Chapter 90

The autumn of madness passed, and winter came. It had not even been a bad harvest, yet bodies of people who had starved to death lay scattered along the roads.

The frozen corpses of babies were especially heartbreaking. What sin had these infants committed? Could even a god answer that?

But those afflicted by a chronic sense of alienation felt nothing at the sight.

Outlaws. Those who had killed the owners of the lands they lived on had lost their way. Their directionless rage had ultimately driven even them into a dead end.

There was no class struggle, no ideological foundation. They had simply been swept along by the mood, and after committing the deed, they had no idea what to do next.

Spilled water could not be gathered up again. Those who had murdered nobles fled into the mountains, where they banded together and became brigands.

Such outlaws proliferated everywhere, like mold spreading across the world.

A small domain could muster only ten men or so. In truth, they were less an army than a collection of grown men wearing ill-suited battle gear.

A heavily armed knight was said to be a match for a hundred men, but many knightly families had traded swords for hoes in their grandfathers' generation.

Some shut themselves inside their castles to save their own skins. Others were dragged out by the outlaws and slaughtered along with their entire families, their villages laid waste.

Who would punish these people? Before that, whose fault was it?

Sadly, there was no point in debating such things. When a robber thrust a blade in your face, law and justice were rendered powerless with astonishing ease.

Winter passed. Around the time the swallows returned, deep-purple violets bloomed in the fields.

Even so, things did not improve.

The weather was cool in early spring, yet the sun felt unusually fierce.

The hair beneath the man's round-brimmed helmet was already soaked with sweat. Panting in the heat, he screwed up his already wrinkled face.

Clad in a gambeson stuffed with cotton and holding a hooked polearm called a billhook, he stood at the foot of a mountain, looking up.

Brigands gazed down from a crude mountain stockade cobbled together above him.

"Those sons of bitches..."

He must have hated the brigands dearly. He did not simply curse them; he ground the words between his teeth.

"Everyone down?"

"Where's the chief?"

"No one's hurt, right?"

Around the helmeted man, voices sounded as though they were taking stock. They belonged to his companions.

There were seven of them in all. Their equipment was of roughly equal quality, but none of it matched.

Some wore helmets, some did not, and others wore only close-fitting leather or cloth caps called coifs. Their weapons ranged from spears to swords to axes.

That was because they were adventurers, not soldiers.

They had one serious problem: there were fifty brigands. Seven men to wipe them out? Was this a joke?

Of course, killing fifty poorly equipped brigands was possible on level ground. The trouble was that they would not come down from their stockade.

There were too few adventurers to surround it, and the brigands roamed freely under cover of darkness.

What made fighting so hard was less the combat itself than everything that went with it: eating, shitting, sleeping, and standing guard out on the road. It all wore a man down, mentally and physically.

That was especially true when there was no way forward. Once a day, they would all charge up the slope, only to be driven back by a barrage of stones from above.

And thrown stones were no laughing matter. A bad hit from a sling could crush a man's skull and kill him outright.

They did not know why they had to keep doing this, but according to their chief, they had to do at least this much to keep the enemy scared.

"Hey, haven't you fixed that crossbow yet?"

The clan leader pulled out an arrow with shit and piss smeared over its head and tossed it aside. That was their idea of a poisoned arrow. If one lodged in flesh, infection would make the wound rot away.

Fortunately, the brigands' bows were so crude that their arrows could not pierce armor and reach the flesh beneath.

There was nothing to be done about the smell, though. With practiced ease, the chief scooped up a handful of dirt and rubbed it over the spot.

"Chief, I think we'll have to take this to a bowyer. This cog won't lock in place."

The clan's sole crossbowman spoke. Fucking thing had broken after five shots. Worse, not one of those shots had hit anyone. Was the crossbowman incompetent, or was the crossbow a piece of junk?

"Can't you just pull it back by hand?"

"I told you, it won't lock."

"No, just hold it and let go."

"How would that even work?"

"Ah, fuck it. Let's eat, boys."

At the clan leader's order, several men dragged their weary bodies over to fetch a large cauldron. They filled it with water, tossed in whatever ingredients they had, and put it on to boil.

Once the nameless concoction—some sort of soup or broth—began bubbling vigorously, the adventurers ladled it into wooden bowls of dubious cleanliness.

Then they set down their weapons, took off their helmets, and sprawled on the ground to gulp it down or eat with their hands. Naturally, no one washed those hands.

Spices were out of the question. All they had to flavor it with were foraged herbs or salt they carried themselves.

One consolation for these weary, hard-pressed men was that the early-spring weather allowed them to cool off quickly. A cool breeze drying their sweat was a pleasure all its own.

