The torchlight flickered across the stone walls of the hard labor camp, casting jagged shadows as Supervisor Tarkel led Hilter and Josk deeper into the grim facility.
The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and despair, the distant clink of chains a haunting reminder of the lives trapped within.
Hilter's boots echoed on the rough floor, his face a mask of resolve, though his heart stirred with caution. Josk walked beside him.
Tarkel, clutching his ledger like a shield, began to speak, his voice a nervous ramble tinged with frustration. "Milord, I'll be honest—Freiyar's a thorn in our side. He's more arrogant than the warden himself, strutting around like he owns this place. The prisoners look to him, not us. An Iron rank like me? I wouldn't dream of crossing him."
He shook his head, his jowls quivering. "He's beaten guards bloody, and the warden just shrugs says as long as Freiyar doesn't escape, it's fine. If it weren't for his blind wife and those twins, he'd have carved a path to the count by now, mark my words. The count admires his skill, but doesn't he see? Freiyar'll never serve him not after what happened to his adopted mother."
Hilter's eyes flickered with respect for Freiyar's defiance. "A man who holds his ground despite such loss… that's rare," he murmured, his voice low but laced with admiration.
Josk nodded, his own voice rough with emotion. "He's a fighter, Commander. Always has been, I will take the lead in talking to him lets hope he will give me some face."
Tarkel paused, raising his torch to light a narrow path. "Careful, milord there's a ditch here," he warned, his tone earnest as he gestured toward Freiyar's cell.
The flame illuminated a tall, broad-shouldered figure within, his eyes sharp and wary as they fixed on the approaching trio. His presence filled the cramped space, a coiled strength that seemed to challenge the very walls confining him.
Josk stepped forward, his voice warm with recognition. "Freiyar, it's me Josk. Two years ago, Kessads Castle, the martial arts competition. Remember?"
Freiyar's gaze softened, surprise breaking through his guarded demeanor. "Josk? Marksman Josk?"
His deep voice carried a hint of disbelief, then steadied. "It's really you…" He paused, suspicion creeping back. "What's this about? You serving the count now?"
Josk's face twisted, his eyes flashing with raw fury.
*Spit*
"Serve that bastard? I'd sooner feast on his flesh and drink his blood!" His voice trembled with hatred, the grudge against Cobry a wound that bled anew. "Don't insult me, Freiyar, I'd die before bending to him."
Freiyar's tension eased, curiosity sparking in his eyes. "Then why're you here? You're no prisoner, not with that guard bowing and scraping."
Hilter signaled to Tarkel. "Open the door," he commanded, his voice calm but firm. As the lock clicked and the iron bars swung wide, he stepped closer, his presence commanding yet approachable.
"Freiyar, I'm Hilter, serving as commander under Lord Allen Styles of the Northlands. Josk serves him too. Geldos City is ours now, taken by our forces."
Freiyar's brow furrowed, his voice thick with skepticism. "The Styles Family? I heard of them years back, up in the Northlands. But why's your lord down here, seizing Cobry's city?"
Hilter met his gaze, his tone earnest and steady. "Let me explain." He recounted Allen's journey returning to claim his Northlands title, the clash with Cobry sparked by the count's reckless attacks on their convoy, and the stealthy conquest of Geldos.
"We hold the city, but we're stretched thin. Josk saw your name in the prisoner records and brought me here. I'll be blunt, Mister Freiyar I need your help. Join us, serve Lord Styles, and lend your strength to this fight."
Freiyar studied Hilter, his eyes searching for deceit. Perhaps it was the sincerity in Hilter's voice, or the shared hatred for Cobry, but he didn't hesitate long.
"I'll help you, for now," he said, his voice resolute but cautious. "Only to settle my score with Cobry for my mother's death. But I want a promise: if I choose to leave with my family afterward, your lord won't stop me."
Hilter shook his head, his voice warm with conviction. "You're free to go, help or not. Lord Styles doesn't chain men to his service. That's not his way."
Freiyar's shoulders relaxed, a flicker of respect crossing his face. He bowed, his voice low but heartfelt. "Thank you… for your lord's generosity. I'll not forget it."
With the agreement struck, Freiyar's demeanor shifted, his voice brimming with purpose. "You said you lack manpower, Commander. Tell me about your forces, what've you got?"
Hilter outlined their strength: the ambush unit, the two new laborer pike companies, and their shaky combat readiness.
"We're holding for now," he said, his tone tinged with worry, "but if Cobry learns we've taken Geldos, he'll march back with a pike cavalry company and a garrison regiment led by his Gold-ranked sons. They could retake the city in a single push. Our laborer companies look the part, but they're green, untested."
Freiyar nodded, glancing back at the prison's shadowed depths. "You're eyeing the captives here, aren't you Sir?"
Hilter smiled faintly, his voice steady but inviting. "Call me Butler Hilter, or just Hilter. And yes, I've heard from Josk these men are veterans, Battle Force awakened. I don't need them to lead a charge, just to hold the line against Cobry's first waves until our main forces arrive."
Freiyar's eyes gleamed, his voice rising with conviction. "You've got the right idea, Butler Hilter. These men despise Cobry. They're caged because of him, their families suffering for it. Even those who served him did it for their kin, not loyalty. Tell them Cobry's crumbling, and they'll light the fire themselves."
He turned to Tarkel, his tone commanding. "Hand over the keys."
Tarkel fumbled, but since Hilter didn't oppose he reluctantly passed the ring of keys, his face puckering with dissatisfaction.
He mumbled under his breath, the words barely audible. Hilter's sharp ears caught the sound, and he fixed the supervisor with a curious look.
"Speak up, young man," he said, his voice firm but not unkind. "What's on your mind?"
Tarkel hesitated, his chubby cheeks flushing as he met Hilter's gaze. "I… I just think, milord, you don't need these prisoners to hold the city. If they're freed and don't follow orders, they could cause more trouble than they're worth."
Hilter's interest piqued, a spark of amusement in his eyes. "Oh? You've got a plan to defend Geldos without them? Let's hear it, then."
He leaned closer, intrigued by the nervous man whose flabby face belied a hidden cunning.
Tarkel swallowed, his voice gaining strength as he spoke. "My name's Tarkel, sir. I've got a family wife, son, my dim daughter-in-law, four of us. My brother's a blacksmith here, makes the count's weapons. We were serfs, back in my granddad's day, but my father joined Cobry's garrison, earned us freedom. He died fighting bandits, and I took his place. When the count started expanding his army, I… I paid a bribe to avoid the front lines, got this prison guard job. Worked my way up to warden."
His voice wavered with a mix of pride and shame. "I know this city, milord every alley, every secret. There's not a corner I can't navigate."
Hilter's brow arched, his voice warm with intrigue. "Is that so, Tarkel? You sound like a man with more to offer than ledgers."
Hilter naturally didn't take it at face value and started questioning Tarkel about the area. To his surprise, Tarkel really could describe almost every place he named with great detail. He was even familiar with the rough number of resources that were stored in the various warehouses.
He clapped the supervisor's shoulder, his tone encouraging. "Stick close. We'll talk more about your city, and your ideas."