Overwhelmed by grief and indignation, Art forgot his fatigue. It wasn't until the moon hung above the treetops that he dragged his leaden legs to knock on the shepherd's small stone hut, exchanging two rabbit pelts for a bowl of hot, thick soup and a bed of straw.
He set off again at dawn.
At sunset on the fourth day after leaving the valley, the tall spire of Tinietz Church was dimly visible.
By hurrying, Art arrived in Tinietz a day earlier than usual.
From a small hill, Tinietz, not far away, was dyed a shimmering golden-red by the setting sun.
Tinietz is a typical square wooden and stone castle found on the Central European plains. It was expanded from a Roman Empire-era military fort. The castle has a perimeter of about eight hundred feet, enclosed by four stone walls, each two hundred feet long, thirty feet high, and seven feet thick. At each of the four corners of the city wall, there are four circular wooden arrow towers (watchtowers), ten feet higher than the wall, capable of accommodating six defending soldiers. The north and south sides of the city wall each have a twelve-foot-high, ten-foot-wide double-leaf oak gate with iron grilles. A hard dirt road, about ten feet wide, runs north to south, dividing the castle's interior into four organized sections: the southeast is a free market enclosed by fences, mainly consisting of low wooden huts; the southwest is a commercial district with mostly wooden and stone structures arranged somewhat neatly, comprising two-story residences, taverns, fur shops, weapon shops, blacksmith shops, and tailor shops; the northwest side is the slave market; and the northeast is a chaotic and dense shantytown, where refugees, beggars, and bankrupt self-sufficient farmers gather.
The square inner-fortress style Lord's Hall is located at the center of the castle, facing Tinietz Church, with its square walls, round dome, and stone block tower, across the north-south avenue. This historic castle is one of the direct fiefdoms of Marquis Ivrea Otto of Burgundy Earl, managed by the Marquis's retainer, Viscount Pierre Jacquen de Dienne.
By the time Art arrived at the South Gate, the sun had already dipped below the horizon.
“Stop, open your pack for inspection!” A gate guard, holding a short spear, wearing cotton armor, a sheepskin coat, and a semicircular helmet, stopped Art.
Art removed his rabbit fur felt hat, revealing his face, and gave the guard a slight smile.
The guard recognized Art and slowly lowered his short spear. Art gently pushed the guard's shoulder, leading him aside, and handed him five fenny. This was equivalent to two or three days' wages for a young city laborer.
The guard looked left and right, then turned to tell Art he needed to produce another five fenny because the city gate tax collector had changed, and he had to give the new tax collector some incentive, otherwise Art's large pack of fur mountain goods would definitely be subject to heavy taxes. Art looked at the tax collector sitting behind a long wooden table at the city gate, nodded to the guard, and took out another five fenny from his money pouch. The guard took the copper coins, slipped them into the money pouch sewn inside his leather coat, and turned to nod at the tax collector and another guard at the city gate.
Art, having paid the “special business tax,” walked through the city gate without being questioned by the tax collector. Art and his large pack of fur mountain goods passed by the tax collector as if they were air.
“It's the same everywhere; money is the messenger of God!” Art grumbled to himself.
However, Art was still very happy. According to the “ten-tax-one” standard, Art's fur pack would have required a business tax of roughly forty fenny. Because he knew the city guard, he only paid ten fenny in “special business tax” to enter the city smoothly.
After passing through the city gate, Art walked directly to the southwest side of the castle, where there was an inn that served as both a tavern and a lodging house. After paying the innkeeper five fenny, Art was led by a young bartender to a small room on the second floor of the inn. Art put down his pack, took out three fenny, and handed them to the bartender, instructing him to bring a decent dinner to the room.
A moment later, the bartender brought dinner on a tray—a small piece of fine wheat bread, a bowl of wheat porridge with coarse salt, two pieces of roasted pork, a clay pot of apple meat stew, and a glass of the inn's homemade berry wine. Art devoured the expensive dinner, and his stomach was greatly satisfied.
After dinner, Art refused the tavern girl who knocked on his door and plunged into the sheepskin blanket on the wooden bed. It wasn't that Art was virtuous; it was simply that he felt life was difficult and he really didn't want to die on these women's dirty bellies.
The morning sun stung Art's eyes, and he shook his heavy head as he walked out of the room. Clearly, Art hadn't slept well; the clamor of the drunks downstairs had continued late into the night. As soon as the drunks quieted, gasps and piercing lewd laughter came from the adjacent room.
Coming downstairs, the empty hall contained only two bartenders cleaning up the mess left by last night's drunks. Art found a table by the window and sat down, waving over a young bartender, thirteen or fourteen years old.
