Cobbling Together a "Bandit Suppression Army"

When Roger returned to the castle barracks with the three thugs who had just been released from prison, the dozen-odd bandit-suppression "warriors" had already divided up all the weapons and armor scavenged from the watchtower armory.

Birds of a feather flocked together; men sorted themselves by kind. The dozen or so people in the barracks had roughly split into three groups.

Baldhead and Missing Tooth believed staying alive came first, so armor was the most important thing. That suit of cloth-covered iron armor ought to be saved for Roger, so they had not dared touch it. Instead, they wrapped themselves in the two hole-riddled padded coats.

Baldhead had somehow found some needle and thread and was trying to sew up the gash across the chest of his padded coat. But judging by his crude stitching, it would surely split open again after only a few steps.

Missing Tooth's padded coat was riddled with holes and beyond patching, so he simply gave up on it. He wore it with a tear here and a hole there, looking remarkably fashionable.

Though the other thugs had some notoriety on the island, none of those who could remain in this barracks were soft eggs. Their usual routine of bullying the weak and fearing the strong was utterly useless here.

Thus, in the scramble just now, the three thugs had only gotten a chipped arming sword and a short spear. The five thugs were now huddled together, discussing how to divide them among themselves.

The islanders who had fought with the army before, on the other hand, had plenty of gear in their hands. Short spears were what they knew best, so all five remaining short spears had gone to them.

They had also claimed two badly damaged small round shields. At heart, these people were still simple commoners, and they had no idea how to distribute seven weapons and pieces of protective gear among nine people. They were caught between a rock and a hard place.

The two hunters had certainly not joined the scramble. They made their living hunting, so they naturally carried hunting bows and short knives with them. Those two hunting bows might not meet military standards, but they were definitely more useful than those broken knives and rotten swords. So they simply stood to one side and watched the show.

As for the fat widow, she clearly did not know how to use weapons, much less choose one. Relying on her burly build, she had charged into the crowd and snatched a weapon at random. The thin chopping blade in her hand felt less useful than a kitchen knife for cutting vegetables. She stared blankly at the others.

Roger, leading several gaunt thugs through the door, drew everyone's attention. Baldhead immediately recognized the filthy, haggard man following behind Roger as Blackhide Dog. Overjoyed, he hurried forward and hugged him. "Blackhide Dog, how did you get out?"

"Good fellow, you've gotten thin." As he spoke, Baldhead glanced at Roger. Seeing him talking with several islanders, he quickly pulled a piece of bread from inside his black woolen sweater and stuffed it into Blackhide Dog's hand. "Hurry and eat."

Baldhead then noticed two more thugs behind Blackhide Dog and realized they were both fellows who had been thrown into the dungeon some time ago. He asked in surprise, "How did you all get out?"

The two thugs who had just been released kept their eyes fixed on Blackhide Dog's stuffed-full mouth, their Adam's apples bobbing constantly.

Baldhead turned to look, then pulled two more secretly stashed pieces of bread from his clothes. The two thugs quickly took them and crammed them into their mouths.

Before long, Blackhide Dog had rolled his eyes and forcibly swallowed the bread lodged in his throat. Only then did he reply, "Young Master Roger came to the dungeon and said we were going to risk our lives against the pirates in the north of the island. Anyone who dared go would be released, and if we drove off the pirates, our crimes would be forgiven. I'm not afraid of death, so of course I came out."

"Green Toad, what's going on here?" Blackhide Dog was shocked to discover that Baldhead had changed outfits. He wore a padded coat, and a black-sheathed dagger hung at his waist. "You're going to fight too?"

"Recently, I've been—"

"Baldhead." Just as Baldhead was about to launch into an extravagant retelling of his heroic deeds over the past two days, Young Master Roger's voice sounded behind him. He quickly turned and bent at the waist. "Young Master Roger, you called for me?"

"Take them to the market town and collect all the handy weapons brought by the islanders. Tell everyone Young Master Roger will pay rent: one quarter penny for each item."

"Pick carefully. We're going to fight pirates; those things are for keeping us alive."

"You lot had better keep your mouths shut. Don't go spreading our plans outside. Be careful, or I'll cut out your tongues."

Baldhead nodded and bowed, repeatedly agreeing.

"Also, lead the green mule I tied in the stable in here. Have my steward put the prepared wine and food on the mule's back. We'll have to settle our dinner in the north."

"Yes, yes, Young Master." Baldhead led the few islanders Roger had singled out from the barracks.

A number of weapons were piled in the open space outside the barracks.

Two sets of constable weapons and armor, one badly damaged suit of cloth-covered iron armor, and a crossbow with a bundle of bolts.

Beside these weapons was a pile of implements meant for civilian brawls: a firewood axe, two long-handled hook sickles, a blacksmith's heavy hammer, three thick-ended long cudgels, and an iron-tipped pitchfork. There was even a homemade wolf-toothed club studded with iron nails.

Roger seriously suspected that people of this era had an excessively bloody understanding of village-level brawls. He picked up a hook sickle from the ground and pressed his thumb against its edge to test its sharpness.

