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Normality returned quickly once the witch hunter left. Thankfully. Father remained in a foul mood, and I didn't want to beco the target of his outbursts. That's what Heinrich was for… or any servant unfortunate enough to forget an order or break sothing they shouldn't have.
As for , I returned to my usual routine: training with my mare. Day after day. Getting her used to noise, blood, the screams of other horses during mock combat. It was all part of the preparation to make her a future war mount—or at least valuable enough to fetch a good price if I didn't keep her.
As for the bow… well, I could say there was progress, although I still had a long way to go. I could only hit the target if it was within thirty ters. That wasn't good enough. A peasant with a crossbow could kill without breaking a sweat. He only needed to load the bolt, aim, and pull a damn tal trigger.
And let's not even talk about firearms. Like those pistols the witch hunter carried—elegant and deadly, if you managed to hit anything. But that was rare unless the weapon was of exceptional craftsmanship. They were simply designed to hurl a massive chunk of tal. And above all: expensive. Very expensive. Getting a decent one that wouldn't explode in your face was nearly impossible. Father had never cared to update the guards' weapons—arming them with pistols would be outrageously costly. And gunpowder? Scarce, controlled, as expensive as fine jewelry. Besides, the Empire bought all the good stuff for its armies. The rest was junk, made by half-trained gunsmiths, with a higher chance of killing the user than the target.
Still, the bow remained a noble art. Hunting with a bow was expected of us, the sons of nobility. If I ever joined other lords for a hunt, I had to at least know how to hold a bow without looking like an idiot. The sa applied to falconry… though in this region, no one sold hunting birds. At least, none worth the coin.
There was always the spear option, but… I might be many things, but stupid isn't one of them. Throwing yourself head-on at a boar or a stag, hoping to pierce it before it gores you or tramples you, was a very refined way of dying young.
So, in the last few months I had at ho, I poured everything into getting better with the bow. I couldn't afford to fail. Once I was sent off as a page, my free ti would vanish. I'd spend my days serving a higher-ranking noble, following orders, watching, learning.
And so, once again, the months slipped by in the haze of training—even when my muscles scread for rest, even when the string cut into my skin if I slipped even slightly in posture.
Until, on one of those days that felt like all the rest, father appeared. I recognized him by the sound of his heavy steps. He stopped by one of the stable posts just as I released an arrow. Luckily, it was a good shot. The projectile flew and landed near the center of the target, almost fifty ters away.
"Not bad… you already handle a bow better than your idiot brother," father said, crossing his arms and leaning back casually.
I turned toward him. "Thank you, father," I replied, unsure if he was serious or just mocking Heinrich again.
"I need you to do sothing for . I must travel to Helmgart. There's a eting with Margrave Mackensen. Apparently, he's agreed to take you on as a page and squire… if you prove you're worth anything. Your progress has caught his attention, but the details of your duties still need to be negotiated. And that, my son, I have to handle in person."
I said nothing. I looked at him directly. Sothing in his tone made think that wasn't all.
"Yes, it also ans you'll be staying at his house… as a sort of political hostage," he added at last, eting my gaze to see if I understood what that ant.
I just stared. I didn't reply.
"The Margrave has always wanted control over the Grey Mountains. He spends his ti sabotaging anyone who might aspire to the title he claims for himself—that of Lord Protector. When I obtained the mining rights, I received several letters from him… all with the sa tone: warnings. Threats dressed in courtesy. We have no way to counter him, not with favors, not with alliances… so this is the best we can do. Keep you there. In his house. Close. So you beco friends with his sons. And likely end up married off to one of his cousins, aunts, or daughters. Which isn't too bad… as long as I keep my head down and don't do anything he might see as a provocation."
The way he said it was different. He wasn't angry, exactly—just tired.
"No problem, father. I'll saddle my mare and join the tax collector's escort," I answered at once, doing my best to make it clear he could count on .
Father nodded with a faint grimace of approval. It was clear his mind was on other matters, but he paused just a second longer to add sothing.
"Thank you. You might learn a thing or two from the collector. That old bastard… even I don't know how he manages to determine how much to tax each person. You know how deceitful peasants can be… always crying poverty, yet none of them stop brewing beer or raising pigs."
Father crossed his arms. "That man slls lies like a bloodhound. He always finds a way to know who's hiding coin under their mattress and who truly doesn't have enough for a crust of bread. Watch how he asks, how he listens, how he responds. You could learn a lot from his thods…"
I nodded and did as I was told. I prepared my mare with the proper saddle, dressed in finer clothes to make my status clear within the group, and left with the small escort that accompanied the collector. Behind us, several carts followed.
The road was calm, familiar, until we reached the outskirts of the village. There, on a low hill overlooking the fields, stood my family's mill. The collector wasted no ti: he dismounted, entered, and imdiately asked for the record books.
I approached silently, and when he saw craning my neck to peek at what he was reading, he spoke without lifting his eyes from the pages.
