The troubled times are coming

Overwhelmed with grief and indignation, Art forgot his fatigue. It wasn't until the moon hung high in the sky that he dragged his leaden legs to the shepherd's small stone house, exchanging two rabbit pelts for a bowl of hot, thick soup and a bed of hay.

He set off again at dawn.

At sunset on the fourth day after leaving the valley, the tall spire of Tinietz Church was dimly visible.

By hurrying, Art arrived in Tinietz a day earlier than usual.

From a small protruding hill, Tinietz, not far away, was bathed in the setting sun, glowing with a golden, reddish hue.

Tinietz is a typical square stone and wood castle found on the Central European plains. It was expanded from a Roman Empire-era military fort. The castle has a perimeter of approximately eight hundred feet, enclosed by four stone walls, each two hundred feet long, thirty feet high, and seven feet thick. At each corner of the city wall are four round wooden arrow towers (watchtowers), ten feet higher than the wall, each capable of accommodating six defending soldiers. Both the north and south sides of the city wall have a twelve-foot-high, ten-foot-wide double-opening oak gate inlaid with iron grates. A hard dirt road, about ten feet wide, runs north to south, dividing the castle's interior neatly into four sections: the southeast is a free market enclosed by fences, primarily consisting of low wooden houses; the southwest is a commercial district with more orderly arranged wood and stone structures, including two-story residences, taverns, fur shops, weapon shops, blacksmith shops, and tailor shops; the northwest side is the slave market; the northeast is a chaotic and dense shantytown, where displaced refugees, beggars, and bankrupt self-sufficient farmers gather.

The square inner castle-style Lord's Hall is located at the center of the castle, facing Tinietz Church, with its square walls, round dome, and high stone-striped tower, across the north-south avenue. This historic castle is one of the direct fiefdoms of Marquis Ivrea Otto of Burgundy Earl, managed by the Marquis's retainer, Viscount Pierre Jacquen de Dienne.

By the time Art arrived at the South Gate, the sun had already dipped below the horizon.

“Stop, open your pack for inspection!” A city gate guard, holding a short spear, wearing cotton armor, a sheepskin coat, and a semi-circular helmet, stopped Art.

Art removed his rabbit fur hat, revealing his face, and gave the guard a slight smile.

The guard recognized Art and slowly lowered his short spear. Art gently nudged the guard's shoulder, leading him aside, and offered him five fenny. This was equivalent to two or three days' wages for a young urban laborer.

The guard glanced left and right, then turned to tell Art that he needed to produce another five fenny because the city gate tax collector had changed, and he had to give the new tax collector some incentive, otherwise Art's large pack of fur and mountain goods would surely incur heavy taxes. Art looked at the tax collector sitting behind a long wooden table at the city gate, nodded to the guard, and took out another five fenny from his money pouch. The guard took the copper coins, slipped them into a money pouch sewn inside his fur coat, and turned to nod at the tax collector and another guard at the city gate.

Having paid the “special business tax,” Art passed through the city gate without being interrogated by the tax collector. Art and his large pack of fur and mountain goods passed by the tax collector as if they were air.

“Everywhere's the same, money is the messenger of God!” Art muttered to himself.

However, Art was still very happy. According to the “one-tenth tax” standard, Art's fur package would have to pay approximately forty fenny in business tax. Because he knew the city guard, he only paid ten fenny in “special business tax” to enter the city smoothly.

After passing through the city gate, Art walked directly to the southwest side of the castle, where there was an inn that served as both a tavern and a lodging house. After paying the innkeeper five fenny, Art was led by a young bartender to a small room on the second floor of the inn. Art put down his pack, took out three fenny, and handed them to the bartender, instructing him to bring a decent dinner to the room.

A moment later, the bartender brought dinner on a tray—a small piece of fine wheat bread, a bowl of wheat porridge with coarse salt, two pieces of roasted pork, a clay pot of apple and meat stew, and a cup of the inn's homemade sour fruit wine. Art devoured the expensive dinner, and his stomach was greatly satisfied.

After finishing dinner and refusing the knocking tavern girls, Art plunged into the sheepskin blanket on the wooden bed. It wasn't that Art was abstinent, but simply because he felt life was hard and he really didn't want to die on those women's dirty bellies.

The morning sun stung Art's eyes. Art shook his heavy head and walked out of the room. Clearly, Art hadn't slept well; the revelry of the drunkards downstairs had continued late into the night, and as soon as they quieted down, gasps and piercing lewd laughter came from the adjacent room.

Arriving on the first floor, the empty hall contained only two bartenders cleaning up the mess left by the drunkards from the previous night. Art found a table by the window and sat down, beckoning a young bartender, about thirteen or fourteen years old.

