A Feast Before the Storm

“How many waves of attacks is this?”

Noren peered from a distant hill, barely making out the swarm of figures gathered like ants beneath the walls of Opava Castle.

Amid the wind and snow, figures were indistinct; the sounds of shouts and wails were scattered by the winter wind, leaving only broken echoes.

“Huh? They’re retreating.” She let out a soft exclamation.

The wind and snow suddenly ceased, and the distance became clear.

She saw the army assaulting the castle withdrawing like a tide, leaving behind a field of wreckage, the red of blood and the white of snow distinctly contrasted.

On the city walls, the rebel archers shot at the backs of the retreating soldiers. Some runners suddenly stumbled and fell, presumably hit by an arrow in the back.

“Will the rebels clean up the battlefield?”

She squinted, staring at the city gate, but it remained closed.

“Hmm… maybe they’ll clean up in a little while.”

The girl rubbed her smooth chin, suddenly feeling a hollow emptiness in her stomach.

So she took out a piece of dried bacon wrapped in linen from her bosom and took a fierce bite.

Chew, chew…

Gulp! She swallowed.

After finishing a two-ounce strip of bacon, she was still hungry.

The girl’s slender fingers fiddled, and the wrapping opened completely.

The layers of cloth spread out, revealing several pounds of bacon strips.

She stared at the meat, hesitating for a moment.

The next instant, she devoured it all, wiping the plate clean. The bacon was terribly salty, leaving her mouth dry and puckered after eating.

Noren then took a leather wineskin from her waist, bit the stopper, and pulled it open!

“Gurgle, gurgle.” She drained the mead completely, but it only slightly cut the greasiness, with a hint of drinking poison to quench thirst—after all, anything other than water makes you thirstier the more you drink.

“Why did I bring wine? Especially this mead, so cloyingly sweet it’s bitter.”

She patted her stomach again.

“Being able to fill my belly is good enough. Honey products are a luxury; I shouldn’t be picky… When they’re done, it’s my turn to work!”

Noren found a thick, black-barked tree with rough skin, and hid another pack containing dry rations, flint, and tinder high up in the tree, to keep foxes, wolves, martens, and dogs from stealing her stuff.

Today her armor consisted only of a linen gambeson long shirt, with a half-body leather cuirass over it—lime-tanned leather, deodorized with herbs.

Why no chainmail?

Too much noise, unsuitable for assassination.

She tensed her chin and neck, clasped her hands together and stretched upward: “Mm~ just need to wait for nightfall…”

After stretching, she gazed at the military camp outside the city walls. The white tents almost blended with the snow, but the wisps of cooking smoke and the moving soldiers were unmistakable.

“Hmph~” A cold light flashed in her green eyes, murderous intent appearing on the girl’s face: “Enjoy your last dinner…”

“Wood!”

…

…

…

“Wood!”

“Wood!”

“Wood, you’ll die a horrible death!”

The man’s eyes snapped open. His right hand flashed, and a gleaming silver blade rested against the soldier’s neck.

The ghostly muttering of a dream faded.

Only an old soldier stood before his chair, holding a plate of dinner, with an awkward smile on his face.

The old soldier bore the marks of time and weapons; his smile was ugly, but with a blade at his throat, he hadn’t wet himself yet.

“Master Wood, dinner.”

The old soldier subtly glanced at the single-edged sword at his neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

He raised the plate in his hand, which held steaming meat: “My lord, fresh venison.”

Wood sheathed his sword and rubbed his brow.

The brief sleep filled his mind with drowsiness, along with some fogginess and numbness.

‘How long did I sleep…’ Wood thought.

“My lord, night has just fallen. You only dozed for a short while.” The old soldier seemed to read Wood’s mind.

A flicker of confusion passed through Wood’s eyes.

‘Did I say that out loud?’

He was sure he hadn’t spoken; he was quite awake.

The old soldier opened his mouth, glanced at the knight, then closed it again. He placed the plate on the wooden table before Wood, bowed slightly, and withdrew.

…

The old soldier lifted the tent flap. The moment he stepped out, a gust of cold wind hit him, making him tighten his face.

“Hey, did the lord question us about hunting the deer?” A scar-faced man appeared out of nowhere.

The old soldier shook his head.

“No.”

“That’s good…” The scarred man patted his chest in relief: “After all, Opava is the bishop’s territory. Even though we’re working for the bishop, hunting without permission is a serious crime.”

The old soldier was still recalling how Wood had mumbled to himself, speaking all his thoughts aloud.

He gave a soft, bitter laugh and shook his head.

To have such a commander…

“What do you mean by shaking your head?!” The scarred man grabbed the old soldier’s shoulder: “Did Wood really not ask about where the venison came from?”

“No, no,” the old soldier waved his hand. He changed the subject, looking at the scarred man with slight confusion: “Say, you rascal, how did you manage to hunt a red deer in this icy weather?”

The old soldier thought the young man had hidden skills.

The scarred man grinned: “I got lucky—snatched a whole stag from the jaws of wolves.”

“Good lad!”

The old soldier punched the scarred man in the chest.

The scarred man bared his teeth, grinning through the pain: “It’s nothing, just a small matter.”

He slung an arm around the old soldier’s shoulder and whispered in his ear: “Even though the best cuts of the deer legs were given to the knights… I still kept the backstrap and ribs. I called a few closest brothers to drink and eat meat…”

The scarred man smiled: “How about it? I treat you well, don’t I?”

The old soldier pretended to decline: “The night patrol…”

“Oh, come on! We can just assign some pushover greenhorns for that. Why would we need to go ourselves?”

The scarred man shook his head exaggeratedly: “Especially since you’re Wood’s personal guard, and your niece is the mistress of a knight at the high castle. If you slack off a bit to have a bite of meat, the knight won’t cause trouble for you!”

“So, are you in or not?”

The old soldier shrugged helplessly: “Do I have a choice?”

The two left, arms around each other’s shoulders.

…

Inside the tent, Wood sliced the venison with a knife, then picked up a piece with his thumb, index, and middle fingers and put it in his mouth.

Washed down with a mouthful of vegetable soup, it wasn’t as good as the food in Prague, but still quite pleasant.

At least venison wasn’t something you got every day.

The rare-cooked venison was cut piece by piece; the blood pooled at the bottom of the plate in a shallow layer. The cut sides were brown on the outside and showed the bright texture of myoglobin on the inside.

Knights preferred this half-cooked meat. Well-done roasted meat was dry, hard, and difficult to chew.

After the meal, the unpleasantness of a day’s defeats faded away.

He finished the vegetable soup in one gulp, then picked up the goblet on the table for a mouthful of ice-cold wine.

“Ha—” The knight let out a satisfied breath.

“What a comfortable life this is…”

Suddenly, Wood gritted his teeth: “This life should belong exclusively to the nobles. Those damned rebels, those dirty peasants!”

“To think they’re running amok in the bishop’s castle—I just…”

Wood stopped abruptly and closed his eyes.

He heaved a sigh.

“Alas…”