Chapter 116

Rain fell in a steady drizzle. It soaked the plants and the earth, and seemed to seep into their hearts as well.

Ricard and his companions took shelter in the forest. Beneath a broad slab of rock that jutted out like an eave, they lit a fire in a shallow hollow.

The damp weather could make vegetables such as potatoes and carrots sprout, so they needed to eat them quickly. They roasted whatever they had and ate it all.

Elia and Becca quietly sewed, Ricard and his friends quietly tended their swords, Bremen quietly watched the rain, and Roy simply sat in silence.

Sadly, they could no longer be called the Hartmann family. Roy was the only male left among them.

A somewhat heavy silence hung over them, but Hartmann’s wife and children had not allowed grief to consume them. That was partly because they were strong, but in truth, they had no time to spare for it.

Life went on, and reality was cruel.

That did not mean his death had been meaningless. It had affected everyone who had known him in some way, and left something with each of them.

The sound of the rain and the crackle of the fire filled the space he had left behind.

Then Elia suddenly spoke as she sewed.

“I was fifteen. One morning, I woke to find a flower on my windowsill. I didn’t know what it was. It had bright red petals and yellow stamens. I asked my mother, and she told me it was a camellia.”

She seemed to be recounting an old memory, and everyone listened.

“Every morning that cold winter, without a single day missed, there was a camellia on my windowsill. I was so curious about who was leaving them that I decided to stay up all night, but I never managed it. Whenever I woke, there would be a camellia on the windowsill, just as always.”

“Was Father leaving them there?”

Becca asked with shining eyes. But the answer was unexpected.

“No. When I was young, I was very popular with the men in the village. It wasn’t just one person leaving the camellias. I suppose you could call it a village tradition—a way of expressing your feelings.”

“... Oh, come on.”

“But your father was the only one who didn’t bring me flowers. That made me curious. I was the one who made the first move. When the camellia flowers fell and the fruit formed, I pressed the seeds for oil. And I gave it to your father.”

“Is it fashionable for women to make the first move these days? She chased after him too. You got rejected a few times, didn’t you?”

Bori had suddenly chimed in. Marie’s face turned scarlet, and she glared at him as though she wanted to kill him.

“Why would you bring that up now?”

“Well, I just remembered it while I was listening...”

Overcome with embarrassment, Marie made to attack Bori as though she meant to tear him apart. Ricard hurriedly held her back.

“But your husband treats you well now, doesn’t he?”

Elia addressed Marie. Getting together might have been a struggle, but once they had, Ricard had cherished and loved her with all his heart.

Anyone traveling alongside them could see it. On the surface, they were a married couple who acted like friends, but a closer look revealed their deep affection.

Elia turned back to Roy.

“Your father gave me everything. He devoted everything to me. The day bandits attacked our village, he protected me instead of his family. That’s why I was happy through every hardship, so long as I was with him. He was the best of men. And the best of men always has the best of women by his side. I hope you’ll become the best of men too, Roy.”

There seemed to be a hint of playfulness in calling herself the best of women; Elia smiled and raised her eyebrows as she said it.

Was she trying to put on a cheerful face for her children while riddled with grief herself? Or had she buried that grief in her heart and found the strength to look ahead again?

“Roy, I don’t resent you for defending the friend who framed you, even if it wasn’t the wisest choice. The path of staying true to what’s right is always difficult. I’ll always be cheering you on. Whatever happens, I’m on my son’s side. Because one day, you’ll be the best of men, like your father, and a wonderful man, like your teacher.”

Whether she was the best of women was hard to say, but she certainly seemed to be the best of mothers.

Roy did not cry. He merely bowed his head, as though lost in thought—or making a promise to himself.

“Thank you, Mother.”

Something about the boy seemed to have changed since he lost his father. He seemed to have much on his mind, and in some way, he resembled his taciturn father.

The rain fell. Their hearts were soaked too. But they were by no means miserable. The living remembered the dead and accepted the lives that remained to them.

Once the rain stopped, the party set off again. The eastern frontier had now become a goal. They even seemed determined to create salvation with their own hands if none awaited them there.

Roy now carried the heavy load his father had borne. It was an enormous burden for a ten-year-old, but he stubbornly refused Ricard’s offers to carry it and shouldered it himself.

All Ricard could do was stop frequently to rest and think about how he would teach the boy to use an axe.

Roy wanted an axe rather than a sword. Part of it was his desire to carry on his father’s will, but he had also shown a surprisingly remarkable talent for it.

An axe was an everyday tool, familiar to many hands, but it was by no means an easy weapon to use in combat.

