Ruin has come to our family

After looting the town, the brigands did not leave. Instead, they took up positions along the Old Road, robbing any who dared to travel it. With the trade routes severed, the price of goods in the Hamlet skyrocketed, and a food shortage quickly led to famine. To make matters worse, the Magistrate had suddenly imposed a "protection tax," a crippling blow that forced some freemen to sell themselves into servitude to the landowners just to survive.

"What of your lord? Does a town this size not have a militia?"

"I don't know where the noble masters go. As for the militia, we had one. Most of them died when the brigands attacked. Those that didn't die, ran. Only a few are left..."

The tavern boy's expression grew cautious. He cast a nervous glance around the empty tavern before leaning in and lowering his voice. "And those that are left... they became the 'constables' you saw earlier. If you meet them, sir, it is best to keep your distance."

Lance understood his meaning. To fend off the brigands, the Magistrate had hired a number of sellswords. After the battle, these mercenaries and the surviving militiamen had become the town's "constables." In reality, they were the Magistrate's enforcers, thugs who preyed upon the townsfolk, making them even more hated than the brigands themselves.

"And the Church?"

"Heh," the boy scoffed. "After the brigands retreated, the Church, along with the Mercenary's Guild, abandoned the Hamlet. The abbey and the guild hall are both empty now."

Hearing this, Reynauld's expression shifted, a flicker of disappointment crossing his resolute face, though he said nothing.

The situation in the Hamlet was grim. On one side were the landowners, who held the town's food supply in their grasp from their sprawling farmsteads. On the other was the Magistrate, with his band of constables composed of mercenaries and thugs. The logical first step would be to find the old steward and establish his identity as the new lord. But Lance knew that would immediately alert the Magistrate. He had only two men with him. Even a dragon struggles to crush a serpent in its own lair. To reveal himself now would be to place himself at the Magistrate's mercy...

"What of the woman?"

Lance steered the conversation back to the wretched figure from before. A look of weary resignation appeared on the tavern boy's face.

"Sigh... another victim of this bandit plague. She had a good life, a family of three. But when the brigands came, her husband and son were killed, leaving her all alone. I don't know if the grief drove her mad. I heard she dragged a heavily wounded veteran from the ruins and took him home to care for him. The priests demanded coin for their healing, so she tried to sell the veteran's gear to pay them. But those sellswords... they stole his equipment, and... and they tormented her for a whole night before throwing her back onto the street. By then, the priests who could channel divine power had left with the Church. After that, she truly broke."

"She survives by picking through the scraps those sellswords leave behind. I try to leave some fish guts and gills for her when I can."

"A veteran?" Lance latched onto the word.

"That's right. The sellsword, he used to be a soldier. When the brigands attacked, he was the only one who stood up to lead a resistance against them. But he was gravely wounded. Likely dead by now."

Dismas and Reynauld were both moved by the tale.

"This is yours," Lance said, tossing the copper coin to the boy, before placing another on the table. "Another pound of the black bread, to go."

The tavern boy seemed to understand Lance's intent. He said nothing, only shaking his head as he went to the back.

"I'm going to see them. Are you two with me?" Lance knew he possessed little real combat ability; the pistol at his hip was mostly for show. He would need his escort to move safely through the town.

"The Light protects me," Reynauld said, pulling his great helm back over his head.

"Then I have no quarrel," Dismas declared, downing the last of his ale in one gulp.

Lance stepped out of the tavern and saw the woman huddled by the doorway. He approached her. The woman, who moments before had tried to get near, now recoiled in terror, her expression twisted. She shrank in on herself, hugging her knees, not daring to meet his gaze.

Lance made no sudden moves. He simply crouched down and slowly offered her the black bread, wrapped in paper.

"Do not be afraid. We will not harm you. Take this and eat."

The woman looked up at the package, then slowly met Lance's eyes. She seemed stunned for a moment by the smile on his face, but then she reacted, snatching the bundle and fleeing as if for her life.

"She just left?" Dismas scowled, about to stop her, but Lance held up a hand.

"This land is filled with wretched souls. It seems the corruption has already taken root. Our task will be a difficult one."

With that, Lance began to follow, leaving Dismas to ask, confused, "My lord, why are we doing this?"

"We are outsiders here. No one knows us. To gain a foothold, we need a tether to the locals. A sellsword who was the only one willing to protect the common folk during the raid... he has immense value to us."

Lance had been vexed as to how he would make his entry into the town's affairs. Hearing the woman's story, a plan had finally formed. He intended to leverage the veteran's reputation, but he would need to see the situation for himself before making a final decision.

The three of them trailed the woman to a lone house, watching as she scurried inside. It was clear her family had once been of some means to afford a detached house of wattle and daub, but the war had destroyed everything.

The door was unlocked, merely pushed shut. As they approached, a faint, foul odor met their nostrils. Remembering the tavern boy's words, Lance suspected the veteran was already dead, the smell that of a rotting corpse. A shared glance told him his companions thought the same. But having come this far, none of them intended to turn back.

"This is only the beginning," Lance said. "If one cannot stomach this, they have no place here."

He led the way, pushing the door open. As it swung inward, the stench intensified a hundredfold, rushing into his nostrils and making his full stomach turn. But in that moment, he saw what was happening inside.

The woman had sliced open her own wrist, letting her blood drip into the mouth of the man lying on the bed.

Their sudden intrusion startled her. With a strange cry, she fell to the floor, but scrambled back up, brandishing a shard of scrap metal as a weapon.

"Get out of my house!"

"Be calm. We are not those sellswords," Lance said, and then, ignoring her threat, he stepped toward her.

Seeing him advance, the woman seemed to truly descend into madness, raising the metal shard to strike. Reynauld, ever watchful, started forward, but Lance stopped him with a raised hand. Instead, he simply opened his arms to the crazed woman.

"If you wish to strike me, then do so. For what has become of you... I bear an undeniable responsibility."