“Bring me something simple to eat,” he said, handing over one fenny. The young bartender took the fenny and turned to walk into the tavern kitchen.
Art rubbed his eyes and looked out through the wooden-grated window at the alley outside the inn. The heavy snow from several days ago had melted, forming puddles in the mud. At the alley's entrance, several vendors with baskets were hawking apple bread, and city residents, in twos and threes, hunched their necks as they passed the alley entrance, heading to their various places of survival. This southern castle was awakening.
“Please enjoy your meal,” the bartender said, bringing a bowl of oatmeal with a wooden spoon in it.
Art quickly finished the oatmeal, picked up the two subi in change from the tray, called the young bartender over, and handed them to him. This was a local small copper coin; roughly six subi could be exchanged for one fenny.
The young bartender happily accepted the two small subi, and a hint of flattery entered his gaze towards Art. It was well known that in Tinietz, an able-bodied laborer who provided his own food and lodging earned only two fenny a day, while a bartender, who received food and lodging, earned only five fenny a week, which amounted to less than five subi a day.
“Buddy, I want to buy a pack mule, but the winter grand market has passed, and the small market is still ten days away. Do you know anywhere else I can buy one now?” Art wanted to buy a pack mule to help him transport his hunted game and fur mountain goods to earn some money; otherwise, he could never change his situation by himself.
The young bartender lowered his head in thought, then turned and whispered a few words to the other bartender.
“The mule and horse caravan has already left, but a grain merchant went bankrupt in the north of the city last month. The grain store originally had many pack animals for transporting grain. A mule and horse caravan bought a large batch some time ago, so there might still be some left. You could try your luck there.” The young bartender ran over to tell Art.
Art asked for the detailed address of the bankrupt grain store and instructed the young bartender to look after his goods before leaving the inn. The bankrupt grain store was located in a row of stone houses on the northwest side, near the slave market. The grain store's main door was ajar, and there was no sign of pack animals tied to the hitching post in front of the door.
Art was a little disappointed and was about to leave when the door creaked open, and a chubby old man, wearing a felt hat, a leather coat, and ox-hide winter boots, stepped out.
“Good day, buddy, are you here so early to buy grain? Oh, I'm so sorry, the grain store has gone bankrupt and closed. You can try the free market or the grain store near the church.” The old man looked at Art and kindly reminded him.
“Good day, sir, I heard the grain store had a batch of pack animals for sale, so I thought I'd try my luck.” Art gave the fat old man a slight bow.
“Heh heh, buddy, I'm no sir; I'm just a commoner, the owner of this house. It seems you're out of luck. As you can see, the animals are all sold out, and the grain store owner also left Tinietz last night. Poor fellow, his entire grain transport caravan was massacred by bandits, and his only son didn't escape either.” The fat old man sighed softly, drawing the sign of the cross over his chest with his right hand.
“Thank you, and God be with you,” Art said, then turned to leave.
“Hey, buddy, what kind of animal are you looking to buy? A pack horse?” Art had only taken a few steps when the fat old man called out to him.
Art didn't want to waste time, but out of politeness, he turned back and told the fat old man that he wanted to buy a donkey to help him carry goods.
“Hmm, no donkeys, but I do have a sturdy mule. The grain store owner couldn't pay six months' rent, so he sold that mule to me at a discounted price. I had planned to sell it to a nearby manor in the spring, but if you're willing, I could sell it to you.” The fat old man was struggling to find a place to keep the mule, so he enthusiastically boasted about how strong and well-built the mule was, and how shiny its coat was.
Art was somewhat tempted. Although mules eat more and are more stubborn than donkeys, they can carry heavier loads, run faster, and have greater endurance.
Art and the old man agreed to meet at sunset to see the mule at the old man's temporary storage place, then Art returned to the inn.
By this time, the inn was bustling again. In a corner by the window, a country squire from the nearby suburbs, a merchant dressed in a brightly colored woolen winter coat, and several city freemen gathered around a knight, listening intently as he recounted various adventures and anecdotes from his travels and wartime experiences.
The knight had a large beard but was not very old; he had broad shoulders and a tall, slender build, with short brown hair. He wore a leather outer coat with traces of iron armor, a belt made of copper buckles, from which hung a short knife in a horn sheath, and a long sword for travel at his waist.
They sat there chatting, occasionally winking at the innkeeper to pour more wine.
“Noble knight, you've certainly seen a lot of the world!” one of the citizens said.
“Indeed! Not many among you have seen such things,” the knight replied proudly.
“There will be more in the future. Last year, I visited Bogdan in southern Provence. Its prosperity and richness…” The merchant's face was filled with yearning.
“Where is Bogdan?” a citizen interrupted.
