Chapter 38: The Certainty of Taxes

Tristan

December 14, 1786, Realm Timeline, Szolnok, Hungary

The arrived at the crossing at ten in the morning. Snow covered the ground, with patches of ice along a few coves where the river slowed. The bridge was built in the middle of the city, of which nothing remained. Three years before, just after the beginning of the Second Outworlder War, the Kingling had made his move. Szolnok, like almost all big towns east ot Tizsa, up to the Carpathians, had been destroyed.

Posing as merchants, the Vlachs infiltrated the city on market day. During the night, they poisoned the wells and food storage, then set fires all around the town. Most saboteurs fled; some remained, surrendering and defiantly boasting the Kingling's decree: those were their lands now.

The authorities made their executions a public show, to give the citizens the consolation of justice or revenge. Bringing all those people together helped the plagues the Vlachs carried to spread. Same thing, everywhere, on the last day of November.

After the remaining population fled, Szolnok was burned. Only a fort remained. There was a Vlach garrison there, smoke rising from the chimneys. They also had a few cannons, their small black mouths looking over the valley, ominous eyes ready to spew plumes of fiery death.

Stopping a hundred feet from the gate, Tristan beckoned toward the guards. There were four of them.

"What do you want?" the one looking higher in grade yelled in Hungarian.

Cursed Calvinist devil-spawn, Tristan ground his teeth. The Vlachs' rebellion, he could understand. They had been treated worse than animals. The thought of Hungarian protestants fighting on the side of the rebels and the Turks made his skin crawl.

"You have half an hour to leave the premises," Tristan shouted in broken Hungarian. "Your kind is restricted to the other side of the river."

"Take your horse's dick out of your mouth and speak clearly; I don't understand!"

Forwarding his right hand, Tristan leaned down and lifted the man in the air by the throat. "We're taking over the fortress. Leave or die," he said calmly, in German this time, snapping the man's neck with just a twist of his thumb.

Like a chicken, Tristan thought, satisfied by his strength.

Presence +1

To their credit, the guards showed courage. Two charged at him, halberds in hand, and the third shot his pistol before pulling the alarm bell. Good Boy reared and jumped forward, trampling the guards before they even sketched a thrust. The last one ran inside, locking the door.

The garrison was competent. In a couple of minutes, the men were aiming the guns. Tristan pointed his index at them, and Pops jumped up, stepping on air. Once on the ramparts, he unleashed his wind attack, throwing the gunners into the ditch.

"Go get XP," Tristan ordered. "Keep some alive."

Cedric, Max, and Aldric ran forward, armed with bulletproof shields and batons. The stonemage rested his hands on the stone near the hinges. The slabs moved, and he kicked the gate, making it fall inward. Ten minutes later, a dozen prisoners were yelling curses at him, and very proficiently. If someone could outswear anybody, it was the Hungarians.

"I can strip you naked and throw you into the river, or you can cross the bridge by yourselves," Tristan said. "From now on, you and your kind are forbidden west of the Tisza."

"The Kingling will have your head!" a woman roared.

She was a First Order built like a docker, and the old Tristan would have thought twice before engaging her in a wrestling match. The new one yearned for a fight but refrained.

She must have a husband to beat somewhere, or kids.

"Cross the bridge before cutting your ties," he ordered.

She didn't move, cursing on. The guard who had shot at him gave the example, running away, then others followed, and the woman went last, still swearing.

"I don't detect any more foes in close proximity," Cedric said, sniffing the air.

"Stay put," Tristan said to Good Boy, extracting a scroll from his saddle bag and offering it to a cloaked elf who stood discreetly a few feet behind Cedric. "As promised, the Emperor grants you and your people rights of perpetual ownership over the Szolnok county, as long as you defend it from any invaders and don't harm the Empire and its citizens, nor any of its allies, and their citizens, nor any people that are protected by their laws. You have the right to defend yourself if attacked. The treaty is written in more florid phrasing, but you get the meaning."