“Bring me something simple to eat,” he said, handing over a fenny. The young bartender took the fenny and turned to walk into the tavern kitchen.

Art rubbed his eyes and looked through the wooden lattice window at the alley outside the inn. The heavy snow from several days ago had melted and formed puddles in the mud. At the alley entrance, several vendors with baskets were hawking apple bread, and city residents, in twos and threes, hurried past the alley entrance, their necks hunched, heading to their respective places of survival. This southern castle was awakening.

“Please enjoy your meal,” the bartender said, bringing a bowl of oatmeal porridge with a wooden spoon in it.

Art quickly finished the oatmeal porridge, picked up the two su-bi change from the tray, called the young bartender over, and handed it to him. This was a local small copper coin, roughly six su-bi could be exchanged for one fenny.

The young bartender happily took the two small su-bi, and his gaze towards Art became a little more fawning. It was well-known that in Tinietz, an able-bodied laborer who provided his own food and lodging earned only two fenny a day, while a bartender who received food and lodging only earned five fenny a week, which amounted to less than five su-bi a day.

“Mate, I want to buy a pack mule, but the winter grand market has passed, and the small market won't be for another ten days or so. Do you know anywhere else that sells them now?” Art wanted to buy a pack mule to help him transport his hunted game and fur mountain goods to earn some money; otherwise, he could never change his situation relying solely on his own strength.

The young bartender lowered his head in thought, then turned and whispered a few words to another bartender.

“The mule and horse caravan has already left, but a grain merchant went bankrupt in the north of the city last month. The grain store had a lot of pack horses for transporting grain. A mule and horse caravan bought a large batch some time ago, so there might be some left. You could try your luck there.” The young bartender ran over to tell Art.

Art asked for the detailed address of the bankrupt grain store and instructed the young bartender to look after his goods before leaving the inn. The bankrupt grain store was located in a row of stone houses on the northwest side, near the slave market. The grain store's main gate was ajar, but there was no trace of pack animals at the hitching post in front of the gate.

Art was a little disappointed and was about to leave when the gate creaked open, and a plump old man, wearing a felt hat, a fur coat, and ox-hide winter boots, stepped out.

“Good day, mate, are you here so early to buy grain? Oh, I'm so sorry, the grain store has gone bankrupt and closed. You can try the free market or the grain store near the church.” The old man looked at Art and kindly reminded him.

“Good day, sir, I heard that the grain store had a batch of pack animals for sale, so I thought I'd try my luck.” Art bowed slightly to the plump old man.

“Heh heh, mate, I'm no sir, I'm just a commoner, the owner of this house. It seems you're out of luck, as you can see, the animals have been sold out, and the owner of the grain store also left Tinietz last night. Poor fellow, the entire grain transport caravan was slaughtered by bandits, and his only son didn't escape either.” The plump old man sighed softly, making the sign of the cross over his chest with his right hand.

“Thank you, and God be with you.” Art said, then turned and left.

“Hey, mate, what kind of animal are you planning to buy? A pack horse?” Art had only taken a few steps when the plump old man called out to him.

Art didn't want to waste time, but out of politeness, he turned back and told the plump old man that he wanted to buy a donkey to help him carry goods.

“Hmm~ no donkeys, but I do have a sturdy mule. The grain store owner couldn't pay the last six months' rent, so he sold that mule to me at a discounted price. I had planned to sell it to a nearby manor in the spring, but if you're willing, I could sell it to you.” The plump old man was struggling to find a place to keep the mule, so he tried even harder to boast about how strong and sleek the mule was.

Art was somewhat tempted. Although mules ate more and were more stubborn than donkeys, mules could carry heavier loads, run faster, and had greater endurance.

Art and the old man agreed to meet at sunset at the place where the old man was temporarily keeping the mule to take a look, and then Art returned to the inn.

By this time, the inn was starting to get lively again. In a corner by the window, a country squire from the nearby suburbs, a merchant dressed in a bright wool winter coat, and several city freemen were gathered around a knight, listening intently as he recounted his various dangerous encounters and interesting anecdotes from war and travel.

This knight had a large beard, but he wasn't very old; he had broad shoulders and was tall, yet very thin, with short brown hair. He wore a leather outer garment with traces of iron armor, cinched with a belt made of copper buckles. A short knife, sheathed in horn, was attached to the belt, and a long sword for travel hung at his waist.

They sat there chatting, occasionally winking at the innkeeper to pour them more wine.

“Noble knight, you've certainly seen a lot of the world!” one of the citizens said.

“Indeed! Not many of you have seen this much of the world,” the knight replied proudly.

“There will be more in the future. Last year, I visited Bogdan in southern Provence. Its prosperity and wealth…” The merchant's face was filled with longing.

