Chapter 111

* * *

There was scarcely any grass on the mountain pass, only a profusion of broken stones. Had this been a quarry once? Who knew. Whatever the reason, every crunching footstep sounded unusually clear.

The three swordsmen subtly spread out. They evidently intended to surround Ricard, while keeping a wary eye on his companions in the distance.

But Ricard had no reason to wait for them. He swung before they could get into position.

His burning sword struck left, then immediately slashed down to the right. The enemy on his left lost his head; the one on his right lost both arms. It happened in an instant, like a sudden burst of sparks.

The man in the middle rapidly retreated. Ricard's gaze tracked him precisely.

Now well clear, the man's face froze in shock at what had happened in the blink of an eye.

The fact that he had retreated in that fleeting instant proved he was no ordinary swordsman. In combat, however, skill was always relative.

"You..."

"Let's spare each other the trouble."

As he spoke, Ricard swept his sword out one-handed, finishing off the man writhing in agony with both arms severed.

Two corpses lay in pools of blood spreading over the mountain's dry gravel. Not a drop stained the blade. Only sacred flames burned upon it.

This was nothing like a Sword Master's characteristic soft glow. Ricard's sword blazed with golden fire. The enemy who saw it with his own eyes was left speechless. What was that?

CRUNCH.

Ricard took a step forward to finish the job. The survivor immediately turned and fled.

Ricard ran after him to kill him, but instead of fleeing along the pass, the man suddenly hurled himself off the cliff. What? Was he trying to kill himself?

Standing at the cliff's edge, Ricard looked down. His quarry's cloak fluttered like a bird's wings as he lightly touched down on an outcrop and leaped again.

Ricard was astonished. Even so, he snatched up a stone at his feet and hurled it at the fleeing man with all his strength.

After lightly stepping on another couple of rocky projections in his escape, the enemy looked back.

He twisted frantically to dodge the stone already before his eyes, so Ricard's throw struck only his shoulder.

"Aagh!"

He fell with a short scream. But he was already most of the way down the cliff, and the fall did not kill him.

He staggered to his feet, glanced up at Ricard watching from the cliff above, then limped away, one arm dangling limply.

Ricard stared after him in bewilderment. What had that movement been? He had truly seemed to fly like a bird. Was that possible for a human body?

Even Ricard could not perform such a stunt, so he had no choice but to let him escape. The enemy disappeared into a nearby forest.

"What an idiot. Jumping off a cliff."

Marie's voice came from behind him.

He turned to find her collecting two swords from the dead men. Neither weapon had been put to any real use against Ricard, leaving them practically as good as new.

"No, he survived."

"Huh?"

"He flew like some kind of bird, then just walked away. I did hit his shoulder with a stone, though."

"No way. Stop joking."

Marie approached him incredulously and stood beside him to look down. It was no bottomless precipice, but it was certainly high enough to kill someone who fell.

Yet the corpse that should have been there was nowhere to be seen. Ricard and Marie exchanged baffled looks. How peculiar.

Still dazed, Ricard returned to the others and explained what had happened. Marie gave Becca and Roy the two swords she had taken from the dead men.

"As you saw, I killed two, but one escaped alive. If he brings back his allies, things could get dangerous. What would you like to do?"

"They didn't look like ordinary bandits. Did they say who they were or where they came from?" Bremen asked.

"The Rubens clan. Have you heard of them?"

Ricard knew them well enough, but he knew nothing of their recent affairs. The Viola clan had changed considerably in four years; perhaps they had changed too.

Bremen's face darkened at the mention of the Rubens clan.

"... Oh dear."

"What's wrong?"

"Every clan operates differently. As you know, the Viola clan doesn't prey on ordinary folk and tends to conduct itself with restraint. But Rubens will do anything for money and influence. They buy and sell people, run brothels and gambling dens, and dabble in assassination and usury. No one who interferes with their business survives. Not even nobles."

It sounded as though they had practically turned into a thieves' guild. Calling them a clan was hardly appropriate anymore. Of course, these were their underworld activities, but if Bremen knew about them, anyone reasonably informed probably did too.

In truth, it was a matter of choice: how to use the force at one's disposal. When the imperial household had stood firm, they had maintained some semblance of propriety. Now they seemed to do whatever they pleased, like dogs let off their leashes.

"Then once we cross this pass, we'll probably be within their sphere of influence?" Marie asked.

"No. We already are."

"..."

"We could take a detour toward Beringen, but that would take a week. That road isn't safe either. If we're going to retreat, we'll have to go back the way we came."

"Or do the opposite and get through as quickly as possible."

"Precisely."

It was one or the other. Retreat or advance. As always, the choice lay between those two.

People said one had to know when to advance and when to retreat. Life would be so easy if one knew. Not knowing was the problem.

Then Hartmann spoke. For the first time, the man who ordinarily followed Bremen's and Ricard's judgment offered his own.

