Chapter 273: The Purge

Chapter 273: The Purge

The Purge

Canardia Dungeon

The small cell was damp, making it sweaty despite the lack of heat. The air hung heavy with the stench of urine and a putrid, unidentifiable smell. Only a single lantern and a few shafts of light from crudely cut ventilation holes lit the space, evidence of its former, more innocent purpose as a cellar. Outside, the last light was fading, and the breeze carried in the scent of earth.

Wiping sweat from his brow, the interrogator, still in his mid-twenties, drank from a battered waterskin.

As he swallowed, the interrogator noticed the prisoner’s gaze on him. He lifted the waterskin in a silent offer, but the prisoner shook his head out of habit. He had been held in such isolation that his body was slipping into a quasi-meditative state.

“Now, where were we again?” the interrogator muttered.

“You said I was fortunate. That I’m nobody and should slip through—”

“Ah, yes, you should slip through, if you know how to play this right,” the interrogator cutting him off. He rolled his neck from side to side to ease the stiffness, then added, “I can make this unfortunately long process a lot less painful, if you remember me and my, shall we say, timely assistance.”

The prisoner knew he had to take a leap of faith. “My father taught me to be an honorable man,” he said, doing his best to keep the desperation out of his voice.

There was a touch of excitement in his voice that lifted the prisoner’s spirits. He almost made it sound like a routine visit to the local scribe for official papers.

Without waiting for a reply, the interrogator continued, “After my report is done, they’ll transfer you out of here. But where you end up depends on that report. If I can make my superior happy, they’ll mark you as remorseful and cooperative. That means you’ll be sent to house arrest instead of another dungeon. Then, I can arrange for your family to ransom you after the bailiff’s suspicions have faded, likely in several months’ time.”

Hastily, the prisoner nodded, feeling hope well within him.

"You know, personally, there's nothing more satisfying than seeing a prisoner return to their family." The interrogator rose from his stool and stepped closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. "But of course, I'll need a guarantee. Freedom from here is never given freely."

"Tell me your price," the prisoner replied without hesitation.

The interrogator offered a disarming smile. "I need to know who you are first so I can make things work."

"Name is Haydn, my father is an esquire—"

"Do you mind if I hear it while I'm writing? I still need to record it so I can plead your case to my superior."

"Of course, my good man," Haydn replied readily.

"I'll need more than your name and your family." The interrogator returned to his seat and dragged over the other stool to use as a desk. He set out his ink and quill, then added, "Oh, and it will be much easier for me if you say something bad about the rebellion. That way, I can sell your story more easily."

As a believer in the Living Saint, the prisoner felt a flicker of guilt, but it was not enough to destroy his one chance at freedom, far from torture. He nodded sharply.

The interrogator spoke up, his tone turning stern. "Haydn, I need to warn you. Whatever information you provide, ensure it's credible. I don't want our deal to fall apart if my superior finds out that some details are false. Can you do that for me?"

"Certainly."

That seemed to satisfy the interrogator. "Then you can begin your story."

The prisoner frowned. "Story...?"

"Pardon me. I should have explained sooner. My superior isn’t that bright, so it’s easier for him if it’s a story. Or would you rather plead your case as usual?"

"No. I mean, can you guide me? I'm not used to this," the prisoner replied.

"Do not worry, Haydn. I will guide you to your freedom." The interrogator dipped his pen and set it to parchment. "We'll skip your family to keep them safe. Now, where were you when you first heard of the rebellion? Who invited you? And why did you end up riding in that field that night and get captured? Be careful not to name your friend, so you don't bring him trouble."

Haydn blinked several times, trying to jog his memory despite his exhaustion.

The interrogator pressed on with his warning. "Also, if you try to protect someone, do it subtly. If you leave out his name entirely, it will make both of you look suspicious. They already have records from the torture. I know some of them, so I can help you, but not all. So whatever you tell me, make sure that when they cross-check your statements with theirs, they match. A match means sunlight and fresh air, far from here. If not, I fear they'll send their torturers after you."

The weary man swallowed dryly and began his story.

...

The weary prisoner, half-dangling and half-balanced on a stool, waited in silence, his face tight with concern. They had finished their first draft, but the interrogator, now sitting even closer, mumbled and shook his head several times, unsatisfied.

