* * *
A blonde man with blue eyes walks into a garrison all the way to the corner of his ear. The impression seemed good, but in other words, it was a good image to live in this rough world. He was not on the short side, but he looked small because he was bent on his back.
I carry a pile of parchment in my arms and walk around looking at the dizzy soldiers and knights. I stumbled and struggled to avoid them, stepping on rough, rough ground.
Then I saw the Bedouins being sold into slavery in the eyes of the man. 50,000 men died in battle, all the remaining women and children. The elders are all dead.
The great king of the North wiped out hundreds of thousands of families of Bedukind warriors and slaughtered them, or sold all of them into slavery to merchants.
They will be scattered all over the world, and there will no longer be a tribe called Viduquint.
The Randolph Change Bag has been sweeping north and sending slaves endlessly. Slaves poured into the market all at once, and people were sold at a cheaper price than a horse or a cow.
Most of them were likely to be sold to cities on the East Coast or to the East Continent, where slavery was in high demand. The man felt sorry for them for a moment. But are they innocent?
The man followed the Northern king's army and saw how badly the Bedouins had slaughtered the locals and hung them on a pole.
“Move fast, you disgusting savages! ”
A soldier bashes a lady in the head with a fierce punch. She doesn't even have the strength to scream, but she covers her face with a long, brown head.
In the eyes of occasional Bedouins, there was literally nothing but despair, anger, hatred, and self-interest.
Then someone slammed behind the man. The man can't dirty the parchment while he falls, so he hugs it and closes his eyes.
However, the person slammed into the back and grabbed him and stood him up. The man turns his head with a thumping chest and looks at the person who bumps into him.
He was a soldier with a hot beard and a helmet, but he stared at himself indifferently.
“Don't just stand there gawking. Stay in a corner somewhere. Writer.”
The man grinds his tousled hair without fail.
I said, "I'm sorry. ”
Then he stumbled and ran.
It was not a boast that I knew how to write in this age. I couldn't have hoped for a better treatment, and instead I was blatantly ignored.
Soldiers and knights thought that they were working on nothing productive, just thinking about the people who were writing and writing.
If the writer made fun of the wrong mouth, he was beaten and broke his teeth. I was lucky that my tongue wasn't pulled out. Even if I didn't move, I could get in trouble.
Nevertheless, there was only one reason a man was not just beaten. The man was called Einhart, the Great King in the North, the recorder of Albrecht.
Einhart had no idea why the King in the North chose him as his chancellor.
When Albrecht announced that he was voting for the Archives, many pundits supported him, including his young and inexperienced self.
When he was a child, he took care of his parents and was fortunate enough to learn writing from a lifesaver who grew up in a monastery.
I could have gone to the path of a priest, but as I got older, my life at the monastery felt frustrated and went out into the world.
I worked under the Merchant Gate for a while, and I was hired by Feudal Lord to write the history of my family for a while, but I was always pointed out that the writing was too dry.
Einhart doesn't know why he was elected, but he followed Albrecht anyway. Albrecht just gave me parchment, pen, ink and paid me a salary.
I didn't even set up a tent. Einhart had to eat, follow and record, and survive.
At first glance, the parchment would disappear. Soldiers stole it because it was said to be money.
Einhart hurries to the king's tent. There are two soldiers guarding the entrance, sitting at the door, chatting and resting.
Einhart hides for a moment and approaches them. One soldier was difficult for the common man.
Knights, soldiers, and everyone secretly exuded the energy of murder, carnage, and criminals. Albrecht was just craving it inside.
“Well, there. ”
Einhardt stammers. The helmet rests by your side, and two soldiers with short hair look up at Slynny Einhart. Before Einhardt speaks, a soldier speaks first.
“The king is not here right now. ”
“Well, where……"
“I don't know. Ask the knights over there. ”
Einhart is restless. The soldiers giggle, if that's what you think.
“No, come on, you're a writer. You stood beside the Great King, but what are we so afraid of? ”
“Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii. ”
That's because they were nonverbal beasts. I don't know when my fist will fly and break my cheekbone, but isn't it scary?
