Medieval: Kingdom Come: Deliverance

Chapter 182 Establishing Prestige

Chapter 183 Establishing Prestige

Peter rode on Attila's back, feeling the powerful creature's rhythmic gait as it ran, the wind rushing past his ears.

"What a fine horse! Now it's mine."

Peter now understands how Lü Bu felt when he got Red Hare. With the steed, powerful bow, and long halberd, enemies couldn't get close at all. He could fight or run whenever he wanted.

This is what it means to be able to go anywhere in the world!

Peter was just as delighted as the rest of the Silver Dawn Knights. It was their first team-building activity, and Peter led them to accomplish a remarkable task. Each of them had three horses, and the horses were laden with oats they had stolen from the horse farm, heavy as the weight of hope.

Before dawn, they arrived at the village of Misco.

The thin boy named Jacob followed beside the group, his eyes fixed on the three returned draft horses as if they were lost and found family.

Peter's red hair was hidden beneath his helmet; only his calm eyes were visible as he surveyed the village. The air was thick with the scent of pine needles and damp earth, and a few crows startled from the treetops, cawing shrilly. It was safe.

"Sir, our village is just ahead," Jacob said softly, his fingers nervously twisting the hem of his clothes. "But—but everyone is struggling. Will you really return our three horses?"

Peter didn't answer, but simply patted the boy's shoulder gently.

When they arrived at the village entrance, they were greeted by a scene of desolation: thatched roofs had collapsed, fences were leaning precariously, and several emaciated wild dogs were rummaging through the ruins for food.

Several elderly people huddled on the threshold of the mountain, looking at them with cloudy eyes; a few teenagers peeked through the crack in the door, their ribs clearly visible under their thin shirts, like dried tree branches.

An old woman was stirring a thin vegetable soup in an iron pot with a wooden spoon. The soup was almost transparent, with only a few wild vegetable leaves floating on top.

This place was originally a prosperous village, covering a large area with a population of over five hundred. There were taverns and blacksmiths, and the people were hardworking and simple.

But now it's very desolate. Some young people saw them riding towards them from afar and ran towards the village.

Peter reined in his horse, signaling the group to stop. He didn't dismount, but instead untied six sacks of oats from his horse and helped young Jacob place them on the backs of the three draft horses.

"This is what we promised you," Peter whispered to Jacob, his voice like a breeze through the woods. "Tell the villagers that this is a gesture of goodwill from the Knights of the Silver Dawn."

"Thank you, sir. I've told everyone that the Knights of the Silver Dawn helped us. But, how should I address you?"

Jacob asked, his eyes reddening.

Peter waved his hand, said nothing more, turned his horse around, and led the group to gallop around the edge of the village.

The thunderous sound of horses' hooves echoed throughout the village.

Peter raised his sword high, its blade tracing a silver arc in the sunlight, and his voice was loud and resolute: "No taxes, no grain, let us welcome the King of Brunswick!"

"No taxes, no grain levies, let's welcome the King of Brunswick!"

The orderly, continuous shouts echoed across the open fields, falling like seeds into the soil. More villagers peeked out of their houses, some with fear on their faces, others whispering amongst themselves.

They were astonished when they saw Jacob return with three horses and six sacks of oats.

An elderly hunchback walked unsteadily to the bag of oats, touched it with his hand, and murmured, "It's grain—real grain—"

Jacob ran back to the village, excitedly recounting Peter's help, how he retrieved the horses from the stables, and how he was escorted back safely.

A young mother picked up her crying, hungry baby and whispered, "They're calling for Brunswick—is he the legendary hero?"

"They're not nobles, are they? Why would nobles give us food?"

"The leading knight helped Jacob up and wiped his face—"

"King Brunswick? Is he going to lead us in rebellion?"

"Does a place really exist where no taxes or grain levies are paid?"

"Everyone, quickly gather up the grain! Luckily, that lord's lackey, the executor, didn't come today, or he would definitely have taken it from us!"

The sound of horses' hooves faded into the distance, but the discussions spread like wildfire throughout the village.

Jacob stood at the village entrance, gazing for a long time in the direction where they had disappeared, his fingers unconsciously stroking the mane of the draft horse, as if to confirm that this was not a dream.

Meanwhile, at Malesov Castle.

The morning sunlight streamed through the castle's high windows into Count von Borghese's study, but it could not dispel the gloom in his heart.

He was sitting at the oak table, trying to numb himself with a glass of wine. Ever since he was defeated by Peter the Red at Trotsky, he was like a flying fish with broken wings, unable to fly anymore.

The steward stumbled in, his forehead covered in sweat and his robe stained with mud. "My lord, something terrible has happened!"

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His voice trembled like withered leaves in the autumn wind, "The horse ranch—the horse ranch has been robbed! Those bandits stole twenty warhorses, all the steeds, and even your Attila—"

"Attila?"

Feng Boergao suddenly stood up, the wine glass slipped from his hand, and the crimson wine splashed onto the carpet, as glaring as blood.

He roared again, "My warhorse? How dare those lowly commoners! Where are the Hungarian soldiers I hired?"

"Almost all of them are dead, Your Excellency, only a clerk with no fighting skills remains."

He gripped the edge of the table tightly to keep himself from fainting from his rage. Attila was his last pride, that pure black Andalusian horse that had accompanied him on his conquests, now, like his honor, had been so easily taken away.

He slumped back into his chair, covering his face with his hands. Peter's red hair and calm eyes flashed through his mind; that defeat was like a thorn, deeply embedded in his heart.

He dared not attend noble gatherings, fearing he would hear their snickers: "Look, von Polgar can't even beat a country knight!"

.

Now, even staying at home has brought him this misfortune. He feels like a flying insect trapped in a spider web, the more he struggles, the tighter the restraints become.

"Investigate! Interrogate that clerk to find out if he colluded with those lowly people to do it! Find them and hang them!" Feng Boer roared, his voice filled with desperate anger.

The butler bowed his head and quickly agreed, then retreated in small steps.

Outside the window, a crow landed on a branch, cawing mockingly. Feng Boer grabbed a book and threw it out, only to be met with an even louder cawing from the crow.

In the afternoon, Peter and his party rested in the woods south of Misco village.

They sat around a fallen giant tree, its bark covered in moss, with a few ants bustling around their feet.

Peter removed his helmet, his red hair gleaming like flames in the sunlight. He shook the sweat from his hair and quickly put it back on, preferring to show his face rather than expose his red hair.

"We have horses now, but we still need logistics."

Peter said that the perfect success of the first operation allowed him to begin establishing his authority within this three-way knightly order.

"Although we must drift like the wind, just as a knight needs a squire, we need a few places to stay, where someone can repair our armor, heal our wounds, and care for our horses."

Black Bartosh was wiping his longsword, the blade reflecting his serious face. "Sir, you mean the supply depot?" Peter nodded. "I prefer to call it a base. It must be concealed, close to water, and easy to retreat from. Combatants can be deployed at any time."

He took a rough sheepskin map from his bag and laid it on the tree trunk. The map marked the mountains and rivers of the Kutenberg region, the ink already somewhat faded.

"The den of demons in the northeast corner counts as half," he said, pointing to a point on the map. "It's a mixed bag there, and we can't go there often, lest we be betrayed."

"Sukdor in the southwest corner can also be considered half a man. Sir Pisek is an upright man, but Marquis Jöbst is hard to control."

We need more bases. Does anyone have any suggestions?

Kubinka, inspecting his musket, suddenly looked up and asked, "Sir, have you heard of the peasant uprising in Misco village?"

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