Medieval: Kingdom Come: Deliverance

Chapter 159 Border Village

Anger is the sharpest sword, but also the easiest weakness to exploit.

Around noon.

Count Turnov received bad news—Red Peter had invaded his territory and occupied a village.

The burly lord, clad in plate armor and as strong as the black bear on his family crest, was now furious.

"How dare he! That red-haired bandit, that lowly bastard! He dares to set foot on my land and occupy my village!"

The count's roar sent tiny insects scattering in the corners of the hall. He paced restlessly like a caged beast, his thick hands waving as if he were about to smash something.

His chest heaved violently, and the leather corset emblazoned with the black bear emblem seemed about to burst. Then came a deafening roar: "Prepare the horses! Assemble my guards! I will personally crush that red-haired bandit! I will personally rip his guts out and feed them to the crows in the trees! And throw them to the black bears on the ground!"

The castle steward rushed forward, his voice respectful yet tinged with persuasion, "Your Excellency, please calm down! Red-haired Peter is as cunning as a fox; how do you know this isn't a trap he deliberately set?"

The old steward was nearly sixty years old, with gray hair and a thin build, but his back was ramrod straight. He wore a faded but crisply starched gray robe, and his face was etched with the marks of time.

"My lord! Please calm down; now is not the time to act rashly!"

The steward opened his arms wide, his voice urgent yet respectful, "Red Peter moves with lightning speed. Our hasty engagement now plays right into his hands. The most urgent task is to immediately dispatch all messengers and expedite the conscription of vassals and able-bodied men from within our domains! We must gather superior forces to deal with him with overwhelming power—"

"That's enough!"

The count interrupted him impatiently, his face flushed with anger. "Gather them? By the time you slowly assemble them, Peter's toes will already be at the gates of my castle!"

The old steward complained, "It's all that king's envoy's fault! He told us that the Prague army was coming soon and that we should prioritize preparing provisions, which delayed the conscription process! Now look what's happened—the enemy is here, we're short-handed, and the Prague army he spoke of is nowhere to be seen!"

"shut up!"

Count Turnov approached the old steward, his finger almost touching the man's nose. "Steward Locke, you are a loyal servant who has watched me grow up, serving my family for many years. I trust you, but I will not allow you to continue slandering my friend! Mr. Istvan Toth is an elegant nobleman who brings the King's greetings and the promise of reinforcements. He is my distinguished guest! Don't let your narrow-mindedness and suspicion blind you!"

A flicker of grief and indignation flashed in the old steward's cloudy eyes. He took a deep breath, as if he had made up his mind, and raised his voice slightly: "Sir! Please allow me to speak frankly—the problem lies precisely with this Mr. Toth!"

Before his arrival, our alliance with the Barons Ichin and Rowan was solid, and we were each other's special ally. But he only arrived three days ago, and with just empty promises of reinforcements, he made us relax our defenses.

And the result? Baron Ichin underestimated his enemy and advanced recklessly, and was defeated! Baron Rowan was ambushed on his way to the rescue and was also defeated! The alliance collapsed, and a powerful enemy pressed in—all of this happened after he appeared!

"My lord, this man's origins are unknown, and his words are evasive. He is far from being the king's special envoy; he is clearly—a jinx!"

"But he is my friend!" Count Turnov retorted angrily.

The old steward was not intimidated. His aged face flushed with excitement, and his voice trembled slightly: "Friend? How can someone who has only been here for three days become a close friend? He has deceived you with sweet words and his stories of Prague!"

He let you indulge in the illusion that reinforcements were on their way, while ignoring the imminent threat! I have served your family for three generations, watching you grow up; I cannot stand by and watch you be deceived by treacherous people and push our ancestral legacy into the abyss!

Just then, an elegant yet somewhat cold voice came from the shadows of the side door of the hall: "To slander a gentleman, a king's envoy, behind his back is not the virtue of a devout Christian, much less the conduct of a nobleman. Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot, Steward, you are not a nobleman."

