Chapter 46: The Craftsman

The next day, Ulyan set off with two companions for Isonpol, and it was two full days before they returned. When they came back, more people and two horses followed behind Ulyan.

Ulyan enthusiastically introduced them to Valery: “These two are craftsmen from the Petukhov family, here to help us build the watermill and sawmill.”

“Greetings, masters.” Seeing these respected colleagues, Valery rubbed his bald head and greeted them with honest warmth.

“I’ll leave these two masters in your care. Take a few more men and be sure to assist them well!” Ulyan said, winking at Valery as he spoke.

Valery understood at once—it was about getting the craftsmen’s expertise for free, something he was quite familiar with. All the skills he possessed had been acquired in just such a manner.

No one knew quite how Ulyan had negotiated with Rigolaf, but not only had he secured material support, he’d also gotten several extra promises out of him. Before leaving, he borrowed two of the Petukhov family’s craftsmen and, with Romon’s cover, quietly led away two horses as well.

Though the two horses weren’t quite warhorses, they were still fine riding stock, more than adequate for daily use.

The western watchtower was nearly thirty miles from the river bend. If the need ever arose to seek aid, traveling on foot would be far too slow. And after all, a frontier knight was still a knight—how could he be without a horse? Without a horse, he would be mere infantry!

The two riding horses were carefully stabled in the newly built barn, joining the donkey, the kobold pup, the marmot, and the unicorn boar as the latest members of the Riverbend menagerie.

The new stable and smithy stood side by side, pressed up against the stone wall of the lord’s manor, each with a small door leading inside. After all, livestock and ironwork were strategic resources for a small village domain.

Ulyan had long wanted to build a water-powered sawmill on the far side of the river. Even if it could only run a single saw blade, it would be worth the labor of twenty men. If they’d had a sawmill from the start, not only the manor but the village houses could have been framed in no time. Ulyan could have even built a few watchtowers ahead of schedule, turning the Riverbend camp into a small military outpost.

Unfortunately, in this impoverished region, skilled craftsmen and blacksmiths were rare and valued—they were either retainers of the local lords or asset-rich townsfolk, none of whom would willingly follow him into the wilds.

Leo had, of course, suggested water power, but talking was easy. Even Valery, the most knowledgeable among them, dared not promise that a water-powered saw would be ready for use anytime soon.

Building a small iron smelting furnace had taken five or six men an entire week, and it had collapsed twice before finally succeeding.

To attempt a water-powered saw would mean weeks of work by a dozen strong men, with the constant risk of failure. Everyone had ideas, but not the skill.

As for why it was built on the far bank—Riverbend’s opposite shore was closer to the pine woods, making it easier to float processed logs to the camp or downstream. More importantly, the far bank was the eroded side; the river ran deeper and swifter there. The peninsula side was the deposition bank, with shallow, gentle water and swirling eddies that sometimes even pushed small boats upstream.

Not even a waterwheel, let alone shallow-draft fishing boats, could properly dock there.

For this reason, the camp had to build a ten-meter-long pier extending into the river to transport ores and goods by boat.

Besides the sawmill, Ulyan also asked the craftsmen to build a mill. Watermills were less demanding than sawmills; for experienced craftsmen, it was just a matter of making an extra waterwheel and a few bearings.

Once the mill was ready, the village women wouldn’t have to grind wheat by hand anymore, freeing up time for farming, weaving, and leatherwork.

After arranging for the craftsmen, Ulyan quietly pointed to the thin young man he’d brought back and sighed to Rusev: “Do you remember Old John’s family?”

“Old John? That old devil came?” Rusev knocked his pipe heavily.

“He didn’t come. He’s dead.” Ulyan’s face was expressionless. “The whole family is gone, only his grandson Harry remains.”

Rusev fell silent, stifling the words “served him right!” in his throat.

Old John had been a refugee from the neighboring village, destroyed and forced to flee to Ulyan’s village. He had a large family, well-off, not quite a landlord but at least a prosperous farmer.

A dozen or so family members had traveled a hundred miles with Ulyan’s caravan, then decided to split off, settling with a few other families in a small town near Varanger City.

Just days after the caravan left, the beastfolk attacked, slaughtering the town. Only the youngest grandson, Harry, escaped.

Fortunately, Harry remembered the caravan’s destination and followed the refugee tide to Isonpol, waiting outside the city for seven or eight days.

There must have been others like him.

This time, Ulyan had purposely wandered through the refugee camp, preparing for Riverbend to take in refugees and grow stronger in the future.

That’s when he caught sight of the starving Harry.

“He’s a pitiful boy—how could I let him starve? So I brought him back.”

The once robust young man, as strong as Leo, was now gaunt and hollow-eyed.

“Feed him well for a few days, let him recover.”

None of the villagers mocked Harry; two village women bustled about, helping him change his tattered, mud-stained clothes and bringing him food.

Staring at the wheat cakes and the oily, steaming soup in his hands, Harry, who had survived against all odds, began to doubt the reality before him.

He’d expected that, having followed Ulyan to the frontier camp, he would scrape by on husks and thin broth, maybe a bit of deer root—surviving would be enough. How had Riverbend’s camp come to eat so well in just two months?

During Ulyan’s absence, thanks to Rusev and the other village elders’ loose tongues, Olivia’s “refusal of Romon the knight for Leo’s sake” had quickly become the talk of the village.

What news could there be in this remote wilderness camp? Most of the fresh gossip was stirred up by Leo.

Olivia’s friends heard the rumor and, indignant, urged her to reconsider.

The dashing Romon knight in his splendid armor, handsome and refined, was the dream suitor of these village belles.

He was a man from the city, high society, the son of nobility. He was the prize everyone wished for—how could she refuse?

As for Leo…

He could wait his turn.

At that moment, the subject of their secret scorn, Leo, stood not far away, with a dung fork in hand, staring at a muck heap in a daze.

He wore only a ragged linen tunic, its sleeves torn off, his whole body filthy as if he’d just escaped a dungeon.

Yet his cropped golden hair still dazzled in the sunlight.

His athletic, well-proportioned muscles were mostly bare; even the parts covered by his thin tunic were taut and defined.

Olivia watched with amusement as her friends, mouths watering, disparaged Leo in every way they could.