Mount & Blade: Rebuilding Rome from Mercenaries

Tankred was stunned.

The battle axe in his hand was still hanging in mid-air, and the blood droplets on the axe blade slowly slid down and dripped onto the dirt floor.

Eric's breathing was heavy and rapid. He raised his head, and his brown eyes burned with an indomitable flame, much like the expression on old John's face when he recounted his father's deeds in the tent.

"The mercenary leader's son..." Tankred murmured to himself, his voice so low that only he could hear it.

He slowly retracted his battle axe, the axe drawing an arc in the air before plunging heavily into the edge of the wooden table.

Wood chips flew everywhere, and the coarse bread on the table bounced half an inch. Tankred took a step back, his kite shield still protecting his left arm, but his gaze was no longer full of murderous intent, but rather carried a hint of curiosity.

The son of the great mercenary leader!?

These words instantly put Tankred on alert.

"Go on," Tancred said calmly, yet with an undeniable authority. He pulled up a worn wooden stool and sat down, his grey-blue eyes fixed on Eric. "Tell me everything about your father, from beginning to end. Miss Emma, ​​please sit down too. Put the dagger down first; I won't kill him for now."

Emma hesitated for a moment, still holding the dagger in her hand, but carefully sat back down next to Eric.

Eric scrambled to his feet, panting, his right hand pressing against the wound on his thigh, blood seeping between his fingers. He glanced at Tancred, his eyes still wary, yet also seemingly filled with a sense of relief. Emma tore a piece of cloth from his waist and hastily bandaged the wound.

After much fuss, Eric finally spoke slowly:

"My father... Hacón de Brion the Elder, was the captain of a medium-sized mercenary group from Normandy. Ten years ago, he led more than forty men south to Italy, initially working as a mercenary under the governor of the Byzantine military district. Later, when those bastard Greeks withheld his wages, he followed the trend and joined the Norman bannerman Reinuel de Rogo, the uncle of Count Richard. Near Aversa, his mercenary group served the count's uncle and distinguished themselves in several battles."

Tancred nodded without interrupting. Such experiences were common among the older generation of Normans; not everyone possessed the foresight of the Autherville family, and this kind of conformity was the norm.

“Two years ago,” Eric continued, his voice growing lower, “my father’s mercenary group was on a mission near Capua. The group was short of supplies, so he took a dozen men to a Lombard village to buy food and livestock. The villagers… those damned Lombard bastards, they pretended to be enthusiastic, but secretly gathered hundreds of them. My father had barely paid the silver coins when they surrounded him with pitchforks, sickles, and stones.”

"It's very similar to what happened to old Tanker!" Tanker's heart sank.

"My father and his men were outnumbered and surrounded and killed. My father suffered the worst death, pierced through the chest and abdomen with more than a dozen pitchforks, and I heard his intestines spilled out. The remaining brothers fought desperately to break through the encirclement, but only five or six escaped back to camp. Then, the mercenary group's second-in-command, that bastard, took advantage of the Normans' so-called voting rules and immediately usurped the position of leader. He took my father's belongings and spoils for himself and even fabricated a story that my father died because of greed for stealing cattle. Most of the veterans in the group were bribed or driven away by him, and as the leader's only son, I was kicked out of the group, left with only an old horse."

Eric's fists clenched so tightly they turned white, and blood seeped from his wounds again. He gritted his teeth and said, "The most hateful thing is that debt! My father borrowed four hundred gold coins from a Jewish merchant before he died, intending to buy equipment for the regiment. After that bastard seized power, he pinned the entire debt on me. The interest has ballooned to over eight hundred gold coins! How can I, a vagrant, ever repay it?"

Tancred became increasingly alarmed as he listened.

He was in huge debts, his father was killed by villagers, his mercenary group was usurped by his deputy, and he was kicked out of the group. Isn't this just a replica of the original owner?

Poor Eric had no system, no uncle like Old John to protect him, and no precognitive abilities of a time traveler. He was just an ordinary Norman youth struggling to survive in this chaotic world.

The candlelight flickered in the farmhouse, illuminating Eric's pale face. He suddenly looked up, a complex emotion flashing in his eyes: "Tankred, I've vaguely heard your story. Your father, old Tankred, was also killed in the village, wasn't he? I've noticed you for a while now; perhaps we're the same kind of people."

"You noticed me a long time ago? So you must have discovered something. Go on!" Tankred did not deny it.

Eric took a deep breath and glanced at Emma, ​​who gripped his hand tightly.

Eric then lowered his voice and said, "I've inquired about these things a lot during the two years I've been wandering. At first, I thought it was just a coincidence, but the more I investigated, the more suspicious it seemed. In Southern Italy over the years, there have been far too many cases similar to those of my father and your father."

He pulled a crumpled roll of parchment from his pocket, on which names and dates were scribbled in charcoal. Tankred took it and examined it closely by candlelight; the paper was densely packed with the names of more than a dozen mercenary groups:

"Old Hakang Guild: Near Capua, the guild leader died in a siege by villagers, his deputy usurped power, and he was left with a debt of four hundred gold coins."

Conteville Regiment: Aversa, the commander died stealing cattle, his deputy usurped power, and he was left with a debt of five hundred gold coins.

Grey Wolves: Benevento, the leader was killed while resupplying, the second-in-command absorbed the original group, the debts are unknown.

... "

Tankred's fingers trembled slightly. He was somewhat unfamiliar with the names of these mercenary groups, but the pattern of their "annihilation" was exactly the same—the leader was surrounded and killed by "angry villagers" in a village in Lombardy, the deputy quickly seized power, the debts were transferred to the only son or heir, and the mercenary group was swallowed up.

"Was all this done by the same person?" Tancred asked in a low voice.

Eric nodded, a glint of hatred in his eyes: "That's right. I spent six months bribing the servants of several Jewish merchants and infiltrating the camps of several usurpers. Behind every 'village siege,' there was the same person. He instructed the Jewish merchants to lend money to the mercenary captains to buy equipment, and then incited the villagers to riot at the crucial moment."

"The mastermind behind it all will first approach the mercenary group's second-in-command, promising land, titles, and debt relief. Once the second-in-command seizes power, the veterans in the group will either be bribed or expelled. Those of us 'sons of the leader,' like you and me, will either have to pay off our debts like beasts of burden or be driven away to fend for ourselves! This person will gradually eliminate the small and medium-sized mercenary groups in Southern Italy, expanding his own power. On the surface, he's a hero to the Normans; in reality, he's a man-eating fox!"

"Who is it?" Tankred stepped forward and asked loudly, though he already knew the answer in his heart.

And Eric slowly uttered that name:

"Giscal!"