Volume One: The Forest Knight Chapter 57: The Slaughtered Village

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Five days later, a group of more than seventy people crossed into the territory of Kubrum County, Province of Janvikshor. The group consisted of Gamgee's caravan and Berion's guards. After five days of arduous travel, they had covered nearly half the journey; in another five or six days, they would reach the city of Janvikshor.

Not long after entering Kubrum County, Gamgee rode up to Berion's carriage to inform him of the evening's stopping point.

At that time, Berion was napping inside the four-wheeled carriage that Hama had converted into a mobile home. After the modifications, the carriage could carry some goods and featured a small bedroom with a single bed and a writing desk. There were many cabinets and drawers for storage, making it quite comfortable for one person. Except where the road was too rough, Berion spent most of the journey inside.

Gamgee pulled his horse alongside, knocked on the window, and Berion drew back the curtain. Seeing it was Gamgee, he smiled and asked, “Is it time to make camp, Gamgee?”

“I was just coming to tell you, sir. Tonight, we don’t have to sleep in the wild. Not far ahead is West Town, a large walled settlement with taverns, inns, blacksmiths, and all sorts of amenities. We’ll stay there tonight and rest properly. By the way, the lamb at the tavern is particularly delicious—I’ll take you to try it.”

Berion was delighted to hear there was a prosperous town ahead. Though he had a comfortable carriage, his guards had been camping in the wild these past days. He nodded happily, “Very well, Gamgee. I’ll leave it to your arrangement.”

After Gamgee left, Berion stepped out of the carriage and asked Bran to bring his warhorse. He wanted to ride for a bit and take in the scenery.

The sun was about an hour from setting. The sunlight had mellowed, and the autumn breeze carried a hint of chill. Berion wrapped his cloak tighter, looked skyward, and watched flocks of birds returning to their nests, skimming across the sunset and giving the vast plains a majestic embrace of the dying light.

Enjoying a view he’d barely had time to appreciate in his previous life, Berion gently pressed his legs to his horse’s flanks. The horse understood and trotted ahead toward the front of the procession.

Berion had just reached the front and was about to greet Gamgee when a caravan guard galloped up, clearly flustered. He blurted, “Boss, something terrible has happened—the village ahead has been massacred! Bodies everywhere. It’s horrific!”

Gamgee was stunned. “What? How can that be?”

Berion rode forward and asked, “Could it be a feud between lords? Or bandits?”

Gamgee shook his head. “Neither is likely, sir.”

“Oh? Why not?” Berion pressed.

“The village ahead is under the jurisdiction of Sir Taur, lord of West Town. Sir Taur is known to be kind and discreet—he wouldn’t have feuded with other nobles, so it can’t be a private war. As for bandits, the area around West Town is all open plain—no mountains or forests for large groups to hide. Only small-time robbers might pass through; nothing like the major gangs south of the River Carl. Besides, Sir Taur profits immensely from the bustling trade route at West Town. His guard may be few, but they’re elite, and he proactively suppresses banditry every year. Bandits wouldn’t dare attempt something like this,” Gamgee explained.

“Whoever did this, it means the road ahead is dangerous. We should hurry to West Town,” Berion said.

Gamgee nodded in agreement and ordered his chief guard to hasten the caravan’s pace. Meanwhile, Berion, Bran, and three mounted guards rode off toward the village to investigate in case there were any clues to be found.

Even before reaching the village entrance, a foul stench of burning and decay hit them. Berion halted his horse, drew his dagger, cut a strip from his tunic, and tied it over his nose and mouth, instructing the others to do likewise. The risk of disease from decomposing bodies was high, and with the primitive medicine of this era, infection could be fatal.

Once everyone had covered their faces, Berion reminded them not to touch anything unnecessarily. Then, he spurred his horse up a small rise for an overview.

The village was centered around a large threshing ground, with houses built in a ring around it. Most of the buildings appeared destroyed—there was little risk of ambush—so Berion led them inside.

The scene was harrowing. Charred beams from burnt houses lay collapsed on the ground. Headless corpses sprawled by the roadside. Shattered pottery and splinters of wood littered the area.

The five rode slowly, taking in the devastation. Suddenly, one guard’s horse kicked something round and heavy that rolled a few paces and stopped. He glanced down and recoiled in horror. “A—a head!”

Berion and the others looked. There, dried blood caked beneath it, was a man’s severed head—clearly a middle-aged farmer. From the wide, terror-stricken gaze, one could imagine the brutality and ferocity of the killers.

Large stains of blood on both walls of the main street told the same story—arterial blood spraying after decapitation.

Berion sighed. He told three guards to search together, and he and Bran to check elsewhere, looking for survivors or clues. They agreed to regroup at the threshing ground and to sound the horn if anything happened.

Not long after splitting up, Berion and Bran heard a horn from the threshing ground. Heart pounding, Berion hurried over. The village was small, and they reached the center quickly.