"This is not enough," the interrogator muttered at last, tossing the parchment onto the makeshift table and looking up to meet the prisoner’s gaze.

Haydn, the jailed man, exhaled deeply. His leg weakened, forcing his weight back onto his wrists, which were still chained to the wall.

The interrogator continued, "This way, you're going to drag Sir Hohendorf to the pits along with yourself. There must be someone else..."

"Someone else?"

"Yes, you need a credible scapegoat. Someone whose involvement would even protect your relative, Sir Hohendorf, if they get their hands on him. I assume you want to protect him, correct?"

Haydn still held back. "There isn't anyone. It's the will of the people."

The interrogator sighed and pulled out a smaller wineskin. He took a gulp, then stood and offered it to the jailed man without a word. Haydn took it eagerly, savoring the wine with clear relief.

As the noble-born prisoner drank, the interrogator said, "At this point, the bailiff will blame everything on Sir Hohendorf and the monastery."

Breathing roughly after drinking too fast, Haydn managed, "But it's the people, not the monastery."

The interrogator, still standing close, leaned in and whispered, "I too don't want to blame the Living Saint."

Haydn’s eyes widened, and he whispered nervously, “Are you also a man of faith?”

The interrogator only stepped back and pressed a finger to his lips. The silence alone brought an uneasy smile to Haydn’s face. He could hardly believe his luck. In his mind, it all started to make sense; this man was sympathetic to his cause.

Instead of clarifying, the interrogator changed the subject. “Do you know the stories of werewolves?”

"Werewolves? Yes, every child knows about them.”

“Try to remember those stories and then ask yourself, why is it that werewolves always kill everyone in the family?"

"The story says the werewolf is so hungry it devours everyone."

The interrogator nodded and went on, "But isn't it strange that it always attacks a knight's family and never a commoner? Not even the village chief's family?"

Haydn frowned, lost in thought.

Walking around the small cell, the interrogator pressed calmly, “Isn’t it strange that in every case, there are no survivors, yet everyone agrees it was a werewolf attack?”

Haydn looked down, uncertainty clouding his face.

“You know, the fight always ruins the estate. Drawers are ripped out, cabinets smashed. Why is that?”

Haydn had no answer, but his curiosity was piqued.

The interrogator stopped and faced Haydn directly. “Which is more likely? That a werewolf from a legend suddenly appeared, fooled everyone, and killed a knight, his squire, and his entire family, or that armed peasants murdered them, left no witnesses, and looted the manor clean?”

Haydn’s eyes widened as understanding dawned.

“It’s too convenient, don’t you think, that all the clothes went missing? Men’s doublets, women’s gowns, children’s clothing, even boots," the interrogator continued, his tone persuasive. "Yes, a disguised werewolf might need clothes, but why take from both sexes? And why are the larder and cellar also emptied of so many things?”

“So it's all murders...?”

The interrogator did not confirm outright, but said, “Unless a werewolf needed a set of silverware, goblets, and even cauldrons, I tend to think that way.” He snorted lightly and added, “That is what I call a good scapegoat. Someone you can blame with ease, and who cannot contradict your story.”

“Do you want me to blame werewolves?” the jailed man asked in disbelief.

“If only it were that simple." The interrogator chuckled. "The bailiff may not be clever, but he’s aware of these old cases. From what I’ve gathered, they actually let it slide on purpose so the nobles don’t overreact and cause trouble. Better to blame werewolves than risk the nobles turning on the peasantry and ruining the harvest.”

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Haydn could only listen.

“What I’m trying to say is, the bailiff’s office can write anything we want. We can blame whoever to make our job easier.” He returned to his stool. “Now, the question is, who will my superior blame for this rebellion? You should know that without a satisfying and credible story, it’s usually the honest men who pay the price. Good men like you, your friends, and your kin can all get caught up just because the story isn’t convincing enough.”

The prisoner’s face grew distraught.

“It doesn’t have to be that way, Haydn. I know you’re trying to protect your camp, but at this point, you’re not helping anyone. Nobody believes that thirty thousand commoners could organize themselves to form a riot. Someone is pulling the strings. If you can’t think of anyone, then I can't help you."

