Morning found Valos in the cellar of the family estate, where mithril ingots were laid out in strict order. He sat on an empty wine crate, turning a heavy, cold bar of bluish metal in his hands.
«A hundred pounds of pure mithril. If sold to the Crown at military prices, it would cover a new roof for the east wing, a couple of expensive servants, and ten years of financial ease. But no, it has to go to the dwarves. In exchange for weapons that might not even be needed if the necromancer decides to bypass us. A magnificent deal. I'm trading guaranteed wealth for potential survival. What an idiot...»
His cynical reflections were interrupted by Corvus. The squire's white hair was disheveled, his face wearing its usual expression of cold detachment.
— News? — Valos asked without looking up from the mithril. — I hope such an early visit means Lord Vigar has already come begging for help?
— Worse, — Corvus paused briefly. — Refugees. From Lord Vigar's lands. Peasants.
Valos slowly raised his head.
— How many?
— The first group — about a thousand. They're coming along the road. They look... appropriately.
«A thousand. A thousand extra mouths. A thousand potential carriers of disease, panic, and problems.» An inner voice screamed a sober, cruel advice: «Close the gates. Put archers on the walls. Order them to shoot if they try to storm. They're not your problem. They're Vigar's problem — he was too foolish to protect his lands.»
— Clo... — Valos began, but his gaze fell on the Spear-Staff leaning against the stone wall. It stood where he had left it the day before, cold and silent, yet in its glow lurked the power to incinerate armies of the dead. The power he had obtained, risking his neck and the necks of his men.
And then it dawned on him.
A slow, cunning, greedy grin spread across his face. It was not an expression of compassion, but the snarl of a shark that had caught the scent of blood and gold in murky water.
— No, — he changed his mind, rising. — Not close. On the contrary. We will... welcome them. With open arms.
He walked past the bewildered Corvus, his footsteps echoing in the stone cellar. «A thousand people. Not mouths. Hands. Working hands. Our fields after winter are in a deplorable state. And after the undead pass through them, they will look like a scorched desert. Someone will have to restore it all. Plow, sow, build. And pay taxes.»
An hour later, he stood at the main gates, where the guards struggled to hold back a growing, noisy crowd of desperate people. Valos raised his hand, and gradually silence fell, full of hope and fear.
— People! I, Baronet Valos Tropan, offer you a chance that was taken from you! A chance for shelter, food, and protection!
A sigh of relief swept through the crowd. But Valos did not smile.
— But nothing in this world comes for free! — he continued. — My walls are not a charitable shelter. They are a fortress of survival. And survival has its price.
He gestured to a scribe, who importantly unfurled a parchment scroll.
— Every adult who wishes to enter will sign this contract! In exchange for shelter and protection, you are obligated to work on land restoration and public works! The first year — with full provisions but no wages! The second year — with minimal sustenance! And only in the third year will we discuss terms for land lease and your debts for being saved! With interest included, of course!
Silence gave way to a disgruntled murmur. But what choice did they have? Behind them was death; ahead was hardship, but life. One by one, they approached the scribe's table and placed a cross or a clumsy signature on the parchment. Valos watched from a distance, with the same expression he had worn an hour ago while examining the mithril. «Investment. A living, breathing, productive asset.»
Corvus, observing what was happening, saw for the first time not merely a calculating cynic, but a strategist turning human misery into future resources. In his eyes flashed not condemnation, but cold understanding. A lord whose greed was directed at strengthening his own power was far more comprehensible and interesting to him than the former lost drunkard.
The process took all day. When the sun was already sinking toward the horizon and the last refugees were passing through the gates, Valos decided to personally inspect the now-empty road. His gaze fell on a lone figure at the end of the queue. It was a horse. Gaunt, with a disheveled mane, it stood apart, as if waiting for something.
«Strange. Did someone lose a steed? Or is this a scout?»
He slowly approached, assessing the animal. The horse turned its long face toward him. And suddenly, its lips moved, producing not a whinny but a low, almost human, mocking whisper:
«No one will believe you.»
Valos froze with his hand outstretched. His mind, accustomed to calculating options, faltered for a moment. He did not hear the crowd's murmur, saw nothing but this creature.
The horse snorted — a sound oddly resembling a chuckle — turned, and at a leisurely trot made its way away from the gates, disappearing into the roadside forest.
Valos did not move from his spot. He stood staring into the emptiness where the impossible had just vanished.
Corvus, approaching with a report, paused beside him, sensing something amiss in his lord's posture.
— My lord? Is everything alright?
Valos slowly lowered his hand. He turned to Corvus, and his face bore neither surprise nor fear. Only a cold, intrigued smile.
— Everything is fine, Corvus, — he said quietly.
— Absolutely. There's simply a new factor in the equation.
He cast a final glance at the crowd signing contracts, then at the forest that had swallowed the talking horse.
A necromancer is ruining my future property. The dwarves want my resources. And now talking animals are roaming the forests. Well, at least it won’t be boring. And while all these forces play their games, I’ll be the one who makes them foot the bill.