Chapter 127

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The rhythmic ringing of hammers on metal filled the place. Steel was born in flame, then shed tears as it cooled to become complete.

Yet in one corner of the smithy, someone was shaping wood rather than iron. The hulking Molty carefully worked the wood over and over with his rough, clumsy-looking hands, tested its weight by feel, then worked it some more. First he whittled it with a carving knife, then sanded it, and finally polished it smooth with a leather strap.

Watching beside him, Ricard thought there could hardly be anything left to do, but Molty spent another hour on it. His gaze was so intent that Ricard did not dare interrupt. At last, he fitted the guard onto the sword, attached the wood, and heated it over the fire to secure it. Finally, he wound thin straw cord tightly around it to finish the grip.

"Want to give it a try?"

Ricard took the sword. He had been thinking he could simply get used to whatever weight it had, but the moment he lifted it, he understood why Molty had put so much time and care into it. The grip nestled perfectly into his hand, and the balance was flawless. He had never even known a sword could feel like this.

"Wow. I've never felt anything like this. It's perfect. You know it better than its owner does."

"Glad to hear it."

Ricard reached inside his clothes for money, but Molty shook his head and held out a hand to stop him.

"You paid me a long time ago."

"When?"

"When you saved my life, of course."

Back when he was an academy student, Ricard had gone to assist with a commission to track down deserters. They had been caught in an unexpected ambush, and he had saved Molty. Thanks to him, Molty had survived, married Lara, and already had two children.

"... Oh, right. I'd forgotten. Isn't this a bit cheap for a life, though?"

Ricard grinned teasingly, and a broad smile spread across Molty's usually impassive face. Molty wiped his neck and hands with a towel already dirty from repeated use, then spoke.

"I'll talk to the boss. Can't promise anything, though."

By the boss, Molty meant the blacksmith who had given Ricard his meteoric-iron sword. He had developed cataracts and could no longer work, so Molty was running the smithy in his place. What he meant to discuss with him concerned Nord mercenaries.

Many of the Nords who had settled in Beringen had assimilated into the Empire over the generations, their ancient berserker blood growing thin. But there were new arrivals as well. The blacksmith was one of them, and he had connections with Nord mercenaries. If those talks went well and he actually sent some Nord mercenaries, it would be an enormous help—far more than repayment for a life.

"I ought to visit and pay my respects, but I broke his sword. I'm a little ashamed to face him."

"No. Considering everything you accomplished with it, the boss should feel honored. Money matters, but for a true blacksmith, there's no greater honor than seeing his weapon in the hands of a worthy owner. You'll do great things yet, Riki. I know it."

"Great things? Hardly."

Embarrassed, Ricard turned his head with a quiet chuckle. He did vaguely remember what the blacksmith had said.

["A hero needs a weapon worthy of him. The glorious deeds you accomplish with it will be my payment."]

Cataracts. What a shame. But wasn't that simply how life went? And Ricard doubted that something like cataracts could keep that man down.

"I'd better go."

"All right. Make sure you win."

With a new hilt and scabbard, Ricard buckled his sword to his waist and left the smithy. He untied the horse waiting outside, mounted, and rode off as his old friend saw him off.

He now had the funds he needed immediately, along with information about mercenaries. Things had gone better than expected, but there was still much to do. The Order of Flame was stationed on the Empire's far southwestern border, so he would have to take a ship to reach it, or try visiting a branch. First, he would return to Adelivari, explain his plans to Marie, Bori, and the others, and offer them some reassurance before leaving for a while.

He rode swiftly out of Beringen, his heart full yet light enough to soar. His friends' unstinting support made him feel that he had not lived his life badly after all. With the cool wind blowing against his face, he could not help smiling.

As he approached the border between Beringen and Adelorn, villages came into view along the road. The people were doggedly rebuilding their shattered, burned homes, somehow carrying on with their harsh lives. Terrible misfortune had befallen them, but their return to the villages suggested that, fortunately, the mercenaries who had roamed like packs of jackals were gone.

He approached a small group of spear-bearing soldiers guarding the road—they had not come to greet him—and asked,

"What became of the mercenaries?"

"Most fled across the Ern River. They were too widely scattered for us to kill them all."

They might move elsewhere and cause more harm, but this was as much as Ricard could do. Still, bands of defeated soldiers naturally melted away with time. After that, each man would follow his own fate, whether becoming a wandering criminal or returning home to spend his days beating his family. Every bit of it was their own choice. There was no need to blame the goddess of fate.

Ricard rode on, his red cloak streaming behind him. A man coming the other way with an oxcart spotted him, stepped aside, and knelt, removing his head covering and bowing low. Ricard was about to tell him not to, but stopped himself. Instead, he hurried past in embarrassment and rode toward the pass.

CLOP-CLOP. CLOP-CLOP. CLOP-CLOP. CLOP-CLOP.

Beyond the pass, Adelivari spread out before him. It was the most beautiful city he had ever visited. In harmony with the surrounding landscape, it seemed like another world, untouched by the war. Yet it was also effectively the last intact city in the kingdom.

