Chapter 102

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People gathered around every flickering fire. In the firelight, all they did was roll dice or play cards. It was less for amusement than because gambling and drinking were simply part of life.

Were they soothing the boredom of a sleepless night, or did they have a reason they could not sleep?

It was closer to the latter. This was no battlefield, yet they stood watch through the night to protect their families and possessions. Theft was an everyday occurrence here.

Of course, anyone caught could expect to lose a hand at the very least. An angry mob might hang them on the spot.

Broken planks lay scattered over the muddy ground. People crossed them like an irregular set of stepping-stones. Holding Lena's hand, Ricard strode across the boards.

A heavy stench of shit assailed his nose from some distance away. Unfortunately, Lena was pointing straight toward its source.

There, crude fences enclosed a broad area divided into livestock pens. Goats, sheep, cattle, packhorses, donkeys. In one corner were domestic rabbits, chickens, and geese as well.

It seemed to contain every animal humans could raise. This was where merchants gathered to make their money buying livestock cheaply from migrants and selling it at a steep markup.

Bonfires flickered, but they could not drive away all the darkness. Lena looked around, unable to find the merchant to whom she had sold the cattle.

Ricard waited a little, then approached a group rolling dice with considerable enthusiasm.

"Where can I find a cattle trader here?"

A man watching the game with folded arms turned toward him. After giving Ricard a cursory once-over, he pointed toward another game.

"Try over there."

Ricard looked up. Several bonfires burned around a fairly large gathering of gamblers.

He walked over with Lena. She was anxious, but there was nothing she could do except leave her fate in his hands. Even so, she felt a strange sense of anticipation and security.

This larger game had a dedicated dealer. Cards were laid facedown, and the gamblers placed their bets. Silver coins were the smallest denomination in play, and there were even a few gold coins.

Ricard asked Lena, "Is he here?"

She carefully studied the faces illuminated by the firelight, then pointed at one of the bettors.

"That man..."

As soon as she pointed, Ricard walked straight up and tapped the man on the back. A man with a filthy beard and a coif turned around.

Unsure whether Ricard had touched him deliberately or merely brushed against him, he looked up blankly.

"You know this girl, don't you?" Ricard asked.

He nodded toward Lena. The cattle trader recognized her at once without needing a closer look. He also guessed why Ricard had come.

"The deal's already done."

"That wasn't a deal. It was a swindle."

"If I'd swindled anyone, people would have torn out my tongue already. But here I am, perfectly fine."

"So you're saying you won't pay a fair price?"

"Ha! Really, now. Pick your ground before you start barking murder."

Barking murder? Ricard did not know what that meant, but it seemed to be some local slang. Probably something about making threats and causing a scene.

Sure enough, the burly men around the game stared at him challengingly. It was a silent warning that he would regret carrying on with this nonsense.

But Ricard answered with action rather than words. Without warning, he kicked the gambling table over.

CRASH!

Cards scattered from the tabletop, and coins clattered to the ground. People around him recoiled in surprise and confusion.

Some did not, however, and the mood turned ugly in an instant. Ricard stared at the cattle trader, who was still seated.

"I asked you a question. Will you pay a fair price now? Answer me."

Seeing that violence was likely, those uninvolved hurriedly scooped up their money and cleared out. Others, by contrast, came over to watch the impending fight from a distance.

Through it all, the cattle trader remained seated, looking Ricard up and down. Worn clothes, but clean and well washed, with a red cloak. No weapon, just a staff. What sort of outfit was that?

The trader could not work out Ricard's background from his appearance. Was he merely a hotheaded young fool, or did someone with this much nerve actually have something to back it up?

Fortunately or unfortunately, he soon had a chance to glimpse Ricard's true worth.

"Hey, boy."

A large man apparently decided he had seen enough and reached out to grab Ricard. Ricard snatched his wrist instead, and a disquieting sound reached everyone nearby.

CRUNCH.

More than the pain, it was the sensation of his hand falling limp, beyond his control, that sent a chill down the large man's spine.

The moment he let out a bewildered "Huh?" Ricard grabbed him by the waistband and the scruff of his neck and hurled him over the livestock fence. It was an astonishing display of strength.

The man landed face-first in mud full of shit and floundered there.

Silence held for a moment. Then, realizing what had happened to their companion, the thugs shouted.

"You fucking bastard!"

"So you want a fight!"

But Ricard's staff danced like lightning.

CRACK! CRACK!

The thugs dropped with ridiculous ease.

The others had no idea what was hitting their friends and companions, or how. They hastily reached for their weapons.

Utterly steady, Ricard pointed the tip of his staff straight at them.

"Draw a blade and you die."

Among those who lived by the blade, there was an unwritten rule as binding as iron: once someone pointed a sharp weapon at you, you were free to kill them. That was why people who earned their living with steel were especially cautious about drawing it.

You never pointed a blade at someone, no matter how close you were. That was why Boribori had been so shocked when Ice turned his sword on his friends four years ago.

It was one of the few rules Ricard followed. He would merely beat an unarmed person and leave it at that, but once they took up a weapon, he generally killed them.

Faced with his uncanny skill, his precise movements, and his unwavering gaze, the thugs froze halfway through reaching for their weapons.

Only then did they realize that this fighter was in an entirely different league.

His unflinching confidence subdued the entire gathering in an instant. Resting his staff on the ground again, Ricard looked at the cattle trader, whose face had gone blank.

"Answer."

"... Pardon?"

"Answer me. Are you going to pay a fair price?"

"Uh... o-of course. A man should do honest business. Of course."

