Chương 63: The Western Road I

Jack sat behind his wooden desk, his primary ledger open in front of him. Standing on the other side of the desk were Giles, Barnaby, and Old Miller. The three men had formed the informal council of the Frost-Grip fief over the past days, and now, Jack was officially handing them the reins.

"I will be gone for several weeks," Jack said, his voice calm and authoritative.

"Perhaps a month, depending on the conditions of the western roads and how long the trade negotiations take in the Market City."

"We understand, Lord Jack," Giles nodded, holding his cap in his hands.

"The men know their tasks."

"Let us be absolutely clear on those tasks," Jack replied, tapping a piece of charcoal against the parchment.

"Barnaby, the coal mine is your primary concern. You have fifteen healthy men from the new laborers assigned to the main tunnel. Most of the side-tunnels are completely sealed, so there are no excuses for missed quotas. I want a massive surplus of coal sitting in the storage sheds by the time I return."

"You will have a mountain of it, My Lord," Barnaby promised, his thick arms crossed over his chest.

"I'll keep the forge running half the day to make sure the miners have sharp pickaxes, and I'll oversee the digging myself." Jack turned his gaze to the old farmer.

"Old Miller. The southern fields."

"The iron-stalk wheat is growing beautifully, Lord Jack," Old Miller smiled, his face showing genuine pride.

"The ash from the stumps made the dirt incredibly rich. With the new laborers hauling water from the river to the irrigation trenches, the crop is drinking deeply. We will have a spectacular harvest by autumn."

"Make sure the new workers are fed well, but do not let them slack," Jack instructed. He looked back at Giles, the man he trusted to manage the people.

"Giles, you are in charge of maintaining the peace. The original citizens give the orders, and the bonded laborers follow them. Ensure there is no physical abuse, but tolerate no theft or insubordination."

"I will keep the peace, Lord Jack," Giles affirmed firmly.

"The village will run like a ticking clock."

"There is one final rule," Jack said. His tone dropped, becoming entirely cold and leaving no room for argument.

"While I am away, the castle is strictly off-limits. To everyone." The three men blinked, slightly surprised by the harshness of the command.

"Karen is traveling with me to the city," Jack continued.

"The new maids are to be reassigned to the village kitchens until I return. I have locked the doors to the upper floors and the cellars. I do not want a single person setting foot inside these stone walls while I am gone. No one enters the castle."

"Of course, My Lord," Giles agreed quickly.

"We will set a guard at the courtyard gates to ensure the castle is not disturbed."

"Good," Jack nodded, closing the ledger.

"You may go." As the three men filed out of the study, Jack let out a slow breath and leaned back in his chair. The strict lockdown was absolutely necessary. Deep beneath the castle floors, locked behind heavy stone doors in the lowest levels of the crypts, was his entire undead workforce. The skeletons, the giant wolf Grim, and the flesh-bound fire mage Elias and many more corpses and skeletons to be reanimated.

A few days prior, Jack had casually mentioned to Giles that his "private mage," was traveling ahead of the carriage on foot to scout the mountain roads for bandit camps. It was a simple lie that explained why the mage would not be seen standing at the village gates for the next month. If a curious villager or a snooping slave wandered into the castle while Jack was miles away and stumbled upon an army of the dead standing in the dark cellars, the fief would instantly tear itself apart in panic.

Seven more days passed. The village operated smoothly under the direction of the three foremen. Jack spent the time resting, ensuring his Iron Core was completely stable, and packing his travel chests with the raw mountain gems he intended to use for capital in the west. On the morning of the tenth day, the sharp blast of the watchtower horn echoed through the valley. Jack grabbed his cane and walked out onto his balcony. Rolling slowly up the southern road toward the village gates was a carriage.

It was not a rickety merchant cart or a simple wooden wagon. It was a heavy, masterfully crafted noble's carriage, painted a deep, imposing black, with thick iron reinforcements along the wheels and the frame. But it was the horses pulling the carriage that caught Jack's attention. There were four of them, and they were terrifying. They were massive beasts, significantly taller and broader than normal draft horses. Their fur was pitch-black, absorbing the morning sunlight rather than reflecting it.

Their tails were a pristine white, and even from this distance, Jack could see that their eyes glowed with a faint, unnatural red light. The winding dirt path leading up the mountain slope from the village to the castle doors was far too steep and narrow for such a massive, heavy vehicle to navigate safely. Knowing the carriage would have to wait down below, Jack grabbed his coat and left his room. He walked down the mountain path to the village square, where a large crowd of villagers had already gathered.

It was better this way regardless; a public departure would reassure the laborers that the fief was still in strict order. The carriage rolled over the wooden ramp and stopped in the center of the square. The villagers kept their distance, muttering nervously. They remembered Inquisitor Silas Thorne, and they deeply hated him. However, because Lord Jack had ordered this, they held their tongues, a display of their absolute faith in their young ruler. The driver of the carriage climbed down from the front bench.