When Ricard reached the gate, a soldier recognized his red cloak and face and opened it without being asked. Inside, people going about their daily business saw him and dropped to their knees, bowing their heads. Men and women alike did so, and the children watched the adults and naturally followed suit.

Markwin, apparently passing by, bowed his head a short distance away. Ricard rode over and dismounted.

"Why is everyone doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Why are they paying me the respects due a king?"

"Because you fought a mighty enemy to save and protect them, champion."

"I didn't do it for rewards or special treatment."

"And that is all the more reason for them to bow."

"Why?"

"Had you merely coveted the throne, you would have used them as tools. Instead, you treated them as your people."

"... I did? Well, I don't know about that. In any case, I have things to discuss. Come with me, Mayor."

Ricard had been born a noble, but he had never ruled over anyone. In Stormhertz, nobles and commoners had simply gotten along. He had called himself one who saw beyond dreams, so the things other people coveted only made him uncomfortable.

He entered the secondary palace and headed for the office, where he found Bori scribbling on a document.

"Where's Marie?"

"Probably in the armory or with the women. Roy's practicing with an axe."

"Is that so? Mayor, would you summon Marie, Lester, Harbert, and Bremen? I have something to discuss."

"Of course. And please, there is no need to address me so respectfully."

"You don't need to treat me that way too, Mayor. Neither of us is above the other. If I fail, or if I'm not making satisfactory progress, govern this place as you always have. We'll leave."

"That will not happen. If you leave, champion, you will be abandoning us. Where can sheep go without their shepherd? Their eyesight is so poor that they will walk straight over a precipice without even knowing it is there. We are already prepared to die, so please do not speak that way."

"... Honestly. Just fetch the others, please."

"Understood."

After Markwin left, Ricard looked at Bori, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged as if to say he had no idea either.

A little while later, Marie arrived first, followed by Bremen and Roy. Lester and Harbert came into the office together. Roy had not needed to come, but he joined them anyway. He must have been training hard, for he was drenched in sweat, his clothes soaked through. Ricard fetched a towel and playfully wiped his pupil down. Then he turned to the others and gave them something of a progress report.

"Carly's agreed to lend us money. A thousand gold coins, to be repaid in installments starting five years from now. Oh, Carly is the headmaster of Beringen Academy, and a friend of mine. He's also agreed to put out inquiries for mercenaries who attended the academy, and Molty said he'd look into Nord mercenaries. In the meantime, I'm going to see whether the Order of Flame can help."

"Huh? The Order of Flame?"

Marie, who had been listening quietly, tilted her head. She had certainly heard of the order; its name was practically synonymous with the world's strongest shock troops. But it seemed an odd suggestion in their present circumstances. They were so far away, too.

"My second brother is a member. I'll ride to a branch first, and if I need to go to headquarters, I'll take a ship. We'll launch our attack as soon as we can assemble a force. My goal is to crush Grantz before the year is out and end the war sometime next year. Carly may be lending us money, but it won't last us long."

"You told me your brother was in the order, Riki. I know that. But they're so far away."

Apart from the eastern frontier, Adelorn lay at the Empire's easternmost edge, while the Order of Flame's headquarters stood at its southwestern tip. The journey depended on how many fresh horses one could obtain along the way, but even on horseback, it generally took a month. That, however, was strictly by land.

"Three days to the port, then three days by ship to Sinatria. I think it's worth a try."

"You need the right timing to take a ship. You can't just board one whenever you like. Sometimes you might have to wait a month. The wind has to allow it, and if it doesn't blow the right way, you could end up somewhere entirely different."

Bremen, who knew the Empire's geography well, offered the warning.

"If it looks like that's going to happen, I'll just come back. Anyway, what's the enemy doing?"

Ricard directed the question to Lester, the leader of the rangers.

"They're gathering the remnants of the force they sent to strike our rear."

"They probably number around seven thousand now. And according to our latest intelligence, they may return to the capital to regroup. They must be concerned about the other warlord factions in the kingdom as well."

Lester answered first, followed by Markwin, who seemed to be conducting intelligence work of his own.

"Then we have plenty of time. While I'm gone, keep doing what you've been doing. If you need orders, follow Marie."

When a husband went off to war, it was customary for the lady of the house to defend the domain. Besides, Marie was a Sword Master in her own right, to say nothing of her status. However much she disliked it, she was still the previous emperor's daughter.

"Hmm... But you're not leaving right this moment, are you? Right?"

Something about Marie's question struck Ricard as odd.

"... No, I'm not."

"Then I'm fine with it."

Once Marie agreed, there was nothing for anyone else to object to. With their broad plans settled, Ricard rested for three days before setting out again.

Though whether he had truly rested was debatable: his face looked half its former size. Marie's skin, by contrast, gleamed like flawless porcelain.

"I-I'll be back."

"Take care of yourself. And don't push too hard, all right?"

"Yeah."

Ricard hastily gave Marie a light kiss, mounted his horse, and left Adelivari as though fleeing. It seemed he had one more reason to finish the war quickly. No matter how busy he was, there were still certain things he had to do.