Einhart backs them off and goes to the knights over there. The knights were sitting and standing, talking amongst themselves.
“Well, you know, the knights. ”
Then one of the knights, who was wearing two hands on the belt, turns to him.
“What's going on? ”
Einhart's hands seem to be sweating. I rubbed my palm against the elongated clothes because the parchment should not get wet.
“Great, I have something to tell His Majesty. ”
The knight looks back at the pile of parchment Einhardt is holding, turning his head to the side.
“Hey, Berenghar. I need you to show me the way. ”
Then a young knight sat down and stood up and said,
“Follow me.”
Then I stumbled onto a mountain nearby.
Einhart follows the path of a complex city, and doesn't want to miss it, but Einhart is as fearless as a chick following a mother hen.
In the cloudless blue sky, the July sun was firmly setting on the ground. Einhardt's sweat continues.
I was only holding a parchment, but I was distracted about stealing my neck and forehead or wiping my hands.
The knight glances at Einhardt and walks on. As you enter the mountain, the trees shade, and the fresh air gives you a slightly cooler feeling.
Following the knight for a long walk, you can see dozens of knights standing here and there, vigilant.
The knight guiding Einhardt grabs the helmet and pays them a tribute. However, they did not accept the greeting, but simply watched the knight and Einhart indifferently. Einhart thinks they're like wolves roaming the woods.
Through the valley, through the thicket, comes a dark stream. The knight guarding the road through the forest stands in the way and stares at the knight and Einhart, stubborn.
“That's it for me. Go.”
Einhart looks to greet the knight, and continues on his way. When I passed the knight guarding the entrance, I was afraid of him for no reason. The knight looks up and down at Einhardt, but does not restrain him. Einhart seems to be getting cold sweat.
Beyond the bush, you can see the king of the North sitting on a rock dressed in silk and holding a golden cup. Later there were Duke Herman and Earl Eugene, and there were dozens of knights nearby.
Their gaze settles on you. Einhart grows more restless. It looked funny because he was acting like a snail.
A soldier in an apron in the distance was grilling the crawfish with spices. Einhart was hungry on his own, even though he was so frightened.
Einhart swallowed his saliva and approached the most powerful, cruel, most ruthless, most compassionate, and most vast territory in the world.
The king and the knights around him stare indifferently at themselves. Einhart staggers, unable to resist the swinging of his legs.
“I see you, Your Majesty. Seconds, I finished the draft. Please read it. It's here. ”
Albrecht accepted a pile of parchment without a word. My palms were sweaty, and I couldn't manage them well, and there were stains everywhere.
In the first chapter, it was written in an old-fashioned script, "The Albrecht Journal." Below it was written, "The War of the North," and at the bottom it was written, "Einhart."
As I was about to hand over the first chapter, a soldier in an apron and sleeves picked up a silver platter of roasted crawfish.
I heard some of the soldiers were indigenous here, so Albrecht asked me to make some delicacies.
Albrecht puts a pile of parchment next to him for a moment, picking one up and slicing it. The most delicious food I have eaten in the last few years However, I turned my head to hear the sound of swallowing a saliva next to me, and I saw the crawfish lying on the silver platter with Einhart's eyes.
Albrecht smiles faintly and hands him the silver platter.
“Did you say her name was Einhardt? You're still alive, aren't you? ”
It was completely irresponsible. But it was a little bit of a joke.
“Yes, yes!? Oh, yes! Thank you!”
Einhart was distracted by Albrecht's response to the silver platter.
“Try it. It will be delicious.”
Einhart picks up a crab and slashes it with a trembling hand. My legs seemed to relax for a moment. I could hardly bear the snow turning upside down.
Reminds me of when Albrecht chose him as his recorder. Most of the sentences were chosen because Albrecht himself wrote in praises, and Einhart seemed to be describing himself as objectively as he had heard.
Albrecht takes a sip of wine and picks up the pile of parchment he left by his side again. And I passed the first chapter.
