Choosing Warriors

"White-faced? Which one of the lackeys under my command has the nickname White-faced?"

Near the abandoned mill north of Luo Ke Lanzha, Olaf, the pirates' third leader, had just finished lunch when a minor lackey led him somewhere secluded and told him what he had accidentally overheard from Ponytail.

"Third Leader, none of us has the nickname White-faced. Maybe White-faced isn't a nickname at all—maybe he just has a white face," the lackey quietly reminded him.

The third leader suddenly understood. His expression turned grave, and his right hand instinctively clenched the hilt of his sword. He glanced back at the mill. "You mean Sea Monster?"

Though this lackey was still young, he had already been a pirate for two years. Small and scrawny, he was always bullied by others. Only the third leader usually treated him fairly well.

"His face is the palest, and he's long wanted to take the first leader's place." The lackey had suffered plenty of beatings from Sea Monster and bore a deep grudge.

The third leader said nothing, silently turning it over in his mind. Sea Monster colluded with that bastard Baron and killed the first leader.

No wonder he pushed so hard to make the boys go to Brodick for revenge. He was planning to trade our lives for his own wealth and glory.

"Bastard. I never could stand the sight of him." Veins bulged on the third leader's hand gripping the sword.

The lackey grew more frightened the more he thought about it. "Then let's tell the others and run."

"No. That bastard has prepared for this. These past two days, his trusted men have never left his side. He's definitely guarding against us." After a brief thought, the third leader quietly instructed him, "Secretly contact the boys who usually hate the second leader. Tell them to watch out for the people around him."

The lackey murmured his agreement, gathered up the dry grass from the ground, and returned to the fire outside the mill.

"Roger, just who are you? You actually killed Ulf in a single blow..." The third leader could not help looking south.

"...At that moment, Young Master Roger surged forward with a thrust and instantly took down the great bandit Ulf. Blood splashed across the sky..."

"I was roused to bloody courage too. I grabbed a stool and was about to smash it down, holding off two pirate lackeys by sheer force..."

One listener voiced a doubt. "That's not right. I heard the stableman say it was Ponytail who grabbed the stool and stopped those pirate lackeys."

"That's right, where's Ponytail? Why haven't we seen him?"

Baldhead bulged his toad eyes and shot a glance at the idler who had interrupted him. "That coward Ponytail ran off ages ago. How could he have had the guts? It was obviously me..."

Outside the Red Mill, seven or eight hooligans and twenty or thirty islanders crowded around Baldhead, listening to him talk with flying brows and spraying spit about the thrilling tale of "Young Master Roger, acting on the Baron's secret orders, ambushing and killing the pirate giant Ulf."

Paper could not wrap fire. The dreadful news that Roger had killed the pirate Ulf in the Red Mill eventually reached those islanders who had come after being "deceived."

Once they learned their opponents were not Luo Ke Lanzha's savages but pirates who murdered and set fires, more than a hundred people left at once, most of them women and children.

They were all idle folk bored to death during the slack farming season. The crops needed little tending at this time of year anyway, so they had followed the crowd to watch the excitement and get a free meal.

Yet around two hundred islanders with a bit more nerve chose to stay, because after lunch, Young Master White-faced John had come out of the castle to calm everyone down.

From White-faced, they learned that Baron John had arranged this ambush before leaving and had prepared follow-up measures as well, though he did not explain further for the sake of secrecy.

White-faced stated plainly that everyone had been summoned to Brodick to select warriors to defend the town and castle until the Baron's army returned.

Young Master John also raised the pay for ordinary recruits from one penny to two.

They only had to defend the town and castle, yet they could earn generous pay and rewards. Quite a few islanders were eager to make a move.

But for the vast majority of ordinary islanders who had merely followed the crowd, another piece of good news was what truly made them stay—Young Master Roger, newly appointed by White-faced John as commander of the "garrison," declared on the spot that any islander who remained would receive a free meal of meat soup and barley porridge at sunset, with all they could eat.

To attract more islanders, Roger spent another two pennies to hire the two wandering bards hiding in the Red Mill, having them sing lewd songs beneath the shade of the oak tree before the mill.

These islanders, starved of spiritual diversion, immediately rejoiced.

Having steadied the islanders, Roger began selecting "warriors" to form an "anti-bandit army."

Hooligans like Baldhead were of no help at all with such a task, so Roger invited the constable from Brodick Castle to assist.

The constable was over fifty. A half-suit of chainmail covered his short, stocky body, while the one-handed sword at his waist was plain and unadorned. The palm-sized burn scar on his face and his left hand, severed at shoulder height, had both been brought back from the battlefield.

Although the constable seemed deeply unwilling to associate with him, Roger had known at first sight that this man could be entrusted with heavy responsibilities. That steady bearing, forged through life and death, could never be casually feigned.

After thinking carefully, Roger remembered that this one-armed constable truly was no ordinary man.

His name was Gowan. He had once been Roger's grandfather's personal retainer and had followed Roger's grandfather into battle many times.