"Let's go on. If danger comes, I'll protect my family. You and your wife can fight the enemy without worrying about us."

Hartmann knew that Ricard and Marie could kill practically any enemy they encountered.

If the two of them had been alone, this would not have been a concern. They were hesitating because of his family, and he did not want to be a burden.

Ricard hesitated over whether to accept the sentiment.

"I can fight too. I won't hold you back, Master."

"Me neither."

Roy and Becca had spoken up.

Learning a little exercise or martial arts naturally gave people confidence. The children seemed no different. They also looked rather excited to have real swords.

His pupil's words brought a smile to Ricard's lips. He roughly ruffled Roy's hair.

"Don't get cocky. Stay behind your father."

"I have my concerns, but if you've made up your minds, I'll go along."

"We should be prepared, but nothing may happen. They seemed to have something else urgent to attend to. They said they were looking for a friend of mine."

"Hmm?"

Ricard turned to Marie.

"They said Bori stole their clan's secret manual."

"What?"

"If Bori did it, he must have had a reason."

"That's true."

"Well, it sounds as though we've decided. Let's not waste any time."

In the end, Ricard and his companions crossed the pass. Walking downhill was easy on their feet, but an undercurrent of unease remained.

They were traveling through a region in the southeastern Empire called Pasina. It was a basin filled with rivers, lakes, and cool, dense forests. With little flat land, it was poorly suited to farming.

Numerous oddly shaped rocky mountains jutted up from the landscape, combining with the forests to create a magnificent view.

The party followed a river along the forest's edge. From deep among the trees came the sound of a woodpecker.

The river was little more than a shallow stream, but its water was clear enough to reveal the bottom. At the sight of people, minnows darted beneath fallen leaves and into gaps between stones.

After following the river for about half a day, they spotted a mass of crows gathered on the bank. As the party approached, some flew off with fluttering wings, while others merely moved aside to watch without going far.

As the curtain of crows parted, it revealed corpses, just as expected. There were fifteen or so, not one with its head and limbs all properly attached. Judging by the decay and damage done by animals, they had been dead only a few days. It was difficult to determine what had killed them.

"At least we know it wasn't wild beasts. They've all been stripped. There aren't any tools or belongings around either," Ricard said.

They had been killed and robbed of everything. These were the typical traces of a robbery, not a personal grudge.

"Pasina also suffered severe peasant uprisings. And the Kingdom of Adelorn is right next door. All those starving refugees and mercenaries... I can make a fair guess."

In short, this was a lawless region with no administration or control whatsoever. The problem was not the Rubens clan, but the outlaws. Rubens was merely one group among them.

Should they have taken another road? No, it would be much the same anywhere. The road one traveled oneself was simply always the hardest.

Hartmann's family neither trembled nor showed much fear at the corpses. They had seen plenty before. They simply took full stock of the danger they were now in.

The party replenished their water upstream from the bodies and continued on. The curtain of crows covered the ugly sight once more.

After another half day's walk along the river, they came upon a town. A town in a place like this seemed improbable, but it was effectively a town of criminals.

It had no walls, not even a proper palisade, and most of its buildings were wooden. The whole place looked hastily thrown together.

Fugitives, vagrants, thieves, robbers, thugs, mercenaries—it seemed to have gathered every disreputable sort in the world.

Surprisingly, people did business even here. They mainly dealt in stolen goods, sold liquor, or worked as pimps.

One might wonder what a place like this could possibly have, but it was astonishingly rich in goods. Plunder from far and wide, that is.

For all its apparent lawlessness, the place had rules of its own. Some parts were filthy, while others were remarkably clean. Here, the rich were kings, and money was god.

"It feels as though we've reached the gates of hell," Bremen said.

He had not traveled this way since his mercenary days long ago, and apparently had not known how much it had changed.

Pitching a tent here looked extremely dangerous, so the party searched for a suitable inn. Anyone operating an inn in a place like this must offer some measure of security. Some measure, of course—not complete safety.

There was no real need to search, however. There was only one inn.

It was an enormous building that looked like a greatly enlarged Nord longhouse, and nowhere else offered lodging.

It had several entrances, all bustling with people coming and going. Around them lay people who were drunk or had been beaten, sprawled out with nothing left to hope for but death.

There were so many different sorts here that no one paid the party any attention.

Unsure whether they ought to enter or what else to do, they went inside. As expected, it was packed and raucous. Drinking, singing, shouting—it was utter chaos.

An impromptu fighting ring had formed off to one side. No one tried to stop the fistfights. They placed bets instead, and anyone who lost consciousness was simply tossed outside. Who gave a damn whether they died?

A long charcoal brazier stood in the middle, with flat stones and iron plates laid over it. People were grilling anything and everything on top. Mostly meat, vegetables, and fruit, though some things were utterly unidentifiable.

There were no dedicated staff. Everyone tended the coals and fetched their own food.

