Chapter 98

The Church of Judgment was no more. Perhaps somewhere in the Empire, believers still clung to their faith like lingering ghosts, but the sanctuary, at least, was gone.

Little was known about what had happened there. Only a handful of people had survived, and they had offered no particular account of the events.

One thing was certain: Helauman, Count Palatine of Kelbron, who had served as commander-in-chief of the extermination campaign, had fallen in battle. His remains were so horrifically mangled that recovering them had proved difficult.

Perhaps it was only right to honor his memory, but circumstances did not permit it. His family quietly dealt with the matter on their own.

The Fifth Prince, Bellator, proclaimed far and wide that he had avenged the late Emperor, as though this had secured his legitimacy as the next Emperor. Yet his efforts had less effect than expected.

Kings, dukes, and margraves were not men to be swayed so easily by symbolism.

They moved only when there were tangible, certain benefits to be gained. That, or when someone had the power to inflict serious losses upon them. Besides, each had his hands full keeping his own vassals in line.

The Second Prince, Lotharius, was still alive. He stood first in the line of succession.

After the Emperor's eldest son died young, his grandson had to become Crown Prince. To keep Lotharius in check, he had been sent away from the imperial capital early on to become a count.

Consequently, he had no political base whatsoever in the capital. Nor had his reclusive life done much for his social skills, leaving him without clear support from his vassals.

Little was known about what sort of man he was. In short, he had little to his name apart from his lawful claim.

The Fifth Prince, by contrast, stood second in line but had a firmly established political faction in the capital. His vassals' support was no more certain than his brother's, but at least he made an effort in public.

The Emperor was elected by those princes who held voting rights. Until now, custom had ensured that, barring exceptional circumstances, the choice always came from the Nibelinger family, the house of the first Emperor. In truth, however, any titled noble was eligible.

In other words, the prince-electors had to gather and hold an election before anyone could become Emperor. With no Crown Prince and the Second and Fifth Princes locked in opposition, no one knew who would be chosen.

Put simply, one of the two princes had to die. Even a man with no ambition for power could not escape that fate if he had been born an Emperor's son.

Outlaws still ran rampant in many parts of the Empire. Some places were utterly peaceful; in others, atrocities occurred every day.

The rebellion in the Kingdom of Adelorn had not been easily quelled either, and the war was dragging on.

That was the world they lived in. Historically speaking, it was nothing unusual. Such unrest was commonplace, recurring whenever people had begun to forget it. For those living through it, however, it was a tragedy.

A strange stability, neither quite peace nor its opposite, persisted for several years. The imperial throne could not remain empty forever, but for the time being, it did.

Amid all this, Ricard and his friends went their separate ways after the campaign against the church. They had not grown apart in their hearts. The paths they wished to follow had simply changed.

Perhaps there was nothing unusual about friends taking different paths as they grew older. Wasn't that how everyone lived?

Volka purchased an unclaimed tract of land somewhere in the east from the imperial household for a modest price. It was granted autonomy, much like the domain of a knightly order or a monastery. A clan domain, perhaps?

In any case, the imperial household provided nothing beyond the land itself. Keeping it safe and bringing its tangled wilderness into order fell entirely to Volka.

A few people followed Volka to the very end, and Boribori went with him.

Boribori finally managed to shed that tiresome epithet, “the Quarterer.” Now people called him “the Black Sword.”

A Sword Master in both name and deed, he became known as the guardian of the Viola clan and a master of the blade.

Drawing on his connections in Ehrenberg, Volka borrowed some things and bought others, stubbornly piecing together a fresh start.

The work was hard, dangerous, and exhausting, but rewarding. He no longer belonged to a guild. This was entirely his own. No, it belonged to all of them.

And a new life was born to Volka and Delphi. Unlike those who had abandoned them, they loved and blessed the new generation.

Together with Daisy, the Sisters of Prophecy, and the surviving children, Ice bought a long-abandoned monastery and ran an orphanage there.

They named it the Michela Order of the Sword. It was not merely a place to worship God, but a kind of armed monastery.

For now, Ice was its only warrior monk, but he taught the children swordsmanship.

Ice came to be called the “Sword of Purity,” or the “White Sword.” He was known as the equal of Bori, the Black Sword.

“Praise God, and be brave in love” was the order's motto. They made it their duty to protect the weak, especially children.

A shortage of funds made their lives difficult as well, but every day was rewarding.

Seeing the children's bright smiles and watching them grow year after year filled their hearts.

Those who had been abandoned had each found, or were still building, a family and faith of their own.

And Ricard...

God's language was silence. There was no need to announce the changing seasons in words. The melting snow, the budding shoots, the stirring from winter sleep, and the warm sunlight