“Friend, you should ask where its old site is, because that place no longer exists. This summer, Duke Witold ordered Count Wade Berlay to capture Bogdan. Bogdan was burned down, everything was looted; the citizens also fled. The nearby farmers all fled into the forest, and the land was abandoned,” the knight sighed.
Art, who had just stepped his left foot onto the wooden ladder, felt a jolt in his heart. The name “Wade Berlay” was too jarring. It was this “Earl” of bandit origin who had plotted to entrap and annex the Wells Family's territory back then. After that, he continuously sent people to hunt down the Wells father and son, attempting to root them out to prevent future trouble.
“I heard there’s going to be a war. Duke Vladis of Provence can no longer tolerate the barbaric actions of Lombardy Grand Duchy, and has already sent Marquis Kolai with troops to station in Vilno, north of Bogdan. Following that, he also sent Count Olesny to the northern continent to gather an army. I have already purchased the armor and horses needed for the expedition and am preparing to join Count Olesny…” the knight’s loud voice continued to ring out.
For an entire morning, Art’s soul was spent in painful struggle. The knight’s words ignited the original owner’s flame of revenge. With chaos approaching, this was an excellent opportunity. He could follow the knight and join Count Olesny. He wanted to personally cut off Wade Berlay’s head and wash away the humiliation with Wade Berlay’s blood.
But just as his blood began to boil, the new master of this body poured a bucket of cold water over it.
Regardless of whether he could defeat Wade Berlay, who possessed a bandit army, Art was currently just a hunter hidden in the valley, merely a strong lamb. Joining Count Olesny’s army would only allow him to be a light infantryman or an archer. If he was lucky, he might become a captain of the peasant militia. And then? Be used as cannon fodder in a charge during some battle, buried under some damp turf; or have an arm cut off in some siege, spending the rest of his life with one arm dangling, hiding in a dark corner, waiting for a fenny dropped by a kind passerby.
“This is not what you want!!! Did you return to this world just to die for others? You are not afraid of death, but you cannot die in vain! Have you forgotten your father’s last words: 'Until the lamb becomes a lion'?” The two souls within Art’s body were constantly fighting and clashing…
It wasn't until midday that reason triumphed over impulse, and the original owner and the new owner reached a consensus on “plotting for a resurgence”…
Art, pale and with dark lips, covered in a cold sweat, dragged his feet out of the room.
After a simple lunch of a bowl of pea and meat soup and a piece of rye bread, Art regained some color. After leaving one fenny for the meal and five fenny for the room, Art returned to his room, retrieved his goods, and exited the tavern.
The sun was almost setting when Art, sweating profusely, emerged from the last tailor’s shop. For the entire afternoon, Art had been moving between tanneries, fur shops, and tailor shops. In the words of those tanners and merchants, Art’s furs were as cheap as leaves picked from the ground. Art repeatedly emphasized the hardship and danger of hunting, and the smooth luster of the furs.
Ultimately, a high-quality bear skin sold for only one hundred twenty fenny at the fur shop, while a common deerskin fetched sixty fenny, as deerskin became increasingly scarce due to the tightening imperial forest laws. A slightly damaged wolf skin was sold to the tanner for twenty fenny, five fox skins and six marten skins were exchanged for one hundred fenny at the tailor shop; thirty pounds of smoked venison were exchanged for twenty-five fenny at the Lord's Hall kitchen; as for the remaining pile of small animal furs like rabbits and squirrels, after being picked through by the fur merchant, they were dismissed with twelve fenny.
Art was somewhat helpless. The great market had already passed, and large numbers of merchants and caravans had left Tinietz. Many commodity prices had begun to drop. All the hard work and adventure of the entire autumn had only brought in less than three hundred forty fenny.
When he arrived at the city wall on the southeast side of the free market, only the afterglow of the sun remained. Aside from the large and small markets, it was usually very quiet here, with many simple wooden sheds and straw mats empty. Following the fat old man's directions, Art quickly found the simple sheepfold.
The fat old man was standing on tiptoes, looking around. He was worried that the young man would change his mind and not come, in which case he would have to spend money to feed the mule.
“Oh God, you’re finally here, this old man is freezing to death,” the fat old man rubbed his hands and took a few steps forward.
“Uncle, I’m here now. It’s getting dark, let’s go see the mule,” Art’s eyes were immediately drawn to the mule.
This was a mature male mule. It had a thick head, slightly long ears, somewhat thin limbs, narrow hooves, short blue-black mane, a long tail, and stood about five and a half feet tall. In height and build, it was closer to a horse, with a braying sound like a donkey but also characteristics of a horse’s neigh.
“Friend, are you satisfied? Although this fellow eats a bit more than a donkey, he’s not picky, easy to raise, very strong, and has great endurance,” the fat old man saw Art’s expression, and knew this deal would most likely go through.
