Chapter 24: It is Not a Hunt if You are Properly Sober

Over the next few days, Berengar had made preparations for the hunting trip. While also working on the many other tasks he was currently micromanaging. As usual, everything was progressing smoothly, but he could not increase productivity until the irrigation pipes were fully installed and the mines were working at full capacity. Thus it was mainly just basic administrative operations he was forced to oversee every day, which began to take its toll on Berengar, who desperately needed an escape. He was actually looking forward to the hunting trip, as he would enjoy the fresh air of the mountains and take care of some pesky gnats that were conspiring against him.

The day they were set to leave the Castle, Berengar had stopped by Ludwig's shop to pick up his rifle, which should be ready by then. When he walked through the dusty old doors of Ludwig's shack which was now used as office space for the growing industrial district, he noticed the old man cleaning the rifle's barrel before a wide smile spread across his lips.

"So you've taken a liking to my newest design, huh?"

Ludwig quickly snapped to attention as he heard the Young Lord's voice calling out to him.

"Milord, it is brilliant; who knew that by cutting grooves into the barrel, you could stabilize the lead ball's flight through the air, thus achieving a greater degree of accuracy?"

It was a rhetorical question; of course, there was only one mind in this world capable of thinking of such a thing, and that was Berengar's. Ludwig politely handed the rifle over to Berengar in which he thoroughly inspected. When he saw the proof mark on the barrel showing that it had been properly test-fired, a smile crept upon his regal visage.

"Ludwig, you're an artist!"

Berengar said as he looked up and complimented the old man. By now, he had made hundreds of firearms that were used to equip the militia, yet this was the first rifle the man had ever made, and it was a masterpiece.

The rifle was chambered in .58 caliber and fired a minie ball projectile, a lead slug that was far more effective than the current lead balls used by his militia. The mini ball was matched specifically to the rifling so that it stabilized better in its flight. Thus giving it a more effective range than the traditional lead ball. With the overwhelming barrel length of the long rifle, matched with the superior minie ball, he felt as if the practical range of accuracy on this rifle was greater than the 1861 Springfield Rifled Musket used by Union troops in the American Civil War in his previous life. After clasping Ludwig's shoulder, Berengar thanked him for his service.

"You have no idea how much this means to me, my friend."

Ludwig removed Berengar's hand and remained humble

"I'm just doing what I should. Make sure to get some proper use out of this thing on your hunting trip, milord. It would be a pity if you failed to kill anything with such a beautiful weapon."

Berengar smiled at Ludwig and said farewell to his friend; it would be a few days before returning.

"I'll be gone for the next few days; make sure to keep an eye on things around here when I'm gone."

Ludwig chuckled as he parted ways with his friend while reassuring him of his competence.

"You do not need to be afraid, milord; everything will be running smoothly by the time you return."

Afterward, Berengar departed from the shop with a rifle in hand and a belt that contained his bayonet and cartridge holder for his paper cartridges. Today he had dressed in earthly colors, mostly green and brown, so that he may blend in with the environment better. He did not want the assassins who would be waiting for him in the mountains to spot him before he did them. With Linde's warning, he could now successfully stalk the assassins and take them out from hundreds of meters away. The hunted had become the hunter.

Speaking of Linde as he left the shop and rounded a corner in the village a pair of dainty hands reached out and grabbed ahold of his waist, as he felt the familiar softness of Linde's heavenly bust pressed against his back. When he turned around to face her he could see tears in her eyes as she wished him good luck

"Stay safe out there, I don't think I could live without you..."

Berengar nearly laughed at her remark, her training was going wonderfully, she was now a properly broken-in slave who would never betray him. After observing her angelic face with was covered in tears he reached out his index finger and wiped them from her sky blue eyes with his finger before kissing her farewell.

"I know"

is all the young lord said as he walked away from his lover with a confident stride; slinging the rifle on his back as he did so.

Berengar eventually regrouped with his father and a small host of men to accompany them. Their journey would be a long one, and thus they needed men to carry supplies with them. Berengar found that he had slung the rifle over his shoulder; a leather sling was attached to the steel sling points that hung beneath the rifle's stock. After many miles of hiking, Berengar was thankful to whoever came up with such an idea in his previous life. It made long marches far more bearable, and today he had hiked many miles into the mountains.

The sun had begun to set, and as such, Berengar's servants had set up the encampment for them. They had finally reached a wooded portion of the mountains, his father's favorite hunting spot. It had been a long while since Sieghard had last been here, and he took a moment to enjoy the scenery before passing a wineskin to his son was currently cradling his rifle like it was a newborn babe.

"Drink; it is not a hunt if you are properly sober."

Though Berengar wanted to keep his mind sober as he knew there was a dastardly plot to end his life nearby, he couldn't very well refuse his father. So he took a swig from the wineskin and wiped his lips with his sleeve before returning it to his father.

Sieghard could not understand his son's fascination with hand cannons; it was hardly a proper tool for hunting. Yet the youth had brought an even larger hand cannon out than his previous one. He began to wonder what was so special about the design. Nevertheless, he would not chastise the boy for liking the weapon; he just wished his heir was as good as his second son with the sword.