With trembling hands, the trader took out his purse and offered it to Ricard with both hands.

But Ricard took only twenty silver coins on the spot, then tossed the rest back to him. He pressed the twenty coins firmly into the hand of the girl who had endured so much.

"Let's go. And you—do honest business."

Leaving the trader with that final remark, Ricard took Lena back toward camp.

The cattle trader stared down at the purse he had unexpectedly received back. Why was this still in his hands? For a while, he struggled in confusion to make sense of what had happened.

When Ricard returned to the group's campsite, everyone looked at him worriedly.

He seemed to have succeeded in getting the money, whether by beating someone up or through some other means, but they feared the repercussions.

Marie, of course, paid it no mind, as though nothing had happened, while Roy simply gazed at him in admiration.

Even his father sometimes stayed quiet in the face of unjust threats and pressure, yet Ricard had marched off without hesitation and brought the money back.

Bremen, however, had the whole group to look after as their guide. His response was rather different.

"My boy, did you really have to do that...?"

"Do what?"

"The merchants here are under the protection of the Reiken Brotherhood. They won't let this pass."

"That doesn't mean we should stand by and let ourselves be cheated."

"Still, it wasn't as though they got nothing. A few silver coins would have bought enough food and drink to get those children to Torweil, somehow or other."

Beyond questions of right and wrong, Ricard sensed a difference in the way they thought. He did not particularly want to judge other people's thinking or tell them where they were wrong, but some things were simply unacceptable.

"I don't know about that. Let them do it once, and they'll do it again. It's like retreating a little at a time. Keep giving in to the threats and intimidation of bad men, and eventually you'll find yourself cornered, a slave. Even if you reach the eastern frontier, do you really think you'll find salvation or hope there with a slave's mentality?"

Whether the matter was great or small, give things up one by one and eventually you would lose everything. That was what Ricard believed. You would end up handing your soul over to someone else merely to stay alive.

He respected those who fought tooth and nail to survive however they could. At the same time, he despised servility.

This was less a warrior's mindset than an inescapable necessity for anyone seeking independence.

Salvation extended its hand to those who sought to stand on their own, just as Marie and his friends had become Sword Masters. On this point, Ricard was certain.

Perhaps because it suited his own nature, Hartmann nodded, believing Ricard was right. Roy listened as though spellbound, taking the words to heart without even realizing it.

Bremen and the others, however, still seemed worried.

"We're not as strong as you..."

Perhaps he was simply too old to muster the strength to resist anymore. Bremen murmured the words to himself.

"I don't think sharing a long journey is any small bond. I'll help you, so don't worry too much. Who knows? We might have a better chance of succeeding this way."

Ironically, perhaps it was only by accepting danger that they could make it through danger and reach their goal. Perhaps all their failures until now had come from doing nothing but avoiding trouble and running away.

Whatever the case, Lena held the recovered money tightly in her hand. It felt especially precious. It was the price of her mother's life, and it had been won back for her by a young man who seemed like a heroic older brother.

The night deepened.

The next morning, as though following a predetermined course, a man from the Reiken Brotherhood came calling. He wore splendid silk clothes beneath a thick fur cloak. Already a large man, he looked even larger with the cloak on.

Rings set with hefty gems adorned all ten fingers, and gold necklaces hung in profusion around his neck.

He had brought his men and the cattle trader, who pointed to Ricard eating breakfast beside the fire.

As the others watched anxiously, Ricard swallowed his mouthful, took up his staff without a word, and walked over.

"Good morning."

The visitor greeted him first with a broad grin.

"What do you want?"

"I hear you can fight."

"And?"

"Care to show me?"

Ricard regarded him for a moment, then flicked his staff back and forth in front of him with a few turns of his wrist. The man flinched slightly, thinking he was about to be hit, then quickly pretended nothing was wrong.

Ricard set his staff back on the ground with a tap. The cord fastening the fur cloak had been cut, and the cloak fluttered to the ground.

That was not all. The dangling gold necklaces had been severed too and fell in a clattering heap. His trouser cord had also been cut, and his trousers dropped right off.

Everyone watching anxiously went wide-eyed. A mage. He had to be a mage.

No one thought Ricard was a swordsman. They thought he was a real mage.

The man who had arrived at the head of his followers stared down at his own hairy bare legs for a long while.

Quietly pulling his trousers up, he said, "I'm sorry for interrupting your meal."

Then he turned around and went back the way he had come, holding up his trousers. His men hastily gathered the fallen cloak and necklaces and followed.

Around lunchtime, someone else arrived with a group of men. Unlike the morning's visitor, this was a young swordsman in a plain gambeson and cloak, with a sword at his waist.

He had a formidable presence, but to Ricard and Marie, there was little difference.

Everyone else, however, watched with pounding hearts, certain blades would soon be drawn. Hartmann quietly reached toward the place where he had left his axe.

Beside the swordsman stood the man who had come that morning only to have his trouser cord cut. This time, he raised his hand and pointed at Ricard, who was eating. So much for being sorry about interrupting his meal.

But the newly arrived swordsman stared at Ricard and tilted his head. Then his eyes suddenly widened in mild surprise.

"Huh?"

Ricard had not recognized him at first either, but his eyes widened at the familiar face.

"Huh?"

The details did not come to him immediately, but then he remembered. This was an adventurer he had met in Rheinfurt, where he had arrived after leaving home at ten. The leader of Sandy's clan. Blatter, was it?

Having encountered someone utterly unexpected in an utterly unexpected place, Ricard and the other man stared at each other in bewilderment. What were you doing here?