"Look, young Lord… this is one of the most useful tricks to understand the economy of your lands," he said, flipping the pages with practiced rhythm. "No peasant waits to mill their grain. As soon as they harvest, they bring it here. So if you compare these records to last year's, you get a pretty accurate idea of how much was actually harvested."
He stopped, pointing to a column.
"This year was a good one. Nearly everyone milled more grain than the year before. That ans more bread, more barley for beer, more straw for the stables… and, of course, more taxes to collect."
I leaned in a bit closer, studying the numbers and nas. There was sothing fascinating in how those dry figures revealed so much about village life.
"And what if they lie? What if they hide part of the grain?" I asked, genuinely curious.
The collector let out a short nasal laugh. It was the first ti I saw him smile.
"Of course they do. They always do. But you never rely on just one piece of data. Look at the mill… then you check the livestock, the tools, the barrels, the salt sacks. Peasants are clumsy when hiding their fortunes. If things go well for them, they brag without realizing it," the collector said.
He slamd the book shut, turned, and pointed toward the village square, where carts were starting to line up.
"Co. What really teaches you isn't in the paper. It's in their faces, in their voices… and in where the sweat starts when you ask the right questions," he said, pointing toward the horses.
We finally returned to the village, and the collector wasted no ti. He dismounted, checked a small leather notebook filled with notes, and headed straight to the first house. He knocked hard until a peasant, covered in dust and with calloused hands, stepped into the doorway.
"Blessings of Sigmar… taxes, by order of Baron von Reinsfeld. This year, one-tenth is due," the collector announced firmly, without raising his voice in the slightest.
The peasant didn't protest. He just nodded with resignation and disappeared into the house. Soon after, he began bringing out sacks of grain, which the guards carried over to a wooden scale set up near the village center.
It had been installed specifically for this ti of year. Calibrated weights were placed on one side, and the sacks were loaded on the other, one by one.
"Everything checks out," murmured the collector, making a quick mark in his notebook before moving to the next house.
From my mare's back, I watched as the process repeated itself. Door after door, the village began to wake up with a mix of routine and tension. Peasants ca out with sacks of grain, cured hides, aged cheeses, even wood carvings or forged tools—each paying with what they produced.
"All good?" I asked the collector, keeping my eyes on the stream of deliveries.
"A hundred kilos of grain, twenty of flour. A noticeable increase from last year. No need to squeeze further," he replied, without looking away from his next target.
And so we went, house by house, collecting several tons of grain from the recent harvests.
Until we reached one house that turned out to be a bit trickier, as the peasant there gave much less than the average.
The collector simply stared at him.
"Do you take for a fool?" the collector asked.
"No…" was the only reply the peasant managed.
"This isn't even half of what you gave last year…" said the collector, looking at the two sacks of grain that must've weighed barely forty kilos.
"I was quite lenient when you tried to dodge the census tax by passing your sons off as daughters… I didn't report you to the baron then. I suggest you pay what you owe… don't make go in and check everything."
The peasant grew nervous and gestured for him to enter.
The collector entered with two guards and began searching, quickly finding the rest of the harvest. He looked under the only bed in the house and walked around looking for a hidden cellar, but found nothing… until he grabbed one of the soldiers' spears and jabbed it into the ceiling. Imdiately, grain began to fall.
"Idiot… you think I don't know that old trick? Take him to the dungeon," said the collector.
The guards rushed the peasant while his wife and children watched in silence. The collector had them bring down the hidden sacks and took what was owed: the tenth part.
That was enough for everyone else to reconsider their excuses.
There were a few attempts to question why the tax was higher than last year, but the collector only needed to say sothing like:
"Maybe a few lashes will help you reflect on it better."
And any resistance vanished.
To my surprise, the collector completely ignored the artisans in their workshops. He went straight to the village mayor, who was the one responsible for safeguarding the artisans' contributions. Many of them paid their taxes in advance, and it was the collector who determined whether that amount was fair. If it wasn't, he would charge again, using the previous year's paynt as a reference.
The one he visited today was the cloth rchant. After about twenty minutes of conversation with the collector, he finally gave in and handed over a hefty sum of silver shillings without another word.
By the end of the day, a long caravan of carts loaded to the brim with sacks of grain, flour, and additional goods set off on the return journey. Several heads of livestock were also requisitioned: cows and pigs taken to graze on my family's pastures.
It was expected that the rest of the taxes from the other villages under our control would start arriving soon.
And they did. Weeks later, more ca in, along with news that the witch hunter had burned several people in one village. Their taxes had been reduced after he discovered that the mayor had fathered a deford child and forced everyone to keep it a secret. The witch hunter burned everyone involved.
What belonged to the Emperor was carefully set aside, loaded into another cart, and sent under direct escort to Altdorf—since our house paid tribute directly to the Grand Prince of Altdorf.
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