He was a broad-shouldered, heavily scarred man with graying hair, wearing a thick gray coat that bore a small, subtle emblem of the Holy Church. He looked at the villagers with a stoic, entirely unimpressed expression. The carriage door opened, and Silas Thorne stepped out. His pristine white and gold robes looked entirely out of place in the dirty, industrious village.

"Right on time, Silas," Jack said, stepping forward and leaning on his cane.

"I am a man of my word, Lord Jack," Silas replied smoothly, offering a polite nod. He gestured to the driver.

"This is Bram. He has served the Church for twenty years. He does not talk much, but he is the finest driver on the continent that I know." Jack looked at the massive, terrifying horses. They were stamping their heavy hooves, their red eyes scanning the crowd with dangerous intelligence.

"And the beasts?" Jack asked.

"They do not look like standard mounts."

"They are Ash-Striders," Silas explained, a hint of pride in his voice.

"A highly prized, magical breed heavily regulated by the church. They can run at twice the speed of a normal horse, and they can pull a heavy carriage for three days straight without needing sleep or water. If we are to cross the western roads quickly, we need the best." You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

"Excellent," Jack nodded. He turned to look at the castle path. Karen was hurrying down the hill, struggling slightly as she carried a heavy woven bag packed with their travel supplies and a change of clothes. She looked terrified, keeping her eyes firmly on the ground as she approached the carriage. She bowed deeply to Silas and quickly climbed into the carriage cabin without saying a word.

"Is the maid your only attendant?" Silas asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I had assumed you would bring a few of your militia guards or slaves for luggage."

"You are a Gold Core Inquisitor," Jack said flatly.

"If something on the road is dangerous enough to threaten you, a peasant is not going to make a difference. We travel light." Silas let out a short, amused chuckle.

"Pragmatic as always, Lord Jack. After you." Jack turned to Giles, Barnaby, and Old Miller, giving them one final nod.

"Hold the fief."

"Safe travels, Lord Jack!" the villagers called out in unison as Jack climbed into the carriage, followed closely by Silas. Bram the driver cracked a heavy leather whip. The Ash-Striders let out a strange, echoing neigh and surged forward with incredible power. Jack sat on the plush velvet seat, looking out the small glass window of the carriage door as they rolled toward the village gates. As they passed the final row of winter cabins, Jack spotted a small group of children running around.

Chasing right behind them, barking happily and wagging its tail, was a scruffy, medium-sized dog. Jack paused, staring at the animal. A genuine, warm smile broke across his face. It was the stray dog. The exact same stray dog that had accidentally witnessed his clumsy skeletons dropping the coal outside Barnaby's shop during a heavy snowstorm months ago. Jack had honestly assumed the poor creature had frozen to death or starved in the deep winter. But looking at it now, the dog was healthy.

One of the families must have taken it in and fed it their scraps. It was a tiny, insignificant detail, but to Jack, seeing that dog healthy and playing was a profound symbol of exactly how far his fief had come.

"Something amusing outside, Lord Jack?" Silas asked, noticing the smile.

"Just admiring the view," Jack replied smoothly, his face returning to a neutral mask as the carriage rolled out of the gates and began its rapid descent down the mountain pass. The speed of the Ash-Striders was truly staggering. The heavy carriage did not bounce or shake violently like a standard merchant wagon. The magical horses pulled with such smooth, relentless power that the journey felt incredibly stable. They ate up the miles, leaving the towering peaks of the Frost-Grip valley behind in a matter of hours.

For the next three days, Jack spent most of his time looking out the window, quietly absorbing the reality of the wider world. The northern mountain range was massive, and Jack's valley was only a small piece of it. There were a total of nine minor Northern Lords who ruled territories in this harsh, unforgiving region. As the carriage sped along the winding, rocky roads, they passed through the lands of three of Jack's neighbors. It was a sobering sight.

Through the glass, Jack saw the grim reality of the other fiefs. He saw desperate, thin peasants trying to hack at rocky, unyielding soil with rusted iron hoes. The smoke rising from their chimneys was thin and weak, indicating a severe lack of proper fuel.

"They look miserable," Jack muttered quietly, watching a group of ragged children stare blankly at the passing black carriage.

"The North is a harsh mistress," Silas said from the opposite seat, resting his hands in his lap.

"The soil is poor, the winters are long, and the trade routes are treacherous. It is exactly why even though the Holy Church sent their mages for aid during the winters mostly to take care of the monsters, they rarely bother to look in this direction. A territory must produce value to receive attention." Jack looked at Silas. Before the winter, the Frost-Grip fief had been widely considered the absolute poorest and weakest of the nine northern territories.

Jack's father had become the laughingstock of the regional nobility for some years now. But looking at the starving neighbors, Jack realized something profound. With his reopened coal mine, his iron forge, and his dedicated slave labor force, Jack was no longer the weakest lord in the north. He was likely the wealthiest, at least in terms of raw infrastructure and survival resources.

