The Steward and the Approaching Storm

“Your loyal servant, Hada, reports on the construction progress for October.”

“Speak.”

“As of yesterday, ten communal dwellings, four small private homes, and one barracks have been constructed. Three hundred and ninety *mu* of farmland have been reclaimed, of which…”

****

*Thud!* Noren lost control of her strength, her punch folding the wooden dummy in half.

Wiping the wood splinters from her knuckles, she glanced over. “Why so little? Three hundred and ninety *mu*… the grain harvested next year won’t even feed two hundred people.

To expedite the reclamation, I specifically borrowed a batch of axes, iron-shod shovels, and thirty plough horses from Hradec.

And now, you tell me they’ve only managed to reclaim less than four hundred *mu* of farmland?”

The servant, already trembling with fear, took a deep breath before speaking. “This area was formerly a forest, overgrown with weeds and shrubs, and the roots of both grass and trees run quite deep, making reclamation extremely arduous.

However, one-third of the land has already been cleared of roots and stones, and heavy wheel ploughs have turned over the fertile lower soil. If barley is planted next spring, we are sure to have a bountiful harvest!

Furthermore, with your decree of no taxes for the first year, and the church in Opava being unable to collect tithes, they will be able to sustain themselves next year if you provide just a little more grain.”

Noren nodded, still satisfied.

She turned, looking directly at the servant before her. “Hada, how many years have you been with my family?”

“Ten years, my lady,” he replied.

Noren observed the deferential servant. Though his face showed signs of age from his labor, he was only thirty-two.

“Have my father or I ever treated you or the other slaves poorly?”

The servant dared not lift his gaze. “No, you have always treated us very well.”

“Look up.”

The servant raised his head, meeting the earnest gaze of the blonde young lady.

“Work diligently. Among the household slaves, you possess the most talent for management. Once the castle is built, I will appoint you as its steward, though your status will remain that of a s*ave.”

The servant was overwhelmed with gratitude, and just as he was about to express his thanks, Noren cut him off without mercy.

“No need for blubbering. Get back to work.”

The servant bowed deeply and departed, his heart brimming with joy.

****

After seeing the servant off, Noren moved to a more private training area. Here, custom-made fitness equipment awaited, and she changed into a tighter training outfit.

She hoisted a millstone onto her back and began to squat. Her ample glutes strained against her trousers, appearing as though they might burst, spilling forth like ripe fruit.

As she gasped, *“Hoo-huff, hoo-huff,”* she mused aloud, ‘I never imagined these household slaves possessed such managerial talent. I truly don’t know where Svein bought them from in the past.

Huff… Apart from the oldest one, all the others are proving useful. Two hundred people, assigned to their supervision, and they’re managing everything so orderly and logically! Especially Hada!

He’s clever, disciplined, and knows when to advance and retreat. If Frey, my foolish younger brother, hadn’t suggested I let the household slaves handle the management, I truly wouldn’t have discovered such talent right under my nose.’

With a *thump*, the millstone was tossed aside, and she picked up a slightly lighter stone disc.

She squatted, then began frog jumps.

Her large breasts, supported by a sanguineous energy membrane, bounced with each movement. Had it not been for her ‘Hercules’ ribcage structure, which was sufficiently robust, an ordinary person would have been suffocated by their sheer size.

“*Hoo~ hiss~* What about the fields at home, then? The household slaves have been promoted from laborers to management, so who will cultivate my land? Those are fertile, prime fields; it would be such a waste to let them lie fallow.

I’ve got it!

I can hire tenant farmers, or day laborers, as they’re called in Huaxia.

I can also conscript corvée labor from the freemen, requiring them to come and help me farm for one day each week, free of charge. Compared to other manor lords, who often demand two or three days of corvée each week, mine is quite lenient!”

****

Her workout finished, a pleasant warmth enveloped her entire body.

The young woman’s face was flushed like a peach blossom, a delicate pink peeking through her porcelain-white skin. She licked her lips, then eagerly rubbed her fingers together. “Time for a bath.”

****

By mid-November, temperatures had plummeted. The cold wind howled *“woo-woo-woo”* through the forest, and the farmers had ceased their work. They huddled in their communal dwellings, warming themselves by fires, their eyes fixed with longing and anticipation on the bubbling barley porridge in the earthenware pot.

A young farmer, suddenly overcome by the urge to defecate, unceremoniously dropped his trousers in front of everyone, his face contorted in effort.

“Get your sh*t out of here! Go outside to sh*t!”