"Meaning is mine name," the elf said, pulling back her hood. "Comprehension is mine game."

Tristan repressed a jerk. The Elven Queen, Vaelzryth's mother, was way weirder than the Ambassadors. Taller in normal form than Cedric in war form, her face was emaciated, her eyes beady, and she had white, pointy teeth that matched her hair and the whiskers on her cheeks. The silver crown on her head seemed embedded in her parchment-like skin. And last but not least, she spoke like a delirious madman after a binge of drugs and alcohol.

Looks are subjective, Tristan shrugged. Maybe we're the hideous ones to them. Still... I get why Vaelzryth is so happy here.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

He involuntarily shivered, imagining Vaelzryth as a kid, waking every morning to that face rocking him. I'd rather be raised in the woods, by wolves...

"Come, Aldric the Dwarf," the Queen beckoned, interrupting Tristan's daydream. "I'll impart upon you the art of Landscaping. Solitude is required. The joyful band is asked to retire."

[Aldric]: Sir, please, help! I think she's hitting on me.

[Tristan]: C'mon! You've heard her. It's just the art of landscaping. Whatever that means.

[Cedric]: Aldric and Minnie are sitting in a tree. K. I.S.—

[Aldric]: I'll cut your throat in your sleep, you tree fucker!

"You've heard the Queen," Tristan said, patting Good Boy's neck.

They gave the example, going west, with the rest in tow. At the same time, Aldric followed the Elven woman toward the river, fists clenched near his chest in a boxing stance, like he was preparing to fight for his life.

The retreating Tatars arrived at the crossing three and a half days later, in the early afternoon. The band numbered about a hundred and was composed of the high-ranking officers. Whatever horses were left alive, they had taken them from the rank and file, and also the loot. Tristan had observed them for two days, harassing them constantly with his dragoons. Herding them toward Szolnok without engaging.

"Shoot your weapons in the air," Tristan ordered, noticing a couple of scouts.

The volley scared the two Tatars, who spurred their horses and disappeared behind a bend in the dirt road to warn their comrades that the followers were still on their trail.

"That should do it," he decided. The crossing was two miles away; it was the only possible destination.

Good Boy neighed. Tristan patted the horse's neck, issuing his mental order: go forward slowly. A whiff of sweat reminded him he badly needed a bath—the two weeks spent in the saddle were taking their toll. He missed the castle's jacuzzi and Sandra rubbing his back.

I think it's time to take a break from hunting Tatars.

Unexpectedly, the cold winter dusk was replaced by warmth and light. All around was a sea of grass, with low hills, copses, and thickets, and birds singing. The plain descended gradually toward the river, which offered an eerie view. The meadows tightened, pushing the river into a waterfall that flowed upward, passing underneath the Szolnok bridge. The fortification was ten times taller than before, covered in vines, with its towers rising to the right and the left. After passing the castle, the waters reversed their unnatural flow, disappearing into a forest of giant oaks.

In front of the fortress was a toll booth, with a large table and two chairs. Minnie sat on one, her head reaching the height of an average human, and Big Hair Max on the other.

The Tatars were gathered a hundred yards away from the booth, discussing vividly among themselves. So far, there was no sign of hostility, but charging at the bridge was folly. There were elves everywhere on the walls, with longbows.

Taking a detour, Tristan activated his Stealth. He sneaked behind the booth, just in time, as the riders had sent someone ahead, an older Tatar who wore a very nice gold and black cape. He approached on foot, hat in hand.

"Who are you, beautiful princess, and what is this place?" the man asked in broken Polish, repeating the question in an even worse German.

He's either extremely polite or blind...

"I am Queen Meaning, and you have arrived in the land of the Elves," the Elf woman said in German.

"My fellows and I wish to return to our lands."