Before he could answer, sounds echoed from the corridor: doors creaking, heavy iron slamming, and rough voices barking orders.

Both men turned to the cell door, alert. The interrogator returned to the jailed man and spoke quickly, “The warden is making his rounds. We’re out of time. Come, Haydn. Help me keep the innocent, men like you, clear of blame. All it takes is knowing which names truly belong. Or will you let the bailiff invent another werewolf and let the peasant robbers escape again?”

Sweat trickled down Haydn’s chin.

“This time, the werewolves would be Sir Hohendorf, the Living Saint herself, and you, Haydn, including all your living family. Are you going to sell them? They're innocents.”

“T-there’s a group of nobles,” Haydn finally revealed, desperation thick in his voice.

The interrogator grabbed a fresh parchment and set out his ink. “Quick, spell it out. I don’t want to bribe the warden. That would be suspicious.”

Haydn’s face twisted in thought. “I don’t— Do you want all their roles or just names? I don’t know them all that well.”

"Anyone." The interrogator paused. "Wait, let me read the names. Nod if you're sure they are not innocent, so I have something to work with. I'll take care of the rest."

...

The door creaked open, revealing the short but well-built warden, his face set in a bored expression, with another jailor at his side. "Time's up. Anyone who doesn't belong here, step out."

The interrogator walked out of the cell, clutching his parchment.

"Meister, you're forgetting something," said the jailor who stepped inside, pointing at the cloak draped over the prisoner's shoulders.

"No, leave it. The bailiff wants him in good condition," the interrogator replied.

The exchange drew the warden’s attention, and he glanced inside as his jailor removed a lantern and two of the wooden stools.

"Let him keep that stool under his feet. He's been helpful," the interrogator said.

"Oh, really?" The warden said mockingly.

When the jailor looked at him, the warden simply shrugged, so they left one stool behind, allowing the jailed man to stand instead of hanging from his wrists.

"You should give him some bread," the interrogator said again.

"There's plenty of bread," the warden replied, turning his back and walking away, before adding, "tomorrow."

The interrogator could only sigh. He turned back for a final look at Haydn, who nodded in acknowledgement. Then the cell door was shut, and the jailor locked it with an echoing clank.

With his parchment folded neatly, the interrogator followed the warden, eager to escape the place.

Before reaching the stairs, they passed a small cabin with its door open. The interrogator glanced inside and saw an old, graying man sleeping soundly. Most of the screams that echoed through the dungeon came from this poor soul. The jailers let this local madman sleep here; otherwise, he would terrorize the townspeople. Unlike the other cells, this one had better ventilation, and they also provided him with hot food and a dry blanket. In return, the old man offered company when he was sane, while his fits of madness during the night kept the other prisoners unsettled, making him oddly useful to the staff.

The warden stepped aside near the bottom of the stairs. "Please, give my regards to the bailiff."

"Of course," the interrogator replied, then followed a jailor up the stairs to the ground floor.

With no further business inside, they made their way out. Two guard figures fell in behind as an escort. At the main door, where two sentries stood with halberds, the jailor stopped.

"My regards to the bailiff," the jailor said.

The interrogator nodded and stepped out into the night, the two escorts close behind. A chill breeze greeted them as they arrived outside, the rustle of trees audible against the night sky. But the group pressed on without pause. Another man with a lantern joined the group and led them along the cobbled path. As they moved, a taller figure slipped out of the shadows and joined their procession in wide strides.

The bailiff’s compound was a maze of buildings and courtyards, each area watched by patrols and guards at every entrance. They passed through another section in silence.

Finally, beneath a cluster of old tall trees, they approached a group waiting with lanterns. The place had once been the garden of a wealthy landlord, with stone benches, a circular table, ponds, and birdbaths. Now it served as part of the area for witness protection.

There, the interrogator finally halted and faced the assembled men, their faces half-lit by the wavering lantern glow.

"How is it?" asked a woman draped in black, seated on a stone stool with the bailiff standing beside her.

The interrogator did not sit. He scanned the crowd of men gathered and said, "Forty-six names. Many from around Krakusa."