Appetizing aromas mingled with revolting odors until the mixture made their heads spin.

Toward the back of the building stood something like a bar, and the people gathered there had a different air about them. They looked relaxed—like the group that ran this place, one might say.

Ricard and his companions struggled through the crowd toward them, drawing their weapons close against their bodies just in case.

Taking the lead, Ricard approached the people near the bar.

"Who's the proprietor here?"

"..."

The people sipping drinks and playing cards turned to look at him. No one answered.

"Do you have a room for seven?" Ricard asked again.

This time, a man with narrow eyes answered.

"Then you should've asked that. Why ask for the proprietor? Run your mouth around here and you could get seriously hurt."

"I'll look after myself. Mind how you speak to me."

"Hah. Think you're good with a sword, do you?"

"Good enough to protect myself. Just tell me the price."

"Let's see... Those people behind you are with you? Oh, what's this? One of them's a real beauty. The other bitch looks decent enough. The kids' mother? Lend us the two bitches for three days and you can have the room for free."

"..."

Hartmann gripped his cloth-wrapped axe. But as though he had eyes in the back of his head, Ricard raised a hand to stop him without turning around.

Thugs always liked to needle people and watch their reactions. Like sharks nudging an unfamiliar creature to investigate it, they tested whether a man would bow or stand firm, whether he would be easy prey.

But Ricard came from a knightly family, and he could not tolerate an insult. This was not an inability to control his temper. It was simply the accepted code of conduct. When someone insulted him, risking his life to punish them and defend his honor was practically a duty.

Insulting Marie to his face, in particular, was tantamount to declaring oneself his mortal enemy.

"Ooh, boys, look at this one. Looks ready to draw his sword!"

Under Ricard's icy glare, the narrow-eyed man turned to address his companions. The men around him scowled and glared at Ricard.

First they provoked with words, then intimidated with force. Most ordinary people lost their composure at this point. They would smile and laugh ingratiatingly, stand there in helpless silence, or leave.

Ricard did none of the three. He neither smiled ingratiatingly nor left, and he certainly was not at a loss for words.

"One more word and I'll kill you."

Nothing else needed saying. That was all. Unlike his opponent's endless, meandering taunts, his words carried one unmistakable meaning.

The atmosphere shifted. The vast building remained noisy, but silence settled around Ricard.

Marie, who had already sensed what was coming, moved the children back. With glances and gestures, she gave instructions to Bremen and Hartmann. If necessary, they would fight with their backs to a wall or get outside.

Now that Ricard had come on so strongly, the narrow-eyed man had to choose: back down a little, or keep pushing. He felt the pressure too.

His mind raced. He needed something that would preserve his pride while only half provoking the man. He could not take too long, either. That would make him look scared.

Feigning nonchalance, he thought furiously for a brief moment. This was what he came up with.

"... Word."

WHOOSH! THWACK!

The instant the word left his lips, something flashed. Half the narrow-eyed man's skull was sliced away. His tongue and lower teeth were exposed to the world.

His body still held its pose, one arm resting on the bar. Even with half his skull gone, he toppled slowly to one side.

The scabbard at Ricard's hip was empty. Only when the man hit the floor with a thud and began bleeding across it did his companions realize that Ricard held a drawn sword.

"Y-you bastard...!"

"Boys! He's got Rett!"

The others belatedly realized what had happened, their eyes widening. They scrambled for weapons or made to attack Ricard. Unable to face him head-on, they seemed intent on surrounding him first.

But his sword flashed like lightning, and several men spurted blood from their throats at once. Despite their different heights and their different distances from him.

Without stopping, Ricard vaulted onto the bar, sword in hand. His red cloak billowed, and food and drink came crashing down.

He kicked a wooden bowl hard. It shot away with a crack and struck someone on the crown of the head. At the same time, he lowered his stance and swept his sword left and right. With every swing, three or four men crumpled.

It was like watching magic. No one had seen him draw, no one could see his swings, and not even a scream was heard as people fell, spraying blood.

Only then did his enemies recoil in terror. Some sank to the floor; others were driven back to the walls. They stared up at Ricard with shocked eyes.

Standing atop the bar, Ricard sensed that something had changed. He looked around to see what it was. Silence.

The interior of the building, several times larger than a longhouse, had fallen deathly quiet. Only moments ago, it had been as noisy as a marketplace.

Everyone was looking at Ricard, as though watching an actor onstage.

Ricard addressed his audience. He did not need to shout for them all to hear.

"I asked who runs this place."

A door behind the bar opened, and someone emerged. Ricard turned toward him. The man looked up at Ricard, and their eyes met.

After a brief silence, the man spoke.

"Uh... this place doesn't really have an owner, you know? Only the strongest person here gets to stay in this back room, and for the moment, that happens to be me."

Ricard was both dumbfounded and bewildered. He kept letting out incredulous chuckles.

Because the man claiming to be the strongest was none other than Bori.