was waiting. “My lord, all is ready. We can set sail at any moment.”

Berion nodded. “Well done, Larr. Can you handle all three ships?”

“Yes, my lord. We’ll be sailing with wind and current behind us. Even without raising sail, two helmsmen per ship will suffice,” Larr explained.

“Good. Go make the arrangements. You shall have the highest reward when we return, you and your men. Without your help, we’d never have taken this prize. You’ve earned it,” Berion promised.

Larr went to prepare the ships. Barin came to ask how to deal with the prisoners. Berion gazed out over the river, lost in thought. These five captives could not be released; if word got out, they would earn the wrath not only of Baron Loral’s family, but also the southern lords and the Snowlands Mine’s overseers. The great men of history had said: “Victory means making more of your own and fewer of the enemy.” Berion could not risk making too many enemies now—Norland Castle was just beginning, and his family’s power was thin. If he made too many foes, he wouldn’t even see death coming. Until he was strong, caution was the only way.

Iomir, straightforward as ever, didn’t think of these things, but Barin, ever perceptive, understood what troubled Berion. He drew close and whispered, “My lord, we can’t keep these prisoners. There’s nowhere to hold them—the new serfs fill every cell. If we let them go, the word will spread. That would be disastrous for us.”

Berion sighed. “But I promised if they cooperated, I’d spare their lives.” As a modern man with a conscience, Berion could not stomach breaking his word and killing the innocent.

Barin fell silent, then said softly, “My lord, you’ll sail this ship. I’ll take the prisoners seized by Iomir’s men onto the other. Leave them to me.”

Berion turned to look at Barin. Barin met his gaze, eyes unwavering. Berion nodded. “Very well. I’ll leave it to you. I’ll ask no more.”

Soon, under Larr’s command, the ships set off downstream, heading southwest for Norland Castle. Dawn was breaking by the time they cleared the Waterside Town dock. On deck, Berion stared into the pale sky, lost in thought, when he heard bodies hitting the water. Turning, he saw Barin directing his men to heave corpses overboard. The bodies from the two ships had been disposed of at departure; these must be the prisoners.

Berion sighed. He understood the harsh maxim that the merciful cannot command, but when faced with the act himself, he hesitated, shackled by conscience and principle. One must have standards, yes—but sometimes, survival required ruthlessness. With strength, morality would command respect—but when weak, no one cared for your scruples. Ultimately, everything rested on power. In his current position, Berion needed to be pragmatic; sentimentality would only bring disaster upon himself and his followers.

He exhaled a long breath, his mind cleared. He had grown from this ordeal. Though he had the wisdom of two lifetimes, the difference between modern and ancient men was knowledge, not intelligence. Barin’s shrewdness had saved him.

Though sailing against the wind, the current was with them, and their pace was steady. After a day and a night, the three ships reached the Forest Lake at dawn. For secrecy, Berion had ordered Mark to build a wooden dock on the Norland Castle side of the lake, so only his men knew the landing spot. As the ships docked under Larr’s command, Iomir led men to fetch Mark, asking him to send carts and hands to unload the cargo. Berion, with Barin, Larr, and others, prepared fish soup from the catch of their voyage, and together with their brothers, soaked dry bread in the broth for breakfast.