Its striking surface was very limited, so a missed blow could prove fatal.

Yet Roy wielded his axe exceptionally well. His strikes were accurate, but even when he missed, he could draw it back, change its angle, and use its centrifugal force with a natural ease.

Though he was only a child, the destructive power he unleashed every so often could not be ignored.

Another teacher might have dissuaded or scolded a pupil for choosing a weapon other than a sword, or given up on teaching him altogether. Not Ricard.

As he had shown with Bori, he was quick to grasp the essence of things even when he did not understand them.

In fact, Bori’s early swordsmanship, which resembled writing letters, had been so bizarre that an ordinary teacher would surely have forbidden it.

But Ricard had actively encouraged him and helped him find his own path. Roy’s case was much the same.

Whether one used an axe or a sword, wasn’t the ultimate aim to fight and kill the enemy? An axe simply had its own strengths and weaknesses, just as a sword did.

Still, if Roy reached that level, would he become an Axe Master rather than a Sword Master? Had there ever been one before?

“Over that pass is the road to Adelivari. We’ll replenish our supplies there, then it’s about a week’s walk to Torweil—the gateway to the eastern frontier. Let’s decide once we reach Adelivari whether to go straight through to Torweil or break up the journey. We can get a feel for the situation there too.”

While Ricard was lost in these thoughts, Bremen spoke, pointing at a distant pass.

It looked more like a gorge than a pass, but it was uphill from where they stood either way.

Beside the road rose sheer formations of flat-topped rock. Even the shape of the land was somewhat unlike the Empire’s other regions. Not that this was unusual for Pasina.

They had almost emerged from the forest when something rustled nearby. They thought it might be a wild animal, but to their surprise, what pushed out through the undergrowth was a green-skinned dwarf.

It stood about as high as an adult’s hips, with sharp teeth, pointed ears, and blood-red eyes. A goblin.

The party’s reaction was closer to bewilderment than alarm. This was something wholly different from an ordinary animal—a monster in the truest sense—and they stared at it as if to ask what on earth it was.

“Kieeeek!”

The goblin was the one that was startled. It let out a hideous shriek and hurried back into the forest. Perhaps because it was in such a rush, it ran on all fours.

“Did you see that?”

Bori looked at his friends. Anyone with eyes had obviously seen it, but he seemed to want to share his astonishment.

“Wandering goblins are spotted from time to time. I don’t think there’s much cause for concern.”

Bremen sounded as though he was trying to reassure them.

Ricard saw things a little differently. He had often encountered monsters back before this had become the eastern frontier, when it was still the eastern “expeditionary front.” He knew something of their habits.

The barbarians had even tamed trolls and used them in battle. But taming them involved far more than luring them with food or beating them.

They captured young trolls and drove thick iron spikes into their bodies, nailed iron masks to their faces, or cut off their arms and attached chains. Only after subjecting them to something worse than torture over a long period could they barely manage to control them.

In any case, Ricard considered the encounter with the goblin an ominous sign.

“No. When you see one or two, you need to wipe them out. Like ants or cockroaches. Once they begin settling in groups, you won’t be able to touch them later.”

Individually, goblins were nothing much. They were less threatening than wolves, hardly deserving the name of monster.

But once they dug their burrows, gathered in groups, and eventually established kingdoms of their own, humans could no longer eradicate them, no matter what they tried.

They usually settled in forests, making the terrain difficult, and they knew how to produce and use crude but deadly weapons and poisons. That made them extremely dangerous.

In short, once they established themselves, the land became unusable to humans.

“But there’s nothing we can do about it now. Isn’t it the turmoil in the world that draws such things in?”

There was a self-mocking note in Bremen’s voice.

Bitter though it was, he was right. Who these days would spend their own money and commit their own troops to exterminating monsters? Everyone was too busy protecting themselves.

“They’ll pay a greater price later.”

Having said that, Ricard walked on in silence.

After a grueling climb to the top of the pass, they were met with a magnificent view. Parallel mountain ranges stretched away to the northwest and southwest, with level land between them. It was like a road made by God.

The plain between the ranges was by no means narrow. Countless streams flowing down from the mountains merged into a broad river that surged onward.

What was more, the moisture left by the previous day’s rain had yet to dry, and sunlight made the entire world glitter. The sight was dizzyingly beautiful.

Yet beneath nature’s magnificent spectacle lay a grim reality. There was a mountain stockade on every peak. They could already make out three flags in the distance.

In other words, each peak had a different master, which meant paying a separate so-called “toll” to each.

“They used to be soldiers serving Adelorn’s border princes. I know a few of them, so let’s go and see them first,” Bremen said.

