"Mr. Seber, look over there." The mercenary chief beside him took down the brass spyglass, peered toward the spire, then quickly handed it to the nobleman beside him.
Lord Golden Fruit sat calmly on his horse—a fine-blooded Eluin Anleke Horse. Eluin's hussars had once used them as warhorses. Although they later switched to wyverns, nobles still displayed their status by riding horses. He took the spyglass, glanced through it, then handed it expressionlessly to his companion: the portly industrialist Burnley.
Lord Golden Fruit was not particularly nervous. Even if Count Duen died on their territory, it would merely leave them disgraced. Local nobles like them did not care much about such things; they cared more about practical benefits. If His Majesty the King held them accountable, that old bastard Lyckbeson would bear the blame. It would not fall on local gentry like them.
To be honest, he would have preferred something to happen to Count Duen. However, he had not dared to make it too obvious. He had merely deliberately misjudged the situation, waiting until his private soldiers had assembled before launching the attack on the castle.
There was one thing he was determined to obtain: the man himself. Only by taking him would they have the advantage. If the White Mane Legion captured him, then, combined with the charge of altering military documents, the blame would probably land squarely on his head.
Burnley took the spyglass with a broad smile, looked through it, and said, "There's someone on the tip of the tower."
"Makalu, go bring me some archers. They must be at least advanced White rank. Don't bring any third-rate trash. Our opponent is a Black Iron Swordsman." Lord Golden Fruit pointed upward, then turned and instructed the mercenary chief from earlier.
"No problem, my lord. Just watch.