Berengar, on the other hand, was thinking of the information Linde reported to him the night before. Lambert's assassins should be camping out just out of hearing range for the sound of his rifle. Which worked perfectly for Berengar as he had decided that he would launch a night raid; seeing as how the full moon was out, there was plenty of illumination for him to pick off his targets, especially if they stood by the fire. When his father finally fell asleep, Berengar would take the high ground and snipe his enemies from above. After he got rid of them, he would search for any evidence among their bodies that could be used against his enemies.

As such, Berengar spent a lot of time getting his father drunk. It was only after the man could barely stand that Berengar led him back to his tent and tucked the old drunkard in. After leaving his father's tent behind, Berengar snuck around the campsite and picked up the rifle where he absconded into the night. Along the way, he slathered mud in his hair and across his face and hands to blend into the darkness better. It was quite the trek up to the position where he wanted to take control of; however, before he arrived at the outcropping, Berengar had a sudden encounter with someone he was not expecting.

One of the assassins had left the camp to take a leak, and while Berengar was sneaking past the area, the two came face to face with one another. Though the man could not tell Berengar's identity, it was not a good idea to allow a witness to their location to live. As such, the man instantly grabbed his sword and swung it out of his scabbard as he attacked Berengar in the dead of night. Berengar had to roll out of the way as he struggled to fix his bayonet. The fucking rifle wasn't even loaded yet, nor was the bayonet attached. As such, he had elected to hide behind a tree while he attached the blade to his rifle.

The man was just about to scream for help from his comrades when he walked by the tree Berengar hid behind and noticed a giant steel spike insert itself into his neck. Instantly feeling the sharp pain of a bayonet stuck in his throat, the man began to gargle on his own blood as he looked at Berengar in disbelief; since when did this guy have a spear? Berengar removed the bayonet from the man's throat and wiped it across his jerkin.

It had been quite some time since Berengar last killed somebody. He served as an engineer officer in the United States Army in his previous life, but he had found himself engaged in combat on more than one occasion. He even managed to kill a Taliban insurgent while he came under fire from their assault. As such, he was no virgin when it came to taking a life. After confirming the men in the camp were unalerted, Berengar snuck up to the position above the campfire where he saw three more assassins sitting in front of the fire and drinking.

After acquiring his targets, Berengar took out a paper cartridge and bit off its top before pouring its contents into his muzzle and packing it down with the ramrod. Once the round was properly chambered, he pulled back the hammer that contained the flint and aimed down the sights, which landed on the largest group member, who appeared to be dressed in brigandine armor. The man heartfully chugged down a flagon of wine completely unaware that he was in the sniper's sights. Berengar took a deep breath as he settled the sights on his target and calmly squeezed the trigger. The thunder of the explosion which propelled the minie ball projectile filled the air; having never heard such a sound before, these men at arms turned assassin thought that it had begun raining. After all, they were young upstarts who wanted to prove themself to the count; hand cannons were not that common on the battlefield at this point.

One of the assassins looked back at the man who had an enormous hole in his brigandine breastplate with shock, blood spurted from the caved-in hole in the man's chest as he soon collapsed, the others had no idea what had just transpired, but they were beginning to panic.

As they were freaking out about the loss of their friend, a second thunder went off; this time, the head of one of the assassin's exploded. The last survivor instantly hid behind one of the crates lying about the campsite; it had become obvious after the second occasion that they were under attack from an unknown enemy and weapon. Unfortunately for the young assassin, he had chosen poorly in regards to cover. After another half, a minute or so had passed, the .58 caliber slug pierced through the wooden crate, and the contents within penetrating its way through the man's leg, practically blasting his femur in half. He would bleed out shortly thereafter from a damaged femoral artery.

Just like that, Berengar had claimed the lives of the four assassins who were sent after him. After having sent the men to the afterlife, Berengar rushed down to the camp below and scoured it for any evidence that could be used against Lambert or Lothar. Luckily he came across the letter which contained the details of Berengar and Sieghard's hunting trip. Including the general location in which Sieghard always set up his campsite. It was signed by Lambert and in his handwriting. Berengar nearly broke out in laughter upon obtaining this letter; he finally had a key piece of evidence in which he could begin to build a case against Lambert's assassination attempts.

Throughout the remainder of the night, Berengar used his time wisely and got rid of any sign pointing towards his bloody deed. He did not want the Count's men sniffing around and finding out that he had personally dispatched his men at arms to hell. After everything was either buried or burned to ash, Berengar had left the area behind and returned to his own camp night. As if God were looking out for him, the heavens began to weep that night and washed any remaining sign of the skirmish. After a covert investigation, the Count would later assume that the men had abandoned their duties and fled Tyrol. He would later place a bounty for their heads, which nobody was ever able to claim.

For the rest of the night, Berengar slept like a baby. He had no second thoughts about murdering those men who were sent to kill him. Not even a tinge of guilt could infect his pure consciousness or lack thereof as he enjoyed the sound of the pounding rain outside of his warm tent, which slowly aided him in drifting to sleep. His last thought of the night was simply "This fucking hunting trip; I could be playing with Linde right now..."