The plain stretching out like a grand road built by God was the borderland of the Kingdom of Adelorn.

Beginning with a peasant uprising, Adelorn had been embroiled in civil war for several years. According to rumor, more than half the kingdom’s population had died.

There were no statistics, so the exact scale of the losses was impossible to know. But with everyone calling it hell on earth, the rumors did not seem exaggerated.

Taking the refugees into account as well, one could not help wondering whether anyone was left in the kingdom at all.

Mercenaries had flocked there from every corner of the Empire. With no real strategy or tactics and no one with the leadership to rally the people, they had simply killed, been killed, and plundered while the Empire stood by, until things had reached this point.

Now there was nothing left to loot even if they wanted to. They had even dug up the graves and stripped them of every gold tooth and ring.

In any case, the party followed Bremen. Leaving the easy road aside, they took to the ridge. The easy road was, after all, dangerous.

Following the ridge brought them to a mountain stockade above which flew a black flag bearing a wolf. A makeshift gate blocked the road, guarded by soldiers with spears.

As the party approached, the men watched quietly from atop the palisade, though they did not seem particularly on edge.

Bremen stepped forward.

“I served in the Crown Mercenary Company twenty years ago! I fought in the Battle of Rakona, and I’ve come to see an old comrade. Open the gate!”

One of the soldiers gazing down at them from the palisade went off somewhere.

Before long, a veteran with a deeply wrinkled face climbed up onto the palisade. He looked over the party and, sure enough, recognized Bremen at once.

He grinned.

“Well, well, Bremen, you old fool. Mention mercenaries to the wrong person here and you could get yourself killed. Hey, open the gate.”

At the veteran’s command, the gate opened. The party briefly wondered whether this was wise, but they entered the mountain stockade.

The interior was better organized than they had expected. For a hastily constructed fortification, its tactical layout was quite impressive.

The soldiers were not rigorously disciplined, but even the look in their eyes set them apart from run-of-the-mill bandits.

Bremen and the veteran embraced with smiles and exchanged a few rough words of greeting.

“Still working as a guide?”

“Didn’t I tell you? I don’t know how else to make a living anymore.”

“I told you we’d take you in.”

“Fighting at my age would be ridiculous. I’d only hold the young soldiers back.”

“There’s hardly any fighting to speak of. All we do is collect tolls and chase off outsiders.”

Still apparently unwilling, Bremen smiled awkwardly and shook his head. The veteran did not press him further.

“Anyway, did you come through Pasina?”

“We did.”

“Then have you heard the rumor? They say three Sword Masters gave the Rector Mercenary Company a real thrashing. Is it true? Have you heard anything about that?”

The Rector Mercenary Company was the force the Rubens clan had hired. Surprisingly, however, news of the mercenaries’ defeat had spread more widely than the clan’s annihilation.

The destruction of the Rubens clan remained largely a mystery, whereas the mercenaries’ repulse had left plenty of survivors—and was a shocking event in its own right.

By any ordinary measure, the idea of just three people fighting a mercenary company made no sense. One might think Sword Masters could do it, but a fight between swordsmen and a real battle were very different things.

No matter how powerful a shark was at sea, it was helpless on land. Likewise, a fighter’s effectiveness varied with the type of combat, the battlefield situation, and the surroundings.

About four years earlier, the Empire had dispatched two Sword Masters. One had died after being struck by an arrow, while the other had fled without ever taking the field.

So while everyone knew that Sword Masters were formidable, many doubted whether they were any use in a real battle.

Ultimately, battle was a clash between organized groups, and they would use every means available to win.

It was not an honorable contest of sword against sword. Battles involved relying on fortress walls, employing all manner of weapons and troop types—bows, crossbows, spears, knights—and resorting to every underhanded trick imaginable.

Above all, amid the deafening noise and chaos of the battlefield, it was difficult for an individual to distinguish himself through swordsmanship alone.

Used poorly from a tactical standpoint, even a Sword Master was nothing more than a single infantryman who fought well.

At his old comrade’s words, Bremen looked back at Ricard, Marie, and Bori. The veteran’s gaze naturally followed toward Ricard.

No one spoke. After a brief silence, the veteran gave a chuckle.

“Oh, come on. You’re lying.”

There were two questions implicit in his words. Had just three people really defeated the Rector Mercenary Company? And if that had actually happened, were the people standing before him truly the ones responsible?

Someone could at least have introduced themselves, but the silence continued.

“Come on, I said stop pulling my leg.”

Ricard, Marie, and Bori had not said a single word, yet he kept calling them liars.