"You have done something incredible in your valley, Lord Jack," Silas noted, noticing the young lord's calculating expression.

"To turn a dying fief into a fortress in a single winter. It requires a ruthless mind. Tell me, where does a boy who rarely left his father's library learn to command men and manage heavy industry so efficiently?" It was a subtle probe. Silas was digging for answers, trying to figure out why High Cardinal Xander was secretly protecting this boy, this necromancer.

"Hunger is a very effective teacher, Silas," Jack deflected smoothly, leaning his chin on his cane.

"When you are staring at a freezing death, you learn to be practical very quickly. I simply organized the labor my father neglected." Karen sat in the corner of the carriage, keeping herself as small and quiet as possible. The presence of the Gold Core Inquisitor terrified her, and the tense, polite verbal sparring between the two men made the air in the small cabin feel incredibly heavy. On the afternoon of the fourth day, the smooth rhythm of the carriage abruptly broke.

Bram pulled hard on the reins, bringing the Ash-Striders to a halt. Jack looked out the window. Blocking the road ahead was a crude wooden barricade. Standing behind it were a dozen men wearing mismatched, rusted chainmail and holding worn spears. It was a regional toll station, set up by the local lord to extort traveling merchants.

"Toll inspection!" a greasy-haired guard shouted, marching up to the carriage door. He looked at the expensive black wood and the massive horses, a greedy smile spreading across his face.

"This is a private imperial road. The toll is five silver pieces for the carriage, and an inspection of all cargo to ensure no contraband is passing through." Jack reached into his coat pocket, preparing to negotiate or simply hand over a few coins to save time. Silas let out a heavy, irritated sigh.

"I despise local corruption," Silas muttered. The Inquisitor did not reach for his coin pouch. He simply unlatched the carriage door and pushed it open. He did not step out. He just sat there, looking down at the greasy-haired guard. Silas let his absolute control slip for a fraction of a second. He released a single, concentrated drop of his Gold Core magical pressure directly onto the guards. The effect was instantaneous and violent. The air around the carriage suddenly warped with a terrifying, crushing density.

The greasy-haired guard gasped, his eyes rolling back in his head as his knees buckled. He collapsed directly on the ground, dropping his spear. The other guards behind the barricade dropped their weapons, falling to their hands and knees as they struggled to breathe, their faces pale with absolute terror. Silas pulled the carriage door shut with a solid click. The suffocating pressure instantly vanished.

"Drive, Bram," Silas ordered calmly. Bram cracked his whip. The Ash-Striders surged forward, casually smashing through the crude wooden barricade and leaving the terrified, gasping toll guards in the mud without a single copper coin changing hands. Jack sat back in his seat, a small, deadpan smile touching his lips. He was deeply wary of Silas, but he had to admit, having a Gold Core bodyguard made the tedious parts of travel incredibly efficient. Two more days passed.

The rocky, steep inclines of the mountain roads slowly began to level out. They were reaching the very edge of the northern mountain range, approaching the final descent into the western plains. On the afternoon of the sixth day, Jack was reviewing a list of magical artifacts he wanted to purchase when the carriage suddenly jerked to a violent, jarring halt. The Ash-Striders let out a series of aggressive, panicked neighs, stamping their hooves wildly. Jack looked up.

"Another toll?"

"No," Silas said, his golden eyes narrowing as he looked out the front window. The amused, relaxed demeanor he had maintained for the entire trip vanished entirely.

"Stay in the carriage." Silas pushed the door open and stepped out onto the road. Jack ignored the order, leaning forward to look out the window to see what had stopped them. They had reached the final major toll station that marked the official border of the mountains. It was supposed to be a small, fortified stone outpost manned by imperial soldiers. The outpost was gone. The thick stone walls had been completely obliterated. But they had not been smashed by a siege ram or broken by heavy rocks.

The stone had been melted. Large pools of hardened, glassy slag covered the road, and thick piles of gray ash drifted in the wind where wooden support beams used to be. The air outside the carriage was shimmering with a dry, suffocating heat that scraped at the throat.

"This is not bandit work," Silas said quietly, his hand hovering near his waist.

"And it is not a human spell. The mana residue is entirely wild." Suddenly, the bright afternoon sun was blocked out. A massive, terrifying shadow fell over the carriage and the ruined outpost. Bram shouted, struggling to hold the reins as the Ash-Striders reared up in terror. Jack looked up through the carriage window. The sky had darkened. Descending rapidly from the clouds was a gigantic bird. Its wingspan was easily the size of a small ship, but it was not made of normal feathers.

The entire beast was wreathed in roaring, magical flames that burned with a blinding, golden intensity. It was a Sun-Flare Condor. The giant bird let out a deafening screech that shook the glass of the carriage windows, diving directly toward them with its massive, burning talons extended.