"To help My Lord."
Little John replied as if suddenly enlightened.
Peasants generally had no concept of loyalty, especially not to someone who wasn't their direct master like the farm owner. It wasn't long before Lance learned from him all that Little John could access. He discovered Little John was just a menial worker in the town's grain store.
His presence here was entirely at the behest of the store owner. He was to notify the farm owner that "the new Lord has returned, and the mayor has been beheaded." Beyond that, he knew little else.
"Tell me about the usual contact times and frequency between the grain store and the farm."
"Every three days, someone comes to transport grain and take back money. The last time was two days ago. Someone was supposed to come tomorrow to relieve the current guards."
"What about the store's guards? Why didn't they come? Why did you come instead?"
"They only listen to the Old Master. The store owner can't command them, so such unpleasant errands always fall to me."
The Old Master was, naturally, the farm owner. By rights, those guards should have been the ones to inform him. However, it was clear those guards had grown accustomed to shirking their duties. With no entertainment on the farm, they viewed their three-day assignment in town as a chance to amuse themselves and had no desire to make the trip back. The store owner, unable to command these men, had to send his own clerk to relay the message.
"Humph," Lance scoffed. With this caliber of household retainers and guards, I might have overthought considering them serious adversaries.
"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 squad leader, clad in a breastplate and wielding an axe, two Crossbowmen, and two swordsmen.
This was the arrangement the farm owner had made to protect his grain. Viewed by sheer numbers, these five men were no match for Reynard—a single charge and a swing of his weapon would be enough.
However, equipped with armor and weapons, they indeed constituted a significant force, especially with those two Crossbows. Entrenched in the grain store, it could be said no one would want to face them head-on.
Although less powerful and with a shorter range than Flintlock Guns, the Crossbows' rate of fire was much higher. Lance knew he couldn't possibly advance under a barrage of bolts.
But according to Little John, these men had no discipline. They spent their days in debauchery, often bullied him, and if not for strict orders to guard the grain store, would likely have already run off to seek amusement.
Lance wasn't too surprised by this. These men hadn't received professional training; they could hardly even be considered militia.
These guards were nothing more than armed ruffians and thugs. They were capable of bullying Serfs who wouldn't resist, but they were no match for the Regular Army, or even mercenaries and bandits. Mercenaries, after all, truly dared to kill and knew how to do it.
No wonder so many of them had been suppressed by the mayor's twenty-odd mercenaries.
Yet Lance didn't truly underestimate these men. Even if they were poor quality, they were numerous, and their weapons posed a threat. The fundamental problem was that he still had too few men at his disposal.
Strategically, despise the enemy; tactically, respect the enemy.
Soon, a plan to take down these men crystallized in Lance's mind.
Nights in Hamlet always came particularly quickly. After Lance had dealt with the men from the Public Order Squad, the town became even quieter.
Gone were the drunken street brawls and shouting, and the break-ins. With their main patrons missing, the taverns and gambling dens lost their usual bustle. As for the brothels, they shut down outright.
However, compared to before, most people at least had some porridge in their stomachs. They were no longer tormented by hunger, tossing and turning, unable to sleep.
For them, this night would be their first chance at a peaceful sleep since the bandit invasion...
But for some, sleep did not come so easily.
The grain store owner was at home, waiting for Little John to return. He had waited from day until nightfall, but Little John hadn't appeared, leading the owner to suspect something had gone wrong.
Just then, a noise suddenly came from the door.
"It's already dark! Why are you only coming back now?" a tall, thin middle-aged man frowned upon seeing Little John standing outside.
Because the Lord was distributing porridge, the store hadn't had any business all day.
Remembering this, the middle-aged man couldn't help but press further.
"What did the Old Master say?"
"The Lord wants to see you," Little John blurted out. Before the middle-aged man could react, the half-open door was pushed wider, and a young man strode in confidently.
The middle-aged man recognized at first sight that the newcomer was the very Lord who had executed the mayor in the square that day.
His heart jumped, fearing his covert attempt to send a message had been discovered, and he subconsciously looked at Little John.
Was it you, boy, who brought the Lord here?
"Is there something you need, My Lord? If you want to buy grain, please come to the store tomorrow to discuss it," the middle-aged man could only feign ignorance, asking with a forced smile.
"Go about your business. I need to have a proper talk with the shopkeeper."
Lance dismissed Little John with a single sentence. Seeing this, the middle-aged man could only grimace in resignation.
The layout of the grain store was simple. The front was the storefront, and the back was the warehouse. The space wasn't actually large, but it was enough for a few people to be stationed there.
Little John reached the door and took a moment to compose himself before knocking.
"Hmph, why is it you, kid?"
A man pushed open the door and looked out. His face immediately fell when he saw it was Little John, and he waved his hand dismissively, his disdain obvious.
"Get lost! Go find some women for us to liven things up."
"There are no women left. The Lord closed the brothel."
"I don't care! Just find some women and bring them here!" The man grew agitated. He was well aware the brothel had been closed, depriving his brothers of their entertainment.
Usually, they could grab a handful of grain from the store and trade it for a woman. But today, because of the porridge distribution, no one paid them any mind. They couldn't even spend money at the brothel, as it had been shut down completely.
As for using force, the mayor's head was still hanging from the statue in the center of the square.
They didn't have the courage to challenge the Lord's authority, but deep down, they wished for the Lord's swift demise.
However, they were due to rotate back to the farm tomorrow, where it would be difficult to find women. The more they thought about it, the angrier they became, eventually cursing out loud.
"That damn Lord! May he contract syphilis!"
Little John looked at the crude, vulgar man before him, disdain welling in his heart, but he didn't forget his mission.
"There are no women, but the shopkeeper said since you're returning to the farm tomorrow, he had me bring some wine for you."
Little John stepped aside, revealing a large wooden barrel behind him.
The man's demeanor changed instantly, his face lighting up. Paying Little John no further mind, he shoved him aside and hollered for someone to come out and carry the barrel inside.
Didn't they stop to think how Little John could have possibly carried such a large barrel all by himself?
Inside, the men had already started drinking. Little John didn't leave right away; instead, he sat by the door, listening to the sounds from within.