There was almost no reaction, only eyes burning with fresh hatred.

"What's next, then?" the woman asked.

Instead of answering, the interrogator pulled off his brown wig, revealing sweat-soaked black hair, and combed it back with his fingers. "Where's the army at?"

"The City of Krakusa," replied a tall, broad-shouldered man in a white brigandine.

"No response from the city?"

"Based on reports, they've asked questions, but it doesn't seem like they've shut the gate," the tall man answered.

"They dared not show their hand," the woman remarked.

"It means they're vulnerable," an intellectual-looking man in a green doublet declared, and a low murmur ran through the rest.

"We already sent Sir Morton once to warn the Houses of Krakusa," the bailiff said by way of advice.

The man with black hair nodded, which prompted the woman to ask, "How should we play this?"

He set his parchment on the stone table and declared with hard finality, "Round them up."

There in that garden, a place of serenity with seemingly no authority or power, the fate of Midlandia was decided. Forty-six Houses would be seized and brought to trial. This was nearly every prominent noble family in Krakusa, and accounted for more than a third of the influential Houses in all of southern Midlandia.

***

The lands around Krakusa

It was a lovely midday, with cloudy skies above a vast manor house surrounded by sprawling orchards on the outskirts of the old city of Krakusa. There, four nobles gathered, each arriving one by one on horseback with their attendants in tow. They tried to travel inconspicuously, but their mounts, the sheen of their traveling robes, and their fine attire made their status obvious to all.

"Where is Sir Hohendorf? I gave him so much," one blurted out as soon as he entered the manor. None of them had the patience to wait and began talking at once in the opulent hall, where fresh reed mats, polished stone floors, decorated walls, and painted ceilings gave the place a riot of color.

"Patience, it's only been three days," said the well-girthed host in his fifties, trying to calm his guests.

"I've heard news from Canardia. The rebellion is broken," the second noble informed them, prompting the others to sigh or glance about in panic. They had all funded the rebellion, and from what they heard, nothing was going according to plan.

The third noble asked, unable to hide his frustration. "Where's this army now? The least Hohendorf could do now is bring his men here, so we can join the Lubina faction."

"Are you out of your mind!" cried another who had just entered, joining the group. "I don't want a rabble army anywhere near my lands. They'll plunder everything, and we're only a month from harvest."

"Then what do you propose?" asked the third noble, a lanky man addressing the stoutest of the group. "At this rate, they'll find out about us. The Black Lord will come for us."

As if waiting for this, the first noble spoke up. "The lord's army is stationed around Krakusa. That can't be a coincidence."

"Please." The host raised his hand to calm his friends. "If they knew about us, they would have come for us already. Another day has passed, and they've done nothing except rest their troops and stock up on supplies."

The group turned quiet for a moment, allowing the host to continue. "Besides, joining Lubina would give the Black Lord a reason to renew his war, and our lands would become the front line. Do you really want to see your ancestral estates ruined? For all we know, the lord's troops might be planning to leave by midday."

"You seem too calm. What do you know?" the last noble inquired.

The host clarified, "I'm just as clueless as you are. I haven't managed to infiltrate my men into the lord's army yet. But I do have traders supplying them, and oddly enough, they don't seem to be in any rush."

Two of the nobles muttered in agreement, while the first noble and another remained silent, their faces drawn with worry.

The host turned to the anxious man. "Isn't Hohendorf's absence a good thing for us? It gives us more distance from him."

His words were enough to prompt a round of nods from the others.

But the first noble shook his head. "They have hired swords from Krakusa—"

"Paid by Sir Hohendorf, not us. Please. Only a handful know about our involvement, so I have no worry. Besides, all those in the know are honorable men," the host replied, reminding them that their plan had two layers. Sir Hohendorf and his knights acted as the front line, making the moves and taking the risks. Should the plot unravel, the monastery would serve as the scapegoat, drawing the authorities’ wrath away from them.

"Then what do we do now? The rebellion has failed," the second noble asked, his voice calmer.

"Rumors," the host said dismissively. "Sir Hohendorf and the monastery might just be maneuvering, or they could still be conducting sieges without our knowing."

"But the news?" the tall third noble pressed.

"It can be fabricated."

