Medieval: Kingdom Come: Deliverance

Chapter 191 The Old Wolf Emerges from its Den

Chapter 192 The Old Wolf Emerges from its Den

Summer is rainy.

The heavy oak windows of the Kutenberg City Hall barely kept out the rain, but couldn't stop the anxiety that permeated the room.

A circle of faces, their expressions shifting between anger and uncertainty, surrounded the long conference table. Municipal official Jerome Naz, his mood irritated, stared at the wax seal of the Hungarian military commander, Dukat, on the unfolded parchment.

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

He practically forced the words out through gritted teeth, "Damn it, from which rat hole did these cavalrymen crawl out? Who gave them the guts to shout such inflammatory slogans?"

He was thoroughly fed up lately. He had to squeeze military funds from the citizens like a sponge, suppress the growing discontent in the city, and appease the nobles who were watching him like vultures. Jerome felt like he was walking on a single log across a cliff, and now, this so-called "Silver Dawn" Knights had poured a layer of slippery oil on that log.

"Would anyone actually believe such a completely impossible lie?"

Sir Collier stroked his neatly trimmed goatee, his tone carrying the usual sense of superiority befitting a manor lord.

The silver goblet in front of him still contained more than half a glass of wine.

"When people are starving to death, they can even swallow tree bark and soil; even the most absurd statements can be taken as gospel by some."

"The armorer, Nicholas Crandall, spoke in a low voice, his large hand, covered in burn scars and calluses, unconsciously stroking the rough wooden tabletop, as if it were the anvil he used to hammer away at all those years," he said. "Like that winter, when I was young and lying in the snow, I felt like my insides were frozen solid. My master, Master Bick, told me that if I followed him, he would provide food and lodging, and even a leather coat to keep me warm, and that I would develop an iron body. I believed him, and then I put on a leather apron and worked for him with his sledgehammer for ten years. I didn't earn a penny, only enough black bread and vegetable soup to fill my stomach."

The master weaver, Tuchmacher, cleared his throat and chuckled, "Nicholas, at least you have a place to stay. Back in my day—"

"My God! Gentlemen, we're discussing the dreaded issue of not paying taxes or grain rations! Please, have some respect for Lord Natsu's anxiety, okay?"

The tavern owner, Javier, timely interrupted the impending reminiscence, spreading his hands and putting on the slick smile typical of businessmen.

"First of all, I want to declare that I, Javier, have always been a staunch supporter of the city hall's laws and have voluntarily paid every penny of my taxes in full and on time."

He paused, his gaze sweeping across the faces of the crowd. "But if there were a chance—just a chance—to lighten the burden on our shoulders, who wouldn't want to catch their breath? Especially when the tax collectors are those Hungarians who breached our walls and stained our streets with blood?"

"Watch your words, Havel."

Vávank, the Royal Mint official, a middle-aged man who always presented himself impeccably but was insatiably greedy, frowned. "You said it yourself, the Hungarians breached our walls. If we don't meet their demands, who can guarantee their horses won't trample the gates again? Is it that knightly order that exists only in slogans, or those malt spirits in your cellar?"

One sentence struck everyone into silence, like a cold stone.

Why did the taxes in the city grow ever more numerous and complex, like vines spiraling upwards? The root cause lay with the watchful Hungarian camps outside the city. Who wouldn't want to pay even a little less tax?

Master Eldris, the taciturn old scholar, tapped the table lightly with his withered knuckles, drawing everyone's attention.

"So, is there a tiny possibility that this knightly order is truly capable of eliminating grain collectors and tax collectors like harvesting wheat, allowing us—at least temporarily—to escape the Hungarians' coercion?"

His voice, like the wind blowing through the pages of an ancient book, sparked the imagination of the crowd.

A deeper and longer silence fell over the hall, broken only by the occasional crackling of firewood popping in the fireplace.

Some thoughts can only fester in the deepest recesses of the heart, like fungi; once uttered, they are tantamount to betrayal. After all, outwardly, they are still "loyal subjects" sworn to King Sigismund.

In contrast to the suffocating silence in the city hall, in the high-walled mansions of Kutenberg, the local nobles who opposed Sigismund were raising their glasses to celebrate the appearance of the "Knights of the Silver Dawn".

"Cheers to the 'righteous act' of those field mice!"

The obese nobleman raised his amber-inlaid wine glass, the golden wine swirling within. "We didn't pay a single Grossán, not a single bag of oats, and we got to see those arrogant Hungarians get their comeuppance. Is there anything more delightful than that?"

Laughter echoed in the warm room with its thick carpet.

The silver platter held perfectly roasted pigeons, and the air was filled with the wonderful aroma of spices and roasting meat.

They were not worried at all that the slogan "No taxes, no grain" would be used by the tenant farmers in the village as a weapon to resist them.

An unexpected guest force will eventually shine like a shooting star in the sky, only to disappear after a brief moment.

As long as the land remains in their hands and the contract is still firmly in their grasp, they have plenty of ways to make those peasants pay back what they "owe" with interest after the storm has passed. Time always seems to be on the side of those who own the land, doesn't it?

Perhaps only those commoners huddled in their leaky huts in the rain, looking at the meager grain reserves at the bottom of their granaries, and listening to their children's faint cries of hunger, would truly regard these words as a glimmer of light and hope piercing through the dark clouds.

On the tower of Malesov Castle, von Polgao wrapped his red flying fish robe tightly around himself.

Rain stung his cheeks, but he seemed oblivious, staring intently at the empty meadow below the castle. Where his carefully tended, robust horses should have been, now lay a desolate mess of trampled mud and a few scattered clumps of hay.

"Silver Dawn————"

He spat out the name through gritted teeth, as if chewing on a piece of raw iron. When he learned that his horse ranch had been looted by this group, he was so enraged that he almost wanted to immediately gather all the Hungarian soldiers and Cuman mercenaries and hunt them down to the ends of the earth.

But the news that came over the next few days was like buckets of cold water, extinguishing his impulse.

The Hungarian caravans and Cuman cavalrymen seemed to have crashed into an invisible wall, disappearing one after another into the forests and hills surrounding the castle. Only occasionally did wounded soldiers manage to escape, bringing back vague and fearful descriptions.

Von Polgar, like an enraged old wolf forced to lick its wounds, paced restlessly in its lair. He was astonished to find that, apart from the enemy's resounding name and even louder slogan, he knew almost nothing about this elusive force. How many of them were there? Who was their leader? Where were they based? Everything was shrouded in mystery.

"We can't stay stuck here any longer."

He finally made his decision, a cold glint in his eyes: "Intelligence and allies are more important than blind pursuit."

I must return to Kutenberg and join the noble alliance. Only by returning to the center of the power game can I see my opponents clearly and maneuver my pieces.

He turned and walked down the tower. The old wolf had already smelled the scent of its prey and was preparing to leave its den for a hidden and dangerous hunt.