Geldos City buzzed with the quiet tension of a prize newly won, its streets shadowed by the looming specter of Count Cobry's return.
Hilter stood at the heart of the laborer camp, his sharp eyes scanning the organized chaos of his forces. The air carried the savory scent of meat porridge simmering in massive pots, a gesture to soothe the growling stomachs of the freed laborers.
Tim's 800 men kept watch over the camp, their faces stern but softened by the gratitude of the 1,000 laborers hauling grain sacks from the warehouses. The clatter of wooden spoons and the low hum of relieved chatter filled the space, a fragile moment of reprieve amidst the storm of conquest.
Hilter's recruitment had swelled their ranks with two new companies of laborer pikemen, their polished armor gleaming under the morning sun. Yet he knew their mettle was untested, their training a patchwork of haste and necessity.
"They're a show of force, nothing more," he muttered to himself, his voice tinged with unease. Still, their presence at the city gates freed two of Stroud's seasoned units, which now joined Fredrick's knight squad to form a subjugation force.
The threat of a civilian revolt, fueled by the city's Cobry-bound populace, no longer gnawed at Hilter's mind.
"We've bought ourselves breathing room," he said under his breath, a flicker of satisfaction crossing his weathered face.
Stroud's runner arrived, breathless, his voice eager. "Hilter, we've checked the armory, equipment for two pike cavalry companies and a full garrison regiment! The supervisor says it was for the count's planned expansion." He paused, "I've already outfitted the laborer pikemen with full sets. Most got standard garrison gear, longbows, swords, shields. A few, too green for anything else, took pikes."
Hilter nodded, his mind racing. "Good work, Stroud. That's a windfall we'll use well."
He turned to Eman, the finance master under Allen whose knack for inventories rivaled his own precision.
"Eman, take a team to the armory. Catalog every blade, every arrow. Then get the gate laborers into that gear, full sets. And send some free men to cook proper meals for the soldiers, too. They've been chewing dried rations all day, hungry men make mistakes."
Eman bowed, "I'll have it done by dusk, Commander."
Hilter's gaze swept the camp, his heart steady despite the weight of command. The laborers, once broken by chains, now moved with a spark of hope, their faces lit by the promise of full bellies and newfound purpose.
Tim, overseeing the porridge distribution, caught his eye and offered a nod.
Before he could say more, Josk emerged from the crowd, his lean frame taut with urgency.
"Commander," he said, his voice low but insistent, "you need to see something. Now."
Hilter's brow furrowed, but he followed without hesitation, his boots crunching on the gravel path. Josk led him to a walled-off corner of the camp, where a sturdy building of rock and iron bars stood in stark contrast to the wooden shacks housing the laborers. Its walls, thick and unyielding, hinted at a purpose beyond mere confinement.
"What is this place?" Hilter asked, his voice edged with curiosity and suspicion.
Josk's eyes darkened, his tone heavy with revelation. "It's the hard labor camp, Commander. Built to hold slaves who've awakened their Battle Force, captured soldiers mostly. The count locked them here with their families to break them. Serve him, and their kin get to live in the new street sectors, free of hardship. Refuse, and they rot."
Hilter's jaw tightened, a flare of disgust in his eyes, "And you know this how?"
Josk gestured toward two uniformed guards standing by the building, their faces pale under the watchful eyes of Tim's men.
"They spilled everything," he said, his voice grim. "Couldn't stop talking once we pressed them."
Hilter strode toward the building, his presence commanding silence. A chubby supervisor shuffled forward, clutching a thick ledger, his bow awkward but earnest.
"Sir," he said, his voice quivering with deference, "there are 734 captive soldiers inside, plus 3,151 family members. That's 3,885 total."
Hilter's eyes widened, a mix of shock and calculation flickering across his face. "So many? How?"
The supervisor flipped through his book, his tone cautious but informative. "It's low compared to before, milord. We've held over 2,000 soldiers and 7,000 kin at peak. The longest-held were captured a year ago; the newest, a month back. The count has a rule of imposing three months of hard labor for any who submit, says it ensures loyalty through suffering."
Hilter's lip curled, his voice thick with contempt. "Suffering to breed loyalty? Cobry's a twisted bastard."
The count's method was as cruel as it was effective dangling freedom for families to coerce service. No wonder his armies grew so swiftly, built on broken spirits and desperate bargains.
Josk, meanwhile, questioned the guards further, his voice sharp with interest. The guard flipped to the ledger's final page, and Josk's eyes lit up.
"It's him!" he exclaimed, his voice a mix of surprise and admiration. "No wonder he hasn't bent."
Hilter's curiosity flared, his boots scuffing the dirt as he joined Josk. "Who?"
Josk's voice dropped, reverent yet urgent. "Chino Freiyar, Commander. A 31-year-old Gold-ranked mercenary, he was a legend in the northwest of Redlis. He was orphaned at a young age, raised by a kind woman next door."
"He married her daughter, living a contentful life, they even had twins. But disaster struck when Cobry's cavalry raided his town, they killed his foster mother. Chino went berserk cutting down twenty pikemen single-handed. But two of Cobry's Gold-ranked sons took his wife and kids hostage. He's been here ever since, refusing to serve. Cobry's has been waiting to break him."
Hilter exhaled, his heart stirring with a mix of respect and intrigue. A Gold-ranked warrior, unbroken despite such loss, was a prize worth pursuing.
"Freiyar," he murmured, his voice laced with determination. "We should meet him." He turned to the supervisor, "Take us to him now."
The supervisor nodded, his hands trembling as he led the way.
The camp around them pulsed with life laborers slurping porridge, Tim's men barking orders, the clank of new armor as Eman's team outfitted the gate guards.
As they approached the stone building, its iron bars glinting in the torchlight, Hilter's mind raced.
"We're building an army, Our Lord is no simple man." he whispered to Josk, his voice low but fervent. "And if Freiyar's half the man you say, he might become a sharp weapon under his Lordship."
Josk nodded, his voice steady with conviction. "He's more than that, Commander. He's a blade waiting to be drawn, for the right cause."