Sergeant

The guard's lips moved twice. In a fluster, he braced himself against the ground, picked up the halberd from the dirt, and his grip on the shaft trembled nonstop.

"I... I'll go report this." He turned and ran, then turned back after two steps. "Wait here. Don't move. Stay right here." Then he turned and ran off again.

Ron sat astride his horse, one hand resting on the haft of his battle axe as he waited. Sunlight shone from behind him, casting his shadow over the muddy ground of Crow's Nest.

Before long, a soldier in a breastplate strode out through the castle gate. He exchanged a few quiet words with the guard at the village entrance, then turned and beckoned to Ron's group.

"The Baron is waiting for you." He glanced over the silent cavalrymen before quickly looking away. "You can tie your horses to the posts ahead."

Karl swung down from his horse and pulled his lance free from its leather scabbard with one hand, planting the butt on the ground.

The ten guards dismounted almost at once, their armor plates clashing in a crisp, unified metallic ring. Karl moved to the front, his visor lowered once more, leaving only his eyes visible through the slit.

Ron stepped down from his horse, lifting his battle axe in one hand. The axe blade sliced through the air with a whistle.

Inside the hall, the logs in the fireplace burned brightly, casting alternating light and shadow. The tapestries hanging on the walls had faded badly, their patterns no longer discernible, while their corners had been eaten through by moths until they resembled sieves.

A broad, gray-bearded man sat in a high-backed oak chair before the fireplace, with a pewter cup at his side.

Several old soldiers stood behind him. Their breastplates were not of a standard make—some wore old Temerian half-plate, while others had on hardened leather mercenary vests—but they all stood the same way, their weight slightly forward, hands hanging beside their sword hilts. They were not putting on a show; they could draw their swords at any moment.

The Baron did not rise. His gaze moved from Ron's battle axe to Karl's full plate armor, then to the ten armored cavalrymen outside the hall. His hand paused briefly on the rim of his cup before he lifted it and took a sip.

Ron stopped in the center of the hall. Karl stood half a step behind him, while the ten guards remained outside, facing the Baron's men. Neither side offered any pleasantries.

The Baron pointed to the empty chair opposite him. Ron sat down, resting his battle axe against the armrest.

"The Calrad Mercenary Company." The Baron repeated the name. "Never heard of it."

"You have now."

The corner of the Baron's mouth twitched. "You've got nerve. The quartermaster told me an armed group had appeared to the southeast, hijacking his ships, intercepting his goods, killing his men. He asked me to send troops to wipe you out."

"He was right. I took the ship. The goods are in my camp warehouse. I killed the scouts."

One of the old soldiers behind the Baron lightly brushed his fingers over his sword hilt. The Baron himself did not move.

"Ha. You admit it readily enough. Aren't you afraid I'll call men over and keep you here?"

"While you call for men, I'll walk out through the front gate. Your letter asked whether I wanted to enter through the front gate or climb the walls. I chose the front gate. A man who walks in through the front gate won't flee through a back window."

The Baron raised his pewter cup and drank, studying Ron over its rim. When he set it back down, its base made a soft clink against the table.

"The quartermaster says you're rebels."

"No. Rebels have banners, slogans, political goals. I have none. He raided my camp and took my people. I took them back, along with a little extra."

Ron reached beneath the lining of his breastplate, pulled out a stack of folded papers, and gently placed them on the table.

The Baron did not reach for them immediately. He first looked at the papers, then at Ron. Only then did he push his cup aside and pick up the top sheet.

His lips moved as he silently read the entries. By the third sheet, his brow lowered.

"Walter. I remember that name. Crow's Nest patrols detained one of his ships before. A Nilfgaardian garrison logistics officer came personally to negotiate, saying the vessel was transporting requisitioned military supplies."

"How many people were on that ship?"

The Baron did not answer. His eyes fell upon the numbers. Beside every number was a place name. He clenched the paper tightly enough that its edges curled.

The old soldier behind him tilted his head slightly and glanced over the sheet. His Adam's apple bobbed, but he said nothing.

