Medieval: Kingdom Come: Deliverance

Chapter 229 Torture and Interrogation

Waquerin Brabant, the knight who prided himself on being the epitome of French elegance, was now more disheveled than a ball of yarn that had been toyed with by a cat.

He instinctively stepped back, as if the ground beneath his feet were not solid earth, but a red-hot iron. His scarlet cloak, long enough to be used as a mop, meant to display his aristocratic bearing, now became a stumbling block to his loyalty.

"Pfft"

The Frenchman's heel landed precisely on the edge of his cloak, and he instantly resembled a fat goose trying to fly but forgetting it had wings. His arms made two meaningless arcs in the air, and his body leaned back at an extremely ungraceful angle, performing a "goose landing on the sand with its buttocks facing backward" pose.

"Count—Your Excellency!"

He finally managed to get up, his hat askew, and a few carefully combed tufts of his mustache stood up defiantly, looking just like the tail of a startled rooster.

His tongue seemed to be tied in knots, and the words were squeezed out with difficulty, "It's—it's me! Waquerin Brabant!"

"Misunderstanding! A huge misunderstanding! I—I'm here to negotiate the money! In the name of chivalry and—"

"negotiation?"

Count von Polgár's voice was like that of a rooster whose neck had been stepped on, sharp and distorted, filled with unbelievable rage.

His fingers, trembling slightly with excitement, pointed to the scattered, bulging money bags on the ground. "Using my money! On my own land! To seduce my wife?!"

Each phrase was like a heavy hammer blow to Waquerin's fragile heart.

Finally, he practically roared out the words "harassed my wife," his voice echoing through the ruins and startling a few birds that had been watching the spectacle.

"Zzzzt—!"

A crisp metallic scraping sound rang out as von Polgar abruptly drew his sword from his waist.

The blade gleamed coldly in the dim sunlight, its tip like the forked tongue of a venomous snake, pointing directly at Waquerin's heart, which was pounding wildly.

Waquerin's eyes swept around in terror. Good heavens, the soldiers who had been standing at attention just moments before now had murderous glints in their eyes, their hands on their sword hilts, as if they could chop him into French mincemeat on the spot at the Count's command.

He glanced despairingly at Earl Herman beside him; his warhorse snorted impatiently, pawing the ground and kicking up clouds of dust. Waquerin felt his legs were no longer just weak; they were dancing a spasmodic tap dance on their own.

"etc!"

He raised his hands with all his might, a gesture that didn't look like surrender, but rather like embracing the sky, trying to grasp the last straw called "dignity".

"I am a knight personally appointed by the King of France! You cannot—you cannot treat someone of noble blood like this—"

However, his plea was completely drowned out by von Polgar's already broken roar: "To hell with you nobles, catch this swindler! I'll skin him alive! I'll make his skin into my footpads! I'll stomp on them three times a day!"

Von Polgao had previously held the opponent in high regard because he thought the opponent dared to organize the defense of Kutenberg. Now it seems the opponent is utterly useless!

"No—!"

Waquerin let out a piercing wail, like a castrated opera tenor, "My Lord! You were the one who promised the Silver Dawn to redeem his wife, steward, and castle!"

"I'm just a errand boy! An innocent, handsome, and not-too-fast messenger! Weren't we getting along quite well before?"

In desperation, he tried to shift the blame, but instead dropped a bombshell.

"What?!"

Von Polgar was struck dumb, his movements frozen in place, forgetting to swing his sword.

Count Herman, the Cuman chieftain Hertan, and his adjutant Grozav all cast suspicious glances at him.

"The castle? What happened to my Malesov?!" His voice was filled with surprise and uncertainty, and an extremely ominous premonition gripped him.

"Last night, I was completely overwhelmed by the Silver Dawn!"

Waquelin, going all out, spoke at breakneck speed, "The Brunswick prince released Hans and me, they said—"

He said everything was settled with you; you would pay to redeem the castle, your wife, and your steward. You were afraid of losing face if people found out, so you chose to make the deal in these ruins—"

As he spoke, seeing the count's face grow increasingly pale, the Frenchman's voice gradually lowered; he finally belatedly realized—

I might, probably, definitely—become a pawn, and a gunpowder-filled iron pipe pointed at my head.

"Last night?! They breached my castle?! Damn it!!"

Von Polgar completely broke down. The noble elegance and lordly composure he had carefully maintained were now shattered like a glass statue struck by a heavy hammer.

He swung his sword sharply, not at Waquerin, but at a patch of innocent, weathered ruins nearby.

"Clang! Clang! Clang!"

Sparks flew, and ear-piercing impacts echoed through the air. The count roared as he hacked away, much like a demolition crew encountering a stubborn load-bearing wall; the scene was extremely volatile and costly for his sword.

Count Herman, standing to the side, also had a face so dark it looked like it could be wrung out.

He turned sternly to Hertan, the Cuman chief in charge of observation and vigilance, his voice as cold as the Siberian wind: "Hertan! What is going on?"

Why didn't your men even smell a fart when they left last night?!

Hertan's mouth dropped open. His rugged face, weathered by time and etched with stories of the grasslands, was now filled with innocent confusion and disbelief.

"This—this is impossible—"

He murmured, rubbing his eyes hard, as if that would bring back the images lost from last night, "No light! Not a single ray of light!"

How could they possibly slip away like ghosts in the dead of night? Did they wrap the horseshoes in velvet and give the soldiers tea made with invisibility herbs?

He stubbornly believed that marching at night without torches was a violation of military law, which severely impacted his worldview.

Grozav, standing in the corner, was trying hard to purse his lips to prevent himself from laughing out loud. His shoulders trembled slightly as he suppressed his laughter, but inside he was already overjoyed.

Hahaha! My God! Who was that at the banquet, holding a wine glass, mocking Dukat and me for being completely fooled by "Silver Dawn," saying we had muscles instead of brains? Von Polgar! Hermann! Look at you now! Turns out, if it were you, you'd be just as easily fooled! Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!

He had even begun to mentally draft how to begin this letter of denunciation to His Majesty King Sigismund, a letter filled with "objective statements" and "subtle reminders": "Your Majesty, your loyal Grozav must report to you a regrettable matter concerning certain counts—their vision problems and occasional lapses in judgment—"

The crowd present was a mixture of shock, anger, embarrassment, and disbelief. Finally, like searchlights, all eyes focused on the only "insider" in the room—the Frenchman, Václav Waquerin, who was now practically curled up in a ball. Their eyes clearly said, "Give him a good 'welcome'!"

Before the wolf-like soldiers could even approach, Waquerin Brabant wisely raised his hands and pleaded loudly in a tearful French accent, "I'll talk! I'll tell you everything!"

I'll cooperate! I confess! Please, please don't torture me! My skin is very sensitive; it bruises easily. My soul is fragile; I faint at the slightest fright! I swear in my grandmother's name!

However, von Polgár, who was in a fit of anger and desperately needed someone to vent his frustrations, had no intention of giving him a chance to explain himself.

The Count needs to vent his anger, not a confession! He waved his hand, "Take him away! Beat him hard until he talks!"

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