“Where is Bogdan?” a citizen interrupted.

“Buddy, you should ask where its old site is, because that place no longer exists. This summer, Duke Witold instructed Earl Wadeberley to capture Bogdan. Bogdan was burned down, everything was looted, and the citizens all fled. The nearby farmers all fled into the forest, and the land was abandoned,” the knight sighed.

Art, who had just stepped his left foot onto the wooden ladder, felt a jolt in his heart. The name “Wadeberley” was too jarring. It was this “Earl,” who started as a bandit, who had conspired to frame and annex the Wells Family’s territory back then. Afterward, he continuously sent people to hunt down the Wells father and son, attempting to root them out to prevent future trouble.

“I heard there’s going to be a war. Duke Vladis of Provence can no longer tolerate the barbaric actions of the Lombardy Grand Duchy and has already sent Marquis Korai with an army to station in Vilno, north of Bogdan. Following that, he sent Count Olesny to the northern continent to gather an army. I have already purchased the armor and horses needed for the expedition, preparing to join Count Olesny…” the knight’s loud voice continued to resonate.

For an entire morning, Art’s soul was spent in painful struggle. The knight’s words ignited the original owner’s flame of revenge. With chaos approaching, this was an excellent opportunity. He could follow the knight and join Count Olesny. He wanted to personally behead Wadeberley and wash away the shame with Wadeberley’s blood.

But just as his blood began to boil, the new master of this body poured a bucket of cold water over it.

Regardless of whether he could defeat Wadeberley, who possessed a bandit army, Art was currently just a hunter hidden in the valley, merely a strong lamb. Joining Count Olesny’s army would only make him a light infantryman or an archer. If he was lucky, perhaps he could become a farmer-soldier captain. And then? Be used as cannon fodder in a charge during some battle, buried under some damp turf; or lose an arm in some siege, spending the rest of his life with one arm, hiding in a dark corner, waiting for a fenny thrown by a kind passerby.

“This is not what you want!!! Did you return to this world just to die for others? You are not afraid of death, but you cannot die in vain! Have you forgotten your father’s last words, ‘Until the lamb becomes a lion’?” The two souls within Art’s body constantly struggled and fought…

It wasn’t until noon that reason triumphed over impulse, and the original owner and new master reached a unanimous agreement to “plan for a resurgence”…

Sweating profusely, with a pale face and dark lips, Art dragged his feet out of the room.

After a simple lunch of a bowl of pea and meat soup and a piece of rye bread, Art’s complexion returned to normal. After leaving one fenny for the meal and five fenny for the room, Art returned to his room, picked up his goods, and exited the tavern.

The sun was almost setting when Art, sweating profusely, emerged from the last tailor shop. All afternoon, Art had been moving between tanneries, fur shops, and tailor shops. According to the leatherworkers and merchants, Art’s furs were as cheap as leaves picked from the ground. Art repeatedly emphasized the hardship and danger of hunting and the smooth luster of the furs.

Ultimately, a high-quality bear fur sold for only one hundred twenty fenny at the fur shop, while an ordinary deerskin fetched sixty fenny, as deerskin became increasingly scarce with stricter imperial forest laws. A slightly damaged wolf fur was sold to a tanner for twenty fenny, five fox furs and six mink furs were exchanged for one hundred fenny at the tailor shop; thirty pounds of smoked venison were exchanged for twenty-five fenny at the Lord's Hall’s back kitchen; as for the remaining pile of small animal furs like rabbits and squirrels, after being picked through by the fur merchant, they were dismissed with twelve fenny.

Art was somewhat helpless. The grand market had already passed, and large numbers of merchants and caravans had left Tinietz. Many commodity prices had begun to drop, and all the hard work and adventure of the entire autumn only brought in less than three hundred forty fenny.

When he arrived at the city wall on the southeast side of the free market, only the afterglow of the sun remained. Aside from the large and small markets, it was usually very quiet here, with many simple wooden sheds and straw mats empty. Following the fat old man’s instructions, Art quickly found the simple sheepfold.

The fat old man was standing on tiptoe, looking out. He was worried that the young man would change his mind and not come, in which case he would have to spend money to feed the mule.

“Oh God, you’re finally here. This old man is freezing,” the fat old man rubbed his hands and took a few steps forward.

“Uncle, I’m here, aren’t I? It’s getting dark, let’s go look at the mule,” Art’s eyes were immediately drawn to the mule.

This was a mature male mule. It had a thick head, slightly long ears, somewhat thin limbs, narrow hooves, short blue-black mane, a long tail, and stood about five and a half feet tall, closer to a horse in height and build, with a braying sound like a donkey but also characteristics of a horse’s neigh.