"You are way away from your lands, Tatar," the Queen scoffed. "However, past the bridge," she gestured, "you will return to the Kinglin's lands, and the road to Debrecen."

"Then, with your permission, we will hurry to leave, Your Highness." The man bowed, the gesture given away by the typical noise of leather clothes rubbing against each other.

"There is no hurry in the land of Elves," the woman said. "Perhaps you will join us for dinner?"

I hope she doesn't plan to turn them into stew... Tristan grimaced. He was famished and hoped to find something to eat, but not Tatar Tartar Steak.

"We y-yearn to reach our families as fast as p-possible, Your Highness."

"Then pay the tax for the bridge and get out of my sight," the woman snapped, the first short, hostile phrase Tristan had heard her say.

"H-how m-much?"

"Go tell your people this. You will approach one by one. My friend, Max," Tristan heard a slap, probably she had patted the Max's back, "will use his magic to guess how much money each of you carries. Each will decide how much he wants to pay. You have my royal word that you will be allowed to transit to the Kingling's lands, so long as you obey the rules. What's your name?"

"Timur Mirza, Your Highness."

"You will pass last. Translate to your friends."

The Tatar's running steps faded away, leaving Tristan baffled. The point of leading the Tatars there was to kill all but a few, take all their money, and let the survivors return to their Khan, or whatever, with the news that there was a new sheriff in town and a warning to never return to Hungary.

A couple of minutes later, another Tatar approached.

"I'm Iskander Mirza, their commander," the man said.

"Iskander Mirza has a thousand and eleven gold ducats and two thousand silver thalers in his horse's bags," Max said.

"How do you know?" the Tatar gasped. He spoke better German than his comrade, a sign he had roamed the Imperial borders for a long time.

"How much do you want to pay to pass the bridge?" Meaning asked.

"Is a hundred ducats enough, milady?" the Tatar asked, evidently fearing being a miser with all those elven archers nearby.

"A hundred it is," the elf woman said. "Next."

One by one, the Tatars approached. Without exception, they were stunned by Max's guesses. Many left a few coins, or even a single ducat; a few were as generous as the first Tatar, but they could be counted on one hand.

Timur came last, as instructed, pulling his horse by the reins. He had a hundred and twenty-nine silver thalers with him. Not much.

"How much do you want to pay?" the Queen asked.

"All of it, milady. I'm blessed to have met you. Passing your beautiful bridge is an honor."

"You have a smooth tongue, Timur." Meaning's voice became steely. "Have you met our kind before?"

"Only in fairytales, Your Highness. Elves are renowned for their beauty and wit."

"Is it so? Very well. To thank you for your compliment, I will accept your offer. Even more... I have a feeling you also want to offer me your cape, as a gift. Am I wrong?"

"N-no?" the Tatar stuttered, unbuttoning the cape.

"I'll make sure it reaches the person it's meant to wear it. Go."

Tristan exited his hiding in time to see her flick her fingers. The Tatar put the cape and his purse on the table and hurried to mount his horse and gallop over the bridge.

"I thought we were supposed to take all their money?" Tristan asked, showing himself.

"Your team can have the taxes," the Queen said dismissively.

"One thousand nine hundred eighty-two ducats," Max said. "Overall value."

"Better than nothing. You're okay with us taking it?" Tristan asked.

"Boss... I think we'd better donate it to orphans or stuff," Max said. "This money has a feeling about it... It feels... sad?"

"Duh! It comes from people they killed," Tristan said. "Which makes me think: what was the purpose of this? They left with their lives and their money."

"It's fools' money now," the Queen smiled, displaying her sharp, shark-like teeth.

"You changed it?"

"I cursed it. The blood spilled to steal that money will haunt and hunt them. When they get home and share it with their families, the curse will spread with every single coin. They'll kill themselves, or their families, or their friends, or fight for power."

"All things considered, donating it is a great idea," Tristan said, a shiver passing down his spine. Old Magic users were scary.