The owner of the voice slowly stepped out of the shadows; it was István Toth. He wore a well-tailored dark blue velvet coat, with silver embroidery on the collar and cuffs, a stark contrast to the rugged warrior style of the hall. His steps were light and silent, and his face still bore that enigmatic smile.

His gaze fell upon Steward Otto, and he sized him up. "Perhaps we shouldn't hold you to such high aristocratic standards?"

This condescending and personally attacking taunt was like a poisoned dagger, precisely piercing the most sensitive spot in Steward Otto's heart.

The old steward's face instantly turned from red to white, then from white to green. His withered fingers gripped the hem of his robe tightly, his knuckles bulging from the force. He opened his mouth, wanting to refute, but found himself unable to argue against the fact of his "noble status."

This contempt based on birth was more humiliating and powerless than any direct insult. He could only stare intently at Istvan, his chest heaving, and suppressed gasps escaping his throat.

Istvan, however, no longer looked at him, as if he were merely an insignificant piece of old furniture in the corner. He turned to Count Turnov, his face instantly softening with concern and respect: "Your Excellency, please do not be angered by these unfounded accusations. Loyalty can sometimes manifest as excessive worry, even if such worry is baseless."

The count's anger subsided slightly upon seeing his "friend" appear. He gave a heavy snort and patted István on the shoulder: "You're right, Mr. Toth. Locke is just—just old, timid and long-winded, but he's still worthy of my trust, and so are you."

Count Turnov's heart was like a field swept by a storm; he yearned to prove his bravery and defend his territory and dignity through the most direct means—fight. The old steward's obstruction displeased him. He relied on the steward's loyalty, but he abhorred having his authority and judgment questioned, especially in the presence of Istvan, whom he considered a "friend of a higher order."

István's flattery and emphasis on "noble honor" hit exactly what he valued most.

The old steward was filled with bitterness and anxiety. With his sixty-odd years of life experience, he could see the contempt and ill intent in the eyes of this "King's Envoy." He tried to awaken his master with unwavering loyalty, only to find himself defeated by flattery and so-called "noble sentiments," a sense of powerlessness that tore at his heart.

István sneered inwardly. He gained trust through cunning and manipulation, skillfully exploiting the count's weaknesses and using his noble status to his advantage. Every word and expression he made was designed to steer decisions in his favor.

The territory of Count Turnov is a fertile land, with the flowing Izera River nourishing vast wheat fields and pastures. The meandering river, like a silver ribbon, provides irrigation and transportation. The hilly areas are covered with dense forests, yielding high-quality timber and game. Fifteen villages of varying sizes are scattered across the territory, nine of which are directly controlled, and six are knightly fiefs. The population is dense, with over five thousand serfs and freemen living there, who are considered by the Count to be the foundation of his wealth and manpower.

The territory's economy is based on agriculture and animal husbandry, while the forests and a trade route connecting to Liberets also provide a stable income. Occasionally, the mountain quarries yield gemstones, bringing him a windfall. He earns 15,000 Groschen annually.

It was precisely because of this solid foundation that Count Turnov was able to maintain a standing military force that was the envy of the surrounding area: 120 well-trained castle guards equipped with chainmail or plated armor; six knights with fiefs, armed to the teeth, and their squires; 60 experienced, heavily armored infantrymen; and 30 mobile light cavalry. In theory, a general mobilization could recruit more than 800 peasant soldiers armed with pitchforks, sickles, or their own rudimentary weapons—though their fighting strength was questionable, they would be sufficient to bolster the force and undertake auxiliary and attrition missions.

Count Turnov also had some regrets. If he had received Baron Rowan's message earlier and decisively sent troops to form a pincer attack with Baron Rowan, the outcome would have been uncertain.

At this moment, all he could do was look up at the sky and sigh.

The three stood separately in the hall.

Count Turnov stood in the light, but his back cast a long shadow.

The old manager retreated to a corner, like a silent stone statue.

Istvan leaned against the window, his fingertips tapping lightly on the windowsill, the rhythm like a countdown.

Outside the window, dark clouds began to gather.

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