“Buddy, satisfied? Although this fellow eats a bit more than a donkey, he’s not picky, easy to raise, very strong, and has great endurance,” the fat old man saw Art’s expression, and this deal was likely to go through.

Art truly liked this strong mule and couldn’t help but approach it to stroke its fur, check its teeth, and gently pat its shoulders and hindquarters~

“Uncle, please name your price,” Art said straightforwardly.

Art bought the mule for seven hundred fifty fenny. That evening, the purchase contract was signed at the fat old man’s house. Of course, Art did not leave his real name but drew a cross.

Art was preparing for his return journey. Early in the morning, he put on his bow, tied on his sword, and led the green mule to the saddler’s shop.

The saddler was a bald, white-bearded old man. He had been an apprentice at a saddlery since he was fifteen, and now he was the oldest saddler in Tinietz. On the walls of the saddlery hung seven or eight sets of various saddlery, including exquisite and beautiful silver-inlaid yew leather saddles and simple, unadorned pine wood and iron pack saddles. Art, however, was drawn to a birch wood and iron-mounted saddle.

“Child, you have good taste. Half a month ago, a bearded knight lord came here and gave me a drawing to make this saddle. The left and right saddle flaps of this saddle are ordinary, but the front and back pommels are very different…” The old saddler stroked his beard and walked beside Art, introducing it in detail.

Art had seen this improved Mamluk saddle in Jerusalem when he accompanied his father on the Holy War. It was Saladin’s cavalry, riding on such saddles, who had severely wounded Art back then.

His thoughts returned to the saddlery. After Art explained his purpose, the old saddler had his apprentice lead the green mule over to measure its shoulder width and chest girth.

“Child, you are in a bit of a hurry, and I don’t have any ready-made suitable saddlery here. How about this, if you don’t mind, I have some old pack saddles and discarded saddles here. I can quickly modify a set of saddlery for your mule to use, how does that sound?” The old saddler proposed a makeshift solution.

Art readily accepted the old saddler’s suggestion.

While the old saddler and his apprentice were modifying the saddlery, Art was traversing the grain merchants, bakeries, blacksmith shops, weapon shops, tailor shops, and general stores of Tinietz. He spent forty fenny at the grain merchant near the church to buy sixty pounds of hulled wheat, and thirty fenny at the bakery for ten three-pound rye loaves; a thick set of linen long-sleeved winter clothes cost him eighty fenny; a broad axe, a saw, an iron chisel, a steel file, and several wedges cost sixty fenny; a repaired old sheepskin quiver at the weapon shop was five fenny; finally, at the general store, he spent twenty fenny on a one-pound bag of coarse salt, a small clay pot of strong ale, and some miscellaneous small items.

The sun began to set in the west. When Art arrived at the saddlery carrying a large bag of items, the old saddler and his apprentice were fitting the saddlery onto the green mule.

The hastily modified saddlery was not exquisite. It was primarily a pine wood and iron-mounted leather saddle, with a soft and hard double-layered saddle pad, sturdy leather girth, a pair of old stirrups, repaired stirrup leathers, two sheathing ropes front and back, and a crupper… The old saddler was very meticulous, also changing the green mule’s bridle, adding a saddle blanket, trimming its hooves, and nailing on horseshoes.

Art took out a silver mark and paid the old saddler, refusing the four fenny change. A whole set of sturdy saddlery was priced at one hundred forty fenny, and Art knew the old saddler didn't make much profit on this deal.

Having packed everything, as he was about to mount the mule, Art glanced back at the saddle on the wall. After a brief thought, he picked out a silver denier from his money pouch, turned, and handed it to the old saddler.

“Please inlay a silver-plated cross on the front pommel of that saddle, and tell that bearded knight for me—may God be with him,” he said, then swung onto the mule and walked away at a leisurely pace.

Leaving the Tinietz saddlery, the sky was already tinged with the red glow of sunset. The city gate guards paid no attention to the pedestrians and caravans leaving the city. As Art rode the green mule out of the city, three riders were leading twenty-odd lightly armed short-spear infantry back into the city. They were the squad dispatched five days ago by County Magistrate Viscount Dion to eliminate bandits, and judging by their weary and dejected expressions, they had clearly returned empty-handed.

The standard-bearer knight leading the group curiously observed the tall green mule. On the mule’s saddle, a travel short sword was attached to the left, a set of ox-horn hunting bows hung on the right, a bulging saddle blanket was tied to the sheathing ropes behind the saddle, and a young man with a fair complexion, long hair, short beard, hawk-like eyes, dressed in a long linen shirt and a large bear-fur cloak, sat upright on the middle saddle ridge.

Art lowered his head, lightly squeezed the mule’s belly, and quickly departed.