After Roger's grandfather died, he became the infantry commander of the current Baron of Allen Island, until five years ago, when he lost his left arm fighting the English alongside Baron John.

Even though he was already over fifty, Baron John had still made him Allen Island's constable, showing just how highly he valued him.

From the bottom of his heart, the one-armed constable loathed this Young Master Roger beside him, a man who had committed every evil imaginable.

But today concerned the safety of all Allen Island, and he was its constable. He could only obey Young Master John's orders and leave the castle with one constable's guard to help select able-bodied men.

With a face full of grievances, the constable arrived at the crossroads and stood alone beneath the stone pillar.

"Everyone, gather around to be selected."

"Get your asses over here, all of you! Move it!" The one-armed constable bellowed twice in his booming voice at the islanders chatting idly in groups of three and five.

The constable's guard immediately raised his short club, rushed into the crowd, and drove them together with a flurry of blows.

Several dozen islanders preparing to enlist gathered over, while the remaining idlers tore themselves away from the wandering bards' lewd songs and came over to watch.

Once seventy or eighty islanders had gathered to await selection, the one-armed constable glanced at Roger.

Roger nodded at him. "Master Gowan, you have experience choosing soldiers. I'll leave it to you."

The one-armed man gave Roger a strange look. This demon seemed vastly changed from before today.

But he did not bother wondering whether Roger had been hit hard enough to damage his brain. He only wanted to finish this nonsense quickly and return to guard the castle.

"...Little Devon, you're only twelve. Why aren't you home helping your mother herd sheep? What are you doing here joining the fun? Go home."

"Haji, your father died in battle last year. Do you want your younger brothers and sisters to starve to death? Get out."

"Crooked Nose, you cowardly bastard, your mother is nearly dying of illness. Instead of taking care of her at home, you're here again trying to swindle money and muddle through life. Get lost, or I'll knock that crooked nose right off your face." The constable lifted his foot and kicked a man with a crooked bridge of his nose out of the line.

"Old Woodcutter, how old are you already? Still coming out to make trouble? Take your broken axe and go watch from the side."

"Fisherman, your wife just died. What are you doing here? If you die too, who will raise your three children?"

Swinging his half-empty sleeve, the one-armed constable paced back and forth through the recruits, driving out those islanders who could not fight at all or were unsuited for battle.

This old man had spent many years in the ranks, possessed abundant combat experience, knew the island well, and commanded great respect. Roger was glad he had found the right man.

The one-armed constable had long known the true purpose behind Roger's recruitment of "warriors." He truly could not bear to let islanders with no skill or family burdens accompany that demon of a young master to their deaths, so his selection was extremely strict.

"Fat Widow, what are you doing running in here? Fighting is men's business. Since when was it your turn, a widow, to join the fun?" The one-armed constable stopped before Fat Widow in the last row.

Fat Widow lived up to her name. Not only was she fat, she was sturdy. Roger gave her a sidelong glance—she was taller than him and twice his size.

"Lord Constable, isn't it just defending the town and fighting pirates? I'm not afraid of pirates."

"Even a soft egg like Missing Tooth can get selected. I could beat him to death with one hand." As Fat Widow spoke, she raised an arm thicker than an ordinary person's calf. "If pirates dare come, I'll tuck one under each arm and fuck two to death at once."

"Fat Widow, you can tuck another one underneath. Then you can fuck three to death at once." Someone in the crowd cracked a crude joke, and laughter erupted.

Following the direction of the voice, Fat Widow discovered that Missing Tooth, the hooligan she had just mentioned, was mocking her for having "fucked" her husband to death.

Fury surged in Fat Widow's chest. She raised a hand and pointed at him. "Missing Tooth, you bastard! Want me to knock out a few more of your front teeth?"

Even louder laughter burst from the crowd.

The one-armed constable's face turned ashen. He no longer paid Fat Widow any mind.

He glanced at Baldhead, Missing Tooth, and several other hooligans mixed into the recruits. Too lazy to drive them out, he simply decided to let such scum go die alongside that demon of a young master—an excellent chance to clear away this human trash.

After making several rounds, fewer than fifty remained from the seventy or eighty islanders who had volunteered.

"Young Master Roger, that's about enough. The ones left are all fairly sturdy. A dozen or so have even followed the Baron off the island to fight before, so they're better than ordinary farmers."

"Pick through them yourself, then take the chosen men into the castle armory to select weapons." The one-armed constable turned to leave after speaking.

Roger hurriedly grabbed him, only to realize he had caught the man's empty sleeve, and promptly let go.

"Does Young Master Roger still need help?" The one-armed constable sounded somewhat displeased.

Roger said nothing. He took several silver pennies from his sleeve, pulled over the one-armed man's other hand, and placed them in it. "Master Gowan, you've worked hard. Take this money and buy the boys a mug of ale."

The one-armed man raised his hand and saw no fewer than six silver coins in his palm. The look in his eyes as he gazed at Roger became even more complicated.

He wanted to say something more, but the words caught in his throat. He nodded in thanks and led the constable's guard back to the castle.