Art genuinely liked this strong mule, and couldn't help but approach it to stroke its fur, check its teeth, and gently pat its shoulders and hindquarters~
“Uncle, please name your price,” Art said straightforwardly.
Art bought the male mule for seven hundred fifty fenny. That evening, he signed the purchase contract at the fat old man’s home. Of course, Art did not leave his real name, but instead drew a cross.
Art was preparing for his return journey. Early in the morning, he strapped on his bow, buckled his sword, and led the green mule to the saddler’s shop.
The saddler was a bald, white-bearded old man. He had been an apprentice at a saddlery since he was fifteen, and was now the oldest saddler in Tinietz. Seven or eight sets of various saddles hung on the walls of the saddlery, including exquisite and beautiful silver-inlaid yew leather horse saddles, as well as simple and unadorned pine wood and iron pack saddles. Art, however, was drawn to a birch wood, leather-covered, iron-inlaid horse saddle.
“Child, you have good taste. Half a month ago, a bearded knight lord came here and gave me a drawing to make this saddle. The left and right saddle flaps of this saddle are quite ordinary, but the front and rear pommels are very different…” The old saddler stroked his beard and walked to Art’s side, introducing it in detail.
Art had seen this improved Mamluk saddle in Jerusalem when he accompanied his father during the Holy War. Art was severely wounded by Saladin’s cavalry, who rode on such saddles, back then.
His thoughts returned to the saddlery. After Art explained his purpose, the old saddler had his apprentice lead the green mule over to measure its shoulder width and chest circumference.
“Child, you’re in a bit too much of a hurry. I don’t have any suitable ready-made saddlery here. How about this, if you don’t mind, I have some old pack saddles and discarded saddles here. I can quickly modify a set of saddlery for your mule to use, how does that sound?” The old saddler proposed a temporary solution.
Art gladly accepted the old saddler’s suggestion.
While the old saddler and his apprentice were modifying the saddlery, Art was traversing through Tinietz’s grain stores, bakeries, blacksmiths, weapon shops, tailor shops, and general stores. He spent forty fenny at the grain store by the church to buy sixty pounds of hulled wheat, and thirty fenny at the bakery for ten three-pound rye loaves; a thick set of linen long-sleeved winter clothes cost him eighty fenny; a broadaxe, a saw, an iron chisel, a steel file, and a few wedges cost sixty fenny; an old repaired sheepskin quiver at the weapon shop was five fenny; and finally, at the general store, he spent twenty fenny on a one-pound bag of coarse salt, a small earthenware jar of strong ale, and some miscellaneous small items.
The sun began to set in the west. When Art arrived at the saddlery, carrying a large bundle of items, the old saddler and his apprentice were already fitting the saddlery onto the green mule.
The hastily modified saddlery was not exquisite: a pine wood, iron-inlaid, leather-covered horse saddle as the main structure, plus a soft and a hard double-layered saddle pad, sturdy leather girth, a pair of old stirrups, repaired stirrup leathers, two sheathing ropes each at the front and back, a crupper… The old saddler was very meticulous, also changing the green mule’s bridle, adding a saddle blanket, trimming its hooves, and shoeing it with iron.
Art took out a silver Mark and paid the old saddler, refusing the four fenny change. A complete set of sturdy saddlery was priced at one hundred forty fenny, and Art knew the old saddler didn't make much profit from this sale.
With everything ready, just as he was about to mount the mule, Art glanced back at the saddle on the wall. After a brief thought, he picked out a silver denier from his money pouch, turned, and handed it to the old saddler.
“Please inlay a silver-plated cross on the front pommel of that saddle, and please tell that bearded knight for me—may God be with him.” With that, he mounted the mule and casually rode away.
Emerging from the Tinietz saddlery, the sky was already tinged with the red glow of sunset. The city gate guards paid no attention to the pedestrians and caravans leaving the city. As Art rode the green mule out of the city, three riders were leading twenty-odd lightly armed short-spear infantry back into the city. They were the squad dispatched five days ago by County Magistrate Viscount Dion to eliminate bandits. Judging by their weary faces and dejected appearance, they had clearly returned without success.
The square-banner knight leading the squad curiously scrutinized the tall green mule. On the mule’s saddle, a travel short sword was attached to the left, a set of ox horn hunting bows hung on the right, and a bulging saddle blanket was tied to the sheathing ropes behind the saddle. Seated on the central saddle ridge was a young man with a fair complexion, long hair, short beard, hawk-like eyes, dressed in a long linen shirt, and wearing a large bear fur cloak.
Art lowered his head, lightly squeezed the mule’s belly, and quickly rode away.