The Baron placed the paper back on the table and tapped the line of numbers on the transfer order with his index finger.

"The number sequence on this order is genuine. I've seen this format before. Temeria's quartermaster corps used similar numbering. It can't be forged."

He paused and leaned back in his chair, which let out a dull groan.

"In the slave trade, frontline officers provide equipment and protection, while agents handle capture and transport. Behind every black glove stands someone with the authority to sign transfer orders."

The Baron did not respond. He lifted his cup and took a sip. Firelight danced across his face, deepening the shadows in his eye sockets.

Of course he had heard of such things. He had been stuck in these swamps for so long that he had thought himself used to them. But laying that habit out on paper, in black and white—every stroke bearing a number, every number tied to a buyer—was something else entirely.

He set his cup back on the table, its base striking the wood with a dull, soft sound.

"What do you want from me?" His voice was much lower than before.

"Legal ownership of the estate, and an appointment as sergeant."

The Baron's fingers lightly tapped the armrest twice. He did not answer at once.

His gaze lingered on Ron's face. "An abandoned castle and an honorary title. Those things won't make you stronger. You already have soldiers and equipment. Why do you want them?"

"For legitimacy and legal standing. Without them, my camp is merely an abandoned castle occupied by armed bandits. Anyone who attacks me is simply clearing out bandits.

"With your appointment, my camp becomes the station of the Velen lord's sergeant. If Nilfgaardian officers want to move against me, they'll have to consider your reaction first."

The Baron's jaw shifted slightly as he looked again at the topmost transfer order.

"This evidence is useless in my hands. In yours, you can use it to threaten the quartermaster into halting the collection of supplies from Velen. You don't need to turn hostile. You only need to let him know you have it."

The Baron's finger slowly traced a circle around the rim of his cup.

"I can do other things as well. I have men. I don't need you to provide supplies or equipment. I can handle matters you cannot conveniently deal with openly—for example, eliminating slave catchers who cross the line.

"The patrols can't cover every stretch of swamp. I can fill the gaps. You don't need to know the details of every operation. You only need to know that there is an armed force working for you."

The Baron was silent for a long time. For a moment, the air between them was utterly still. He placed his hand on the table, pressing down the corner of the stack of evidence, then looked up at Ron.

"Your camp is yours. I'll give you the appointment papers and proof of ownership. If Nilfgaardian officers come looking to cause you trouble, let them come to me first." He paused.

"But when I need you, you will obey my orders and work for me."

"Deal."

The Baron rose, took a roll of blank parchment from a wooden rack beside the fireplace, then dug out parchment and ink from the drawer of a low table.

His handwriting was large, his wording brief and direct. When he finished, he turned the parchment toward Ron: proof of ownership for the estate and an appointment as sergeant.

His seal was stamped at the bottom, dark red, the same color as his broad robe.

Ron reached out and took the parchment. The system panel in the upper-right corner of his vision flashed, and a line of pale golden text appeared at the bottom of the interface:

Territory construction function unlocked.

The Baron tossed the seal back into the drawer. "Let me remind you of something."

Ron looked up.

"The quartermaster won't stop. He never took Crow's Nest seriously before, and now he's seen you and me sitting together. He won't back down. He'll only grow more desperate. A cornered dog bites, and when Nilfgaard's black-skinned dogs are cornered, they'll call upon things far more troublesome than scouts."

"No rush." Ron stood and put away the parchment.

"His first mistake, I took his equipment.

"His second mistake, I took his name.

"His third mistake—I have patience."

The Baron rested his cup on his knee. The corner of his mouth moved. He was smiling, an expression that had rarely appeared on his face after spending so long in this mire. He found it interesting.

"The Calrad Mercenary Company," he said.

"The Calrad Mercenary Company," Ron said.

Ron reached out and pushed open the gates of Crow Castle. Afternoon sunlight poured in from outside, and the ten armored cavalrymen were still standing where they had been.

Ron stepped out, his leather boots striking the flagstones with a dull echo.