The sight and stench of decomposing bodies were overwhelming—Berion vomited on the spot. The others fared no better; young Bran was wracked with relentless retching. Even the horses grew restless, pawing the ground anxiously at the scent of death.

After composing himself, Berion looked up. In the middle of the threshing ground, human heads—men, women, the old, and the young—had been arranged to form the word “Debt.” Judging by their number, almost the entire village had been beheaded.

The headless bodies were heaped nearby, and a pack of wild dogs was tearing at the remains, entrails and organs strewn everywhere, the ground blackened by dried blood.

The wild dogs, emboldened by their grisly feast, glared at the newcomers with bloodshot eyes and growled menacingly.

Infuriated, Bran drew his hunting bow and, with a sharp twang, put an arrow through the nearest dog’s belly. It collapsed, howling. The rest fled in terror. Bran spurred his horse forward and fired again, ending another beast. The village fell silent—but it was the silence of death, not peace.

Berion rode to Bran’s side and, seeing the boy trembling with rage, patted his shoulder gently. “Come now. There are things beyond our power to change. Let’s go—this place is cursed.”

The three guards nodded fervently. With dusk approaching, it would take courage indeed to linger in a village where all had been so savagely slain.

Bran, voice choked, pointed to two nearby corpses. “Sir, look—two pregnant women. They and their unborn children… all perished. I can’t imagine what kind of monster could do such a thing!”

Berion and the others looked. One of the women’s bellies had been ripped open by dogs, a tiny foot protruding. Berion closed his eyes after a single glance. He seized Bran’s reins and turned away—he could not bear to see more.

The five rode in silence out of the village. On the way back, they soon met the main group, who, seeing their ashen faces, guessed at the horror and did not ask questions. They pressed on toward West Town, hoping for safety.

Fortunately, the town was not far. Before darkness fell, they reached West Town, paid their taxes, and entered to rest.

West Town was encircled by a wooden palisade, about three hundred paces around and five meters high, topped with crenellations and five archery towers for defense. Inside the walls stood a small stone keep, the residence of Sir Taur, lord of West Town and its surrounding villages.

Though night had fallen, the town was bustling. Torches burned along the main street, lighting the way for travelers and caravans. The smithy, carpentry shop, pottery shop, bakery, and cloth shop were all open, lamplight glimmering—they would trade late into the night. The town’s only tavern rang with raucous laughter and the clamor of drink.

There was a dedicated merchant camp within the town, and Gamgee, as a regular, was allowed to settle his sizable caravan close to the well and on solid flagstones without paying a fee. The group set up camp.

While his men worked, Gamgee told Berion that once camp was ready, everyone except a few assigned to guard duty could go out and enjoy themselves. He suggested Berion give his own men leave—it was a rare chance to relax.

Berion agreed and ordered Bran to summon the deputy captain, Broda. Once camp was secure, a group would stay behind to guard the caravan, while the rest were free to enjoy the town—with strict instructions not to stay out all night or cause trouble, or they would face consequences.

As Berion finished giving orders, Gamgee approached with a man dressed as a knight. Seeing Berion, surrounded by attendants and wearing a surcoat with his arms, the newcomer recognized him at once as the praised Sir Berion of whom Gamgee had often spoken.

He bowed respectfully. “Sir Berion, I am Sir Tuor in service to Lord Taur of West Town. On behalf of my liege, I welcome you to our town and invite you to attend a banquet at the lord’s manor tonight.”

“My thanks to Lord Taur, and to you, Sir Tuor. I’ll change and join you shortly.” Since it was proper to honor their host, Berion would not refuse—one can never have too many friends.

He changed into his formal knight’s attire and bade Bran bring a set of painted pottery cups and two bars of soap as gifts. Together with Gamgee, he followed Sir Tuor to the manor.

Lord Taur’s title was one rank higher than Berion’s—he was a baronet, the lowest tier among titled nobility. Though Berion’s family had been knights for five generations, they had never risen higher. Knights, though called “sir,” were not considered true nobles by the upper class, who reserved that distinction for those with the power to grant knighthoods themselves.

In any case, out of respect, Berion prepared two gifts. Otherwise, his frugality would have seen him bring just the soap.

Upon arrival, Berion was surprised to find Lord Taur himself waiting at the door. As he wondered at this honor, Gamgee strode forward and embraced Taur warmly—they were brothers-in-law.

After formal introductions, Gamgee explained that Lord Taur had only become a baronet three years earlier, having secured the title through connections with the Minister of War, Count Luval, at a cost of thirty thousand dinars—ten thousand of which Gamgee had lent him. Although Gamgee was a merchant, he hailed from a powerful northern viscount’s family and had himself acquired a knighthood. After befriending the then-Knight Taur, he leveraged his wealth, title, and family ties to marry Taur’s sister, making the families kin and supporting his brother-in-law financially and in business.