Still unsatisfied, the first noble asked, "Then what about the lord's troops outside?"

"I think they're meant to prevent us from joining the rebellion," the host speculated.

A few murmurs of understanding rose from the group.

"It could also mean the lord's troops lack confidence in liberating Canardia," the last noble remarked, prompting a mixed reaction from the others.

"It's a strong possibility," the host replied with a wide grin. "After all, we have over thirty thousand men. That is more than double what we used to oust Bengrieve. I have every confidence this will work out for us in the end."

"They had better work. First it was Bengrieve, now this. I'm out of money," the last noble complained. He did not mean it as a joke, but the rest of the group chuckled. They were all in the same predicament.

"It's as they say: you need money to make money," the host commented.

Gradually, the group grew calmer. Even the first noble snorted and broke into a smile as the discussion turned lighter. The host then invited them to share a drink in his guest hall, a chamber that rivaled most castles in decoration and fine furnishings. There was plenty of wine and strong ale. The sun was still high, but nobody cared. That is, until a voice none of them recognized rang out from the entry.

“Gentlemen, good afternoon,” the unfamiliar voice called, bringing everyone to sudden alertness.

“Who let you in?” the host snapped, anger rising so quickly that he spilled wine onto his fine silken doublet. But his face soon flashed with regret.

The man who entered was tall, with a chiseled chin and predatory eyes. He was not Sir Morton of the Black Knights, but his presence alone made every gut clench with unease.

Before anyone could respond, another figure appeared at the door. This one was so tall he had to stoop to pass through the frame. It was not a man but a beastly creature with sharp eyes, a protruding wolfish snout, white fur, and massive hands stained red. Even with plenty of wine, the sight drained all color from the nobles’ faces.

“I am Sir Harold, and my friend’s name is Ocelot. Please excuse our attire; we have been busy since dawn,” the tall man said, unmoving in the doorway like a statue from ancient times. His words drew their attention to his brigandine, stained with ochre.

“W-welcome, please excuse my inhospitality,” the host stammered, hurrying forward with forced eagerness, his nerves plain for all to see.

"No need for hospitality. I am here on the Lord's order to escort you all to Canardia—"

Already flushed with wine, the first man cried out, "Are you joking? Canardia is besieged. You're not making sense. Guards!"

With the speed and grace of a wildcat, Ocelot crossed the room in four long strides and crashed down in the middle of the cushioned bench. The sudden movement startled everyone. Two nobles nearly jumped to their feet, but she stretched out both massive arms, claws flashing, and that alone was enough to persuade them to sit back down.

Sir Harold continued, "I suggest you accept this with dignity. If you fall, your sons and families will pay the price instead."

"But what has happened? Why are we treated this way? We are the Lord's staunchest supporters. Haven't you heard? We gave supplies from our own stores to support the army on its way to relieve the siege?" the host protested, his pride wounded.

Sir Harold did not move a muscle. His gaze turned cold and judgmental. "The Lord has invited forty-six individuals to Canardia. We have heard enough. Some confessed on the spot. You are the last on our list."

From the bench, one noble burst out, "I demand—"

He stopped abruptly. Ocelot’s sharp fang had pressed against his neck. The touch was light, but blood still welled from the scratch. The half-breed leaned close and said, "Go on. I would love to have your eyes and liver for drinking snacks."

The host tried once more, pleading to Sir Harold. "Surely there must be some understanding."

"There is none," the knight replied flatly, as four men clad in dark brigandine entered, each armed with a complex-looking crossbow.

The leader of the group reported, "The perimeter is secure. Extraction group is outside with carriages and carts."

"Load them up in separate carriages," Sir Harold said.

The host was in panic. "B-but—"

"Don't worry about your manor. If the trial finds you innocent, the Lord will return it. In the meantime, the Office of Works will take care of it," Sir Harold said with admirable patience.

"What about our families?" one noble asked, his eyes red with fear as more armed men arrived to escort them out.

Sir Harold fixed his gaze on the stout noble. "Do not worry. We will take all your families to Canardia as well. Gentlemen, let us not fool ourselves. This is a purge, and your names are on the list. You know how these things go, so pray the Lord is merciful, because the rest will not be."

***