"Chief, how long do we have to keep up this shit?"

"Riki's coming, so let's hang in there a little longer."

"I know he's an incredible swordsman, but will his coming change anything? It's not like they'll agree to duel him."

"I don't know. He'll have some way."

"And what if he gets here and doesn't?"

"Then we see who wears out first. What else?"

"Damn it..."

"Hey, we're not giving up. Our reputation is our livelihood. Besides, do you want to lose to scum like that?"

He was a clan leader, after all. He seemed to have his head screwed on better than the ordinary adventurers, who did nothing but grumble.

It was not that he failed to understand their complaints. He was just as frustrated himself; he simply did not show it.

But that was what being the chief meant: keeping everyone moving somehow, coaxing them one moment and shouting them into line the next.

Sometimes, though, battle meant exploiting precisely that sort of thing. Getting under the enemy's skin.

"Hey! You down there!"

Someone shouted from the stockade not far above. The adventurers turned from gulping down their meal to look up.

"We'll give you a gold coin each! Why don't you just leave!?"

Negotiations were common in a stalled fight like this. But the adventurers of the Beringen Guild's Ehrenberg branch were different. They had pride—or perhaps self-respect.

One sprang to his feet and shouted.

"Fuck off, you bastard!"

"Hey! How much do you make!? Why don't you join us!?"

"Is that idiot crazy?"

"Last winter we made gold, gold—how many was it? A fucking lot!"

"Then we'll just kill you and take it all!"

"You fucking bastards! Can't you understand what I'm saying!? Your mothers, your wives...!"

Perhaps because things were not going as he had hoped, the brigand let loose with a torrent of unspeakable abuse.

"You son of a bitch! I'll remember your face!"

"And what are you gonna do about it!? Come up here! Come on, then!"

"Ah, fuck!"

The adventurer ground his teeth, but there was nothing he could do. Just then, someone spoke from beside them.

"What are you all doing?"

They turned to find a blond young man standing there in a red cloak, looking at them blankly. A sword hung at his waist, and plate armor showed beneath the folds of his cloak.

It was a breastplate taken as spoils when the Rubens Guild surrendered. An ancient relic of sorts, it was thin and light, yet offered an absurd degree of protection.

Moreover, it was made of true silver. Not an alloy containing a little of it, but armor made entirely of true silver—something beyond the capabilities of human craftsmen in this age.

Making iron both thin and strong required sufficiently advanced metallurgy. What was more, only a handful of smiths in the entire Empire possessed the skill to work true silver.

Most knights wore mail, as did the high nobility. The breastplate Ricard now wore was therefore nothing short of a wondrous artifact of ancient magic.

People called it "Ruben's Last Pride," with a hint of mockery toward the Rubens Guild. Ruben had founded the guild, and it was he who had originally discovered the armor in ancient ruins.

Ricard, however, found all that gleaming metal embarrassing and covered some of it with something like a surcoat. Purple violets were embroidered on it.

A red cloak, plate armor, and violets had become his visual hallmarks.

It was quite ironic that the men who had ruined his lungs had offered him something capable of protecting his torso perfectly.

"Riki?"

"When did you get here?"

"Just now."

"Uh... well, as you can see, this is where things stand."

The clan leader spoke. The other adventurers, still eating, remained seated on the ground and stared up at Ricard.

"Got any ideas?"

"Give me a moment."

Ricard gazed up at the stockade. After a brief inspection, he borrowed a heater shield from one of the adventurers. He adjusted the leather straps, secured it firmly to his forearm, and said,

"I think I can break down a gate like that. Once I do, all of you come up. You'll need to be quick."

"Break it down? That thing? Without a log?"

Crude though the gate might be, it was not flimsy enough for one man to break through.

They would need several men working together to ram it with a log sharpened at the end. With their current numbers, that would be difficult.

"As soon as you're finished here, gather in Ehrenberg. An official notice came from the Imperial Guild Bureau. In the name of the Count Palatine of Kelbron."

Kelbron was the domain of Helauman, the Emperor's champion. High-ranking lords were generally addressed by their titles rather than their names.

"What sort of notice?"

"Ask Volka for the details. It seemed to be about the campaign against the church."

"How much are they paying?"

"I don't know. Finish eating and get ready."

With that, Ricard headed up toward the stockade alone. The brigands who had been shouting insults stared down at him, then began taunting him.

"What are you gonna do? Huh? What are you gonna do?"

"A red cloak? Are you Riki, by any chance? Well, what are you gonna do about it?"

