He rode across the deep blue grasslands, feeling as though he were setting foot on foreign soil for the first time.
Across the rolling hills, dozens of sleek mares and plump foals grazed in peace.
“Over a hundred foals were born at this ranch alone this year. Every one of them boasts the noble Norneck bloodline,” Daren Dru Shearkan explained from behind, pride thick in his voice.
Varkas glanced back at the stubborn, stiff-featured man.
“How many trained warhorses?”
“Three thousand here alone. Count the northern ranch, and we are around six thousand three hundred.”
“Fewer than the reports stated.”
A flush crept up the man’s face at the blunt retort.
“You were away in the capital, Young Lord. Outside the regular tallies, it is hard to pass along every small detail,” he said, looking away as if making an excuse. “A month ago, a ranch in the northeast took heavy damage from a Zram raid. We lost a great many good mounts in the skirmishes that followed.”
Varkas knit his brows.
“Why was this not reported to the Imperial Court?”
“Why trouble the capital with what we can settle ourselves?” The man shrugged carelessly. “The Grand Duke always held that Eastern troubles should be solved by Easterners. The vassals agreed.”
“The East remains the territory of the Roem Empire,” Varkas countered flatly. “And we are subjects of that Empire. Just as the East owes loyalty to the Court, the Court bears a duty to protect the people of the East.”
The man went quiet, pressing his lips thin. The word ‘protect’ seemed to grate against him. The Khan warriors prided themselves on fierce independence, and to rely on outside help was an indignity.
Rather than correct the stubborn notion, Varkas turned his horse toward the village nestled at the foot of the hill.
Those living outside the castle walls endured a far harsher life than the folk within the city.
The worn, ramshackle cottages lining the muddy track bore witness to that truth.
As his indifferent gaze swept over them, something caught his eye.
Narrowing his eyes, Varkas urged his mount toward the village square. Something hung from the great tree at its center.
As he drew closer, the shapes resolved into three corpses, long dead, their flesh rotting to a purplish bloat as they swung limp from nooses.
“Must be the heretics executed a few days back,” Daren said, wrinkling his nose.
Varkas looked toward him. “Is heresy spreading through Kalmor?”
“As you well know, Young Lord, many of our people still cling to the old ways. Some revere spirits like gods, while others are lost in crude superstition.” The man let out a heavy sigh. “Reports of heretics have spiked lately. The frequent clashes with the Zram do not help—they worship spirits openly, do they not? With hostility running high, the villages have begun holding their own trials.”
“A few years, and it has fallen into shambles.”
A flicker of displeasure crossed the man’s face.
Forcing a thin smile to hide it, he gave a broad shrug.
“With the Grand Duke bedridden for so long, it was bound to happen.”
Varkas looked up at the bodies, silent for a long moment, before jerking his chin toward the men.
“Left like that, they will likely turn into demonic beasts. Cut them down and give them a simple burial.”
The man’s thick brows rose.
“For heretics?”
Varkas fixed him with a freezing stare.
“Must I say it twice?”
After a tense pause, Daren wheeled toward the escort.
“What are you waiting for? Do as the Young Lord commands!”
The soldiers dismounted at once and cut the ropes.
The corpses struck the dirt with dull thuds.
Varkas looked down silently at one neck twisted at an unnatural angle, broken in the fall.
Maggots writhed in the empty sockets where the eyes had been gouged out, and every tooth had been pried from lips carved away with a blade. Precautions against their rising as demonic beasts.
A corpse denied purification risked rising again; for that reason, heretics were often stripped of eyes, teeth, even fingernails.
‘Futile measures…’
A demonic beast retained enough memory to wield tools just as it had in life. The only sure preventative was a purification rite or complete cremation.
He watched the soldiers drag the three bodies toward the edge of the square, then turned to scan the ragged villagers huddled nearby.
Most cowered in terror, though a few harbored sullen resentment.
He pointed toward one of them.
“You. Fetch a priest.”
The chosen man hesitated, then scurried toward the small chapel at the edge of the village.
Before long, a priest hurried out and administered a brief purification rite.
Having watched in silence, Varkas ordered the bodies buried in a suitable plot and led his horse away from the village.
At the edge of the broad path, a splintered wooden carving caught his eye.
The effigy of a three-headed dog—no, a wolf—lay split clean in half by an axe, discarded along the trail leading into Armund Forest.
An unmistakable curse.
Noticing it late, Daren’s face darkened, and he barked at the soldiers.
“Clear that away at once!”
Varkas looked down at the carving with a placid expression, then glanced back toward the village.
Placed so deliberately along their route, it was an obvious act of malice.
He let out a dry, humorless breath.
‘It seems my return is not entirely welcome.’
Whether the work of superstitious heretics or a slight from anti-imperial factions, he could tell his days here would not be quiet.
“Shall we hunt down whoever did this?” Daren asked, watching his face.
Pulling on his reins, Varkas gave a slight shake of his head.
“Leave it. Stirring up a fuss over a piece of wood will only make us look foolish.”
The man swallowed his frustration and gave a nod.
“I suppose so.”
Though he relented, the anger lingered in his eyes as he cast a murderous glare back toward the huts. Left alone, he seemed liable to march his men back in and cause a scene.
Even for an Eastern horseman, the man possessed an unusually bellicose temper.
A weariness crept over Varkas, and he urged his mount forward.
By the time they reached Raedgo Castle, the sun had begun to sink in the west.
Dismounting cleanly, Varkas tossed the reins to a groom and crossed the sprawling courtyard.
As he stepped into the main keep, the head butler, who had been directing the servants, came rushing over.
“You have returned, Young Lord.”
Varkas acknowledged him with a brief nod and made for the stairs through the bustling hall.
Hurrying after him, the butler said, “The regional lords have arrived seeking an audience.”
He frowned and glanced back.
“Regional lords?”
“The vassals who govern the southeastern territories,” the man explained cautiously. “It seems they wish to pay their respects before the succession rite.”
Varkas rubbed his chin through his leather glove, then continued up the stairs.
“Prepare a banquet for them. I will come down once I have changed.”
“Ah, about that…”
As Varkas reached the second-floor gallery, the butler’s voice trailed off.
Varkas glanced back over his shoulder.
After a long hesitation, the butler spoke with measured care.
“Will your lady wife be attending the evening banquet as well…?”
Varkas’s eyes narrowed.
Reading his master’s face, the butler spoke quickly, as if walking on thin ice.
“She will soon be the mistress of this duchy, after all. Everyone is eager to see what kind of person she is. Yet she has remained secluded in her chambers all day…”
“Butler.”
Varkas cut him off in a low, measured voice.
“Do you believe Her Highness should endure discomfort merely to satisfy the curiosity of the vassals and servants?”
The color drained from the butler’s face. Varkas went on coldly.
“Her Highness suffered a severe accident only months ago. Before she could properly recover, she endured weeks on the road. For the time being, she requires absolute rest. Inform the household that no one is to disturb her with trivial matters.”
END