“Yeah! Go sh*t outside!”

The enraged farmers chased him out. Everyone was waiting to eat; who would dare defecate in front of them all? What a bastard.

The young farmer said nothing more, pulling up his trousers and running outside. He barely reached the corner of the wall and hadn’t even begun to relieve himself when a pair of brand-new boots appeared before his eyes.

Looking up, he saw the dung collector.

“Go on, sh*t. I’ll take you in for the reward money once you’re done,” the dung collector sneered, arms crossed.

The young farmer cursed his bad luck under his breath, pulled up his trousers, and ran south.

He crossed the river, running to the southernmost edge of the village. The dung collector, who had been following, stopped pursuing once the young farmer was about to leave the village.

At the village’s southern end stood the carpenter’s house, its whitewashed exterior looking rather appealing.

The young farmer squatted by the white wall, dropped his trousers, and was just about to exert himself when he saw another pair of white fur boots.

Looking up, he saw a blonde little girl holding a small cat.

Freya stroked the cat’s back, her eyes filled with a mix of disdain and confusion. “You’re here to poop, aren’t you?”

It was impossible to relieve himself while being stared at, especially after her brother drew his sword. The young farmer shivered, forcibly holding it all back.

He continued running south, the biting wind making his stomach ache intensely.

The young farmer looked around. The village houses in the distance were now no larger than his thumbnail. He ducked into a roadside bush, dropped his trousers—

“Ah… that’s better…” The young farmer let out a groan of pure satisfaction, his face beaming with happiness.

“…” The pebbles on the ground suddenly vibrated.

The young farmer seemed to hear something but paid it no mind. “Perhaps it’s just the wind.”

He casually tore off a few leaves, then ran to the river to wash the filth from his hands. His stomach was now flat and empty.

“*Grumble~~~*” His stomach cramped.

The young farmer was hungry.

He turned and walked back towards the village, trembling all over. He generated heat by shivering his muscles; medieval farmers largely endured winter by ‘shaking’ through it.

“Thank God, and thank the beautiful noble lady. At least she allows us to cut wood for fires.” The farmer hugged himself, hands tucked under his armpits, and hastened towards the communal dwelling.

If he returned too late, he would miss dinner.

“*Thump-thump…*” What was that sound?

“*Whoosh~~~*” A heavy sigh came from behind him.

“*Clip-clop-clip-clop… clip-clop!*” The crisp sound of hooves echoed. The farmer turned around to see a sturdy warhorse trotting lightly towards him.

Mounted on the warhorse was a scout clad in leather armor, a fur cloak, and a soft helmet padded with horsehair. His hands, gripping the reins, were encased in thick leather gloves, from whose wrist gaps countless tufts of fur protruded.

A bow and a quiver of arrows hung from the saddle of the tall horse, and a thirty-three-inch sword with an ornate scabbard rested at the rider’s waist.

The warhorse neighed *“Whinny-whinny”* and impatiently pawed the ground.

The farmer stiffened, not from fear, but from the intense cold.

The scout exhaled a plume of white mist. “Is this the Baron’s territory ahead?”

‘He looks so warm…’ The farmer’s first reaction upon seeing the fully armored scout was not fear, but envy.

“Hey, answer me, you filthy peasant.” The scout sounded somewhat impatient.

“Oh, oh!” The young farmer snapped back to attention. He tried to force a humble smile, but the cold had frozen his expression.

“Esteemed grandfather, this is Ostrava ahead, the territory of Lord Svein.”

“Where is the Baron’s residence?”

“The tallest white brick house, at the northernmost point.”

The scout cracked his riding crop. “*Hup!*”

The rider galloped away, raising a small cloud of dust in their wake.

“That’s odd,” the farmer murmured, scratching the back of his head. He scooped some water from the river to drink and splashed it on his face, the cold water sharpening his senses.

He looked in the direction the scout had gone, until the rider and horse became a tiny black speck. It wasn’t an illusion, then.

“…” The ground vibrated again, this time more uniformly and frequently, with more small pebbles jumping up.

Two people appeared in the farmer’s vision, then four, sixteen, sixty-four. A long column, like a winding serpent, stretched as far as the farmer could see.

When the army drew near, their synchronized movements caused their armor to rustle *“shush-shush.”* The farmer was utterly terrified.

He let out a scream, stumbled, and then scrambled on all fours back towards the village.

“Help, help me…” The farmer yelled desperately, but the howling cold wind swallowed his voice completely.