This sort of long-handled hook sickle was exceptionally sharp. Its blade was forged from fine iron and was very thin, with a ridge along its spine. The blade was shaped like a crescent moon, while the entire weapon resembled an oversized sickle, as tall as a man. It was the most important and precious farm tool in a peasant household.

If this thing accidentally hooked someone by the head, the sight would be far too bloody.

Under the eaves of the barracks, with several islanders who had seen battle doing their best to maintain order, twenty-one people barely managed to form two crooked rows in the open space outside.

Several servants and constables from the castle stood nearby, pointing and commenting as they watched the excitement.

Roger adjusted the padded coat he wore over his leather armor, stripped from a constable. The thing was truly uncomfortable to wear. He decided he would take it off shortly and put it back on after they reached their destination. Otherwise, he would roast to death before arriving.

He had no idea how those constables endured this equipment all year round.

"Anyone who's fought in more than three battles, step forward," Roger shouted.

After some whispering in the crowd, an islander timidly asked, "Y-Young Master Roger, um... do defeats count?"

This drew a burst of laughter from the castle servants watching nearby.

Roger turned and glared at them viciously. The onlookers immediately scattered.

"Defeats count too," Roger answered helplessly as he turned back.

One man stepped out from the ranks. He was short, but fairly sturdy. He was the third islander to step forward and enlist at the church, a hopeless gambler who had even gambled away his wife.

He was a spearman? Roger thought. Cannon fodder like this was usually spearmen. It was not hard to guess.

"Yes, Young Master Roger."

"Have you served as a front-rank spearman?"

"Once. But that time, the English chased us for more than ten miles." The man was honest enough to air even the disgraceful matter of being routed and pursued for ten miles.

Roger raised a hand to stop him from further shaking morale. He pointed out the padded coat and iron-winged short spear stripped from another constable. The islander stepped forward to claim the weapons and armor, then awkwardly put them on.

"Anyone who's fought in two battles, step forward."

This time, three islanders stepped out, each wearing the dazed expression of an ordinary farmer.

Roger walked up to the sturdiest farmer and spotted a scar on his chin. "Left by an enemy?"

"Y-Yes. An Englishman's horse kicked me."

Roger gave an "oh" and asked, "Have you killed an enemy?"

"I stabbed one enemy in the backside with a spear. We were retreating in a hurry, so I don't know whether he died."

Another man who had experienced defeat, though he put it much more tactfully than the previous one.

"Very good. Daring to raise your spear and stab an enemy in the backside was very brave." Roger truly did not know how to encourage him.

Turning sideways, Roger called to Baldhead, who stood in the line behind the farmer in his padded coat with his head held high and chest puffed out. "Baldhead, take off your padded coat and give it to him."

It was life-saving gear. How could Baldhead willingly give it to someone else? He dawdled, unwilling to move.

"Take it off and give it to him. You'll kill enemies from the rear ranks with bow and crossbow." Roger bent down and picked up the crossbow from the ground.

When Baldhead heard he could kill enemies from the rear ranks, he thought for a moment, then immediately took off his tattered padded coat.

"Y-Young Master, I can use a crossbow too." The farmer who had stabbed an enemy in the backside was also unwilling to wear the padded coat. He knew anyone wearing armor would definitely have to charge at the very front.

"No. What I need are warriors like you to charge the formation with me. Hurry and choose a handy iron spear."

The farmer looked utterly miserable.

"Don't worry. The farther forward you charge, the greater the reward." Roger gestured for the farmer to hurry back into line, then briefly switched the weapons of the remaining two men.

"Next, anyone who thinks he dares fight and kill, step forward."

Seven or eight people stepped out, including both thugs and islanders. They were all clever folk and knew that the farther back they stayed, the fewer weapons would remain for them to choose from.

But they did not know that the finer the weapons and armor, the greater the chance they would be forced to rush forward and throw away their lives.

Roger inspected them one by one and, based on his rough estimate of their combat ability, issued several of them short spears, long-handled sickles, wolf-toothed clubs, and other highly lethal weapons.

That suit of cloth-covered iron armor had originally been saved by Baldhead for Roger, but seeing how badly damaged and heavy it was, Roger gave it to Blackhide Dog, who had just been released from prison.

"Fat Widow, what weapon do you want? Pick one."

The fat widow strode forward with earth-shaking steps. After eyeing the few remaining weapons, she tossed aside the chopping blade in her hand and picked up the blacksmith's heavy hammer. She weighed it in her hand. It was fairly handy.

"The rest of you, choose a weapon that suits you."

Those who had not gotten weapons rushed forward to snatch up the "weapons" on the ground.

A short while later, each of the twenty-one bandit-suppression "warriors" basically had something in hand. A few even had complete armor and weapons. At first glance, they truly looked somewhat the part.

"Move out. From now on, no one is allowed to speak without permission, and no one is allowed to leave the formation at will." Roger led over a riding horse selected from the castle stables and took the lead toward the small gate behind the castle...

Counting Roger himself, there were twenty-two "warriors," plus one horse and one mule. The grand "Bandit Suppression Army" slipped out through the rear gate of Brodick Castle, drawing out a long column along the gentle slope behind the castle, its "blade of war" pointed straight north.