‘This book is a record of what I have personally seen and heard about the life of the King of the North... Albrecht is taller than a normal head, tall bear, and blonde hair that covers his ears completely shines when sunlight hits him, and his eyes are blue as clear as the summer sky. You have a straight line from your chin through your left lip to below your left eye…’
The introduction contained some details about Albrecht's appearance. I flipped it over and looked at it roughly, and it was a kind of recording that seemed to be a mixture of whole and one-year-olds.
It was written in chronological detail, including personality, normality, appearance in battle, and reasons for people praising.
‘When I was 15, I was banished by the slaughter of a territory... I divided the Knight Ernstran vertically and earned the title of a Vertical Cutter... Lloybek slaughtered a hundred mercenaries, killed the Villain Rutger and was called the Knight King...’
It seemed as little about Albrecht's life before the war as people had heard about it.
I could have recorded it while talking to Albrecht, but Albrecht did not want me to. I wanted to exclude myself from writing as much as possible.
This was a book that described Albrecht with the eyes of an eyewitness, Einhardt, who is literally a third party, not a silhouette or memorandum.
Albrecht continued to read.
‘When I was 16, I fought the war in the Middle Kingdom, I dueled Manfred, I killed Leopold... When I was 18, I defeated 100,000 armies of the pagan king, Amazon... I freed hundreds of thousands of prisoners at no cost... The Englishmen say they led themselves as guardians, slaughtering the heroes, Kiyom and Lemon the Wild...'
There was a bit of truth to it, but it was mostly true. Perhaps if it were another sentence, he would have put on weight and praised Albrecht more.
And it was clear from whom that part of it sounded rather absurd. Albrecht was satisfied.
‘At the age of 21, Calteren ran alone to save his hometown... his father Burkhardt decided to die and wage a war on revenge... The next year, he declared war on the world... that he invaded Heinrich's kingdom and wiped out 1,000 nobles, including Heinrich...’
Reading the next passage, Albrecht's expression hardens.
When I was 22, I raised my army again and invaded Karl's kingdom. Karl and the lords fought fiercely in the castle, but they were all captured. I killed 1,000 nobles, including King Carr, to get my revenge… ’
Albrecht believed himself to be at war for his beliefs. Father's death, I thought, triggered it.
But it was not so reflected in the eyes of the third party. A war for revenge.
‘With open roads for merchants, the seafood was plentiful and people lived a rich life... When I was 24 years old, I raised an army to invade Otto's kingdom... slaughtered 10,000 Horsa warriors in battle, killed 30,000 of them in my encampment... and sold them into slavery at the age of 25...'
Einhardt's record was that no matter how many people died, whether 1,000 or hundreds of thousands died, only one line was recorded.
Other than that, it was a detailed description of how the battle went down, how Albrecht usually looked, and how he was during the battle.
In particular, the battle of the Besser River was described in more detail because Einhardt himself went up into the mountains and saw the battle from start to finish. There are many places where Albrecht is not praised as he is.
“Was this battle that impressive to you? ”
Albrecht puts the first chapter back on top and asks Einhart without looking.
“It was art.”
Albrecht is lost. Einhart was neither a soldier, nor a strategist, nor a military expert. He was simply astonished to see the Northern army wrap around the dodo kints, as if the snake were feeding him.
Albrecht can't stand it. He bursts his smile in small quantities.
“Haha, art. ”
The next generation didn't care how many Albrecht killed. I just saw and praised the shining achievements, and I thought I would analyze the tactics.
It seemed really funny. I felt like I was going to cry because it was funny. It was funny to be praised for being detailed and detailed about how to kill a person effectively, even though the problems that were always bothering me ended in one line.
“Well, how about that? Your Majesty."
Einhart looks at the king and asks. Albrecht smiles bitterly and hands over parchment.
“You're going to stick close to me. And make a note of every detail I have. ”
Albrecht turns his gaze away from him, gazing at the creek, groaning. In the afternoon, the stream was sparkling with sunlight. Birds in the mountains whisper, knights do not speak.
Albrecht hears a misunderstanding, but the mischief naturally pours into the stream.
Chapter 21 The Great Slayer's End.
< 157 > End