Ruin has come to our family

"I'll help the lord." Little John answered as if a switch had been flipped in his mind.

Loyalty is not a concept the common folk often have the luxury of entertaining. And besides, he was not directly sworn to the landowner. Lance quickly learned all the boy knew. He was just a gofer at the grain shop. He was here only because the shopkeeper had ordered him to inform the landowner that "the new lord has returned, and the Magistrate has been executed." He knew little else.

"Tell me the schedule. How often does the grain shop communicate with the farmstead?"

"Every three days, someone comes to deliver grain and collect the coin. The last time was two days ago. The guards here were supposed to be relieved tomorrow."

"What about the guards at the shop? Why didn't they come, and you did instead?"

"They only listen to the Master. The shopkeeper can't order them around. So a chore like this fell to me."

The "Master" was, of course, the landowner. Normally, the guards themselves should have been the ones to deliver such a message. But it was clear they had grown lazy and complacent. There was no entertainment at the farmstead, so their three-day stint in town was for carousing. They couldn't be bothered to make the trip back. And since the shopkeeper couldn't command them, he had to send his shop boy.

"Hmph," Lance sneered. If this was the quality of the landowner's household guards, he had perhaps been overestimating them.

"Tell me how many guards there are. Their equipment, and their positions."

From Little John's description, Lance quickly grasped the basic situation. There were five men in total: one captain, who wore a breastplate and carried an axe, two crossbowmen, and two swordsmen. This was the force the landowner had deployed to protect his grain. In terms of numbers alone, they were nothing more than a single charge and cleave from Reynauld. But with armor and weapons, particularly the two crossbows, they were a force to be reckoned with. Guarding a chokepoint like the grain store, they could hold off a much larger force. Lance had no intention of charging into a hail of bolts.

But, according to Little John, these men had no discipline. They spent their days drinking and bullying him. If not for their strict orders to guard the grain shop, they would have long since run off in search of pleasure.

Lance was not surprised. These men had no professional training; they were not even worthy of being called a militia. They were just local thugs handed weapons. They were good for bullying serfs who wouldn't fight back, but against regular soldiers, or even brigands and mercenaries, they were nothing. Mercenaries were true killers; they knew how and when to kill. No wonder a force this size had been kept in check by the Magistrate's twenty-odd sellswords.

Still, Lance did not truly underestimate them. Though they were rabble, there were five of them, and their weapons were a threat. The fundamental problem remained that he was still short on men.

Despise the enemy strategically, but respect them tactically.

A plan for how to take them down quickly formed in his mind.

......

Night in the Hamlet always came quickly. After Lance's purge of the constables, the town had grown even quieter. The usual sounds of drunken shouts, brawls, and break-ins were gone. Without their primary clientele, the tavern and the gambling den had lost their usual boisterous atmosphere. The brothel had been shut down entirely.

But unlike the nights before, most people now had a bit of gruel in their bellies. They would not be kept awake by the gnawing pains of starvation. For them, tonight would be the first good dream they'd had since the brigand invasion.

But for some, sleep would not come so easily.

The owner of the grain shop was waiting at home for Little John's return. He had been waiting since midday, and now that darkness had fallen, he was beginning to suspect something had gone wrong. Just then, he heard a sound at the door.

"Night has already fallen. Why are you only now returning?" a tall, thin middle-aged man said, frowning at the sight of Little John standing outside. Thanks to the lord's distribution of gruel, his shop hadn't had a single customer all day. The thought made him ask, "What did the Master say?"

"The Master says he wishes to see you," Little John blurted out. Before the middle-aged man could react, the half-open door was pushed wide, and a young man strode in.

The shopkeeper recognized him at a glance. It was the lord, the same one who had executed the Magistrate in the square that morning. The thought of his own message to the landowner sent a jolt of fear through him. He instinctively looked at Little John. You little brat, you led the lord here?

"Is there something I can help you with, my lord?" the shopkeeper said, forcing a fawning smile, playing dumb. "If you wish to purchase grain, we can discuss it at the shop tomorrow."

"You, run along now," Lance said, dismissing Little John with a single sentence. "I need to have a long talk with the shopkeeper."

Seeing this, the shopkeeper knew his fate was sealed. He could only offer a bitter, resigned smile.

......

The layout of the grain shop was simple. The storefront was in the front, the warehouse in the back. The space was not large, but it was enough for a few men to make their quarters.

Little John arrived at the door, took a moment to compose himself, and then knocked.

"Ugh, what do you want, kid?" A man opened the door. Seeing it was Little John, his face fell into a look of disgust. "Go on, get! Find some women for us lads, liven things up a bit."

"There are no more women. The lord has closed the brothel."

"I don't care. Just go find some," the man said, his voice growing irritable. He knew, of course, that the brothel was closed. It was a sore spot for all of them; their fun had been cut short. Usually, a handful of grain was enough to buy a woman for the night, but with the free gruel being given out, no one was selling. And they couldn't even pay for it if they wanted to, with the brothel shut down. As for taking one by force? The Magistrate's head was still hanging from the statue in the square. They didn't have the courage to challenge the new lord's authority. But in their hearts, they wished him a swift and painful death.

Tomorrow was their rotation. Once they were back at the farmstead, women would be much harder to come by. The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. "Damn the lord to the pox," he cursed under his breath.

Little John looked at the vulgar man with contempt, but he did not forget his mission.

"The women are gone. But the shopkeeper said you're heading back tomorrow, so he sent me with some wine for you."

Little John stepped aside, revealing a large wooden cask behind him.

Seeing it, the man's face changed as if he were an actor in a play. A broad smile spread across his face. He shoved the boy aside, completely ignoring him, and called for another man to help him haul the cask inside.

It never occurred to them to wonder how a small boy could have moved such a heavy cask all by himself.

From within, the sounds of revelry began. Little John did not leave. He simply sat by the door, listening.