They hurled stones like a pack of monkeys. Ricard did not even hunch over. He kept his back straight, looking up calmly and sidestepping them with small movements.

All the while, he kept climbing toward the stockade. His bad lungs prevented him from running.

"Hey! Your girlfriend was delicious! I fucked her yesterday! She couldn't get enough!"

"You little shit! Think you're untouchable just because you can swing a sword?"

Despite the vicious insults, Ricard was not angry. He knew that every conceivable sort of abuse came out on a battlefield. Reacting to every word would leave him too stressed to fight.

He did, however, make certain to remember their faces.

Most of the brigands threw their stones by hand. Some missed completely, while others were quite accurate and vicious. A few used slings.

Ricard dodged what he could and blocked the rest with his shield.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

Since he evaded or blocked everything, his climb never faltered. At last he reached the gate. As the brigands looked down from above, he drew on Ilya's strength and kicked it with all his might.

BANG!

"Hey, you moron! You think that'll do anything!?"

BOOM!

"Hey, bring a spear!"

The stockade was not as high as a castle wall. A spear thrust down from above could reach him.

But before anyone could fetch one, an unsettling sound rang out.

BANG! CRACK!

There was an unmistakable crunch of wood breaking. The whole gate had not shattered in a single blow. The wooden plank barring it from behind had partially snapped.

For an instant, the brigands wondered if he might actually do it, then reassured themselves that no, surely he could not.

But Ricard drew his sword and sliced through the ropes binding the timbers tightly together. After cutting several, he gave the weakened gate one final, powerful kick.

BANG! CRUNCH!

One half of the gate swung open, splintered and half-destroyed. With the bar now completely broken, he simply pushed the other half open.

Ricard looked back and shouted to the adventurers.

"Now! Come up!"

But the adventurers, who had watched everything from below, were just as stunned as the brigands. They merely blinked their wide eyes.

At least the clan leader snapped out of it, hurriedly gathered his equipment, and started up the mountain.

"Let's go!"

Ricard steadied his slightly labored breathing, then walked slowly into the stockade. Looking at the brigands still clinging to the palisade, he addressed one of them.

"What was that about my girlfriend?"

"I heard she was... beautiful... I was just saying things..."

Ricard gave a humorless laugh. Excuses at this point would not earn the man mercy. Dragging Marie into it was one thing, but Ricard also knew what these brigands had done last autumn and winter.

They had ravaged villages and killed even innocent children simply for being nobles. And they had not merely killed. They had committed atrocities too unspeakable to describe without a moment's hesitation.

So he had no choice but to kill them. It was his job, too.

Ricard beckoned the man who had insulted him with a curl of his fingers. Perhaps realizing escape was impossible, the brigand stepped forward with surprising obedience.

"Ha, haha, how could someone like me ever do anything to you, sir..."

Just as he tried to offer an excuse, the sword in Ricard's right hand flashed horizontally from left to right.

The brigand flinched. Then his cleanly severed head slowly tilted to one side.

Only then did the other brigands' hair stand on end. At that moment, the adventurers arrived, seething with pent-up anger.

A massacre followed.

The eight men, including Ricard, stabbed and slashed their way through roughly thirty brigands. The rest fled, leaving the stockade awash in blood.

Even a one-sided slaughter was physically exhausting. Once it was over, the adventurers removed their helmets and wiped their faces, smeared with sweat and blood. Then they sank to the ground, panting for breath.

After resting for a while, they searched the stockade. Fortunately or unfortunately, there were no captives to be seen—only food beginning to rot and valuables such as silverware.

Those would fetch a decent sum, but divided among everyone, it would not amount to much.

The clan leader turned to ask Ricard how they should divide the spoils, but he was nowhere to be seen.

"Where'd Riki go?"

"He left a little while ago."

The clan leader blinked, then climbed onto the palisade and looked down. Ricard had already reached the foot of the mountain and was walking away alone at an unhurried pace. His cloak fluttered slightly whenever the wind blew.

Something about that calm, cool figure sent an inexplicable thrill through the clan leader.

Perhaps the pride he and his companions felt came from belonging to the same branch as Ricard.

When someone acted differently, and looked admirable doing it, those watching could not help wanting to follow that example.

Ricard did not preach justice. But he had a basic standard of decency. Even when the world went mad, that standard never wavered.

Above all, he was strong. With him at their side, defeat never seemed likely. However hard things became, they could cling to the hope that if they held on, it would somehow work out.

Whether Ricard intended it or not, that was how his fellow adventurers felt. And they believed in him. Because, as he had just shown them, things really did work out that way.

Of all the branches, Ehrenberg had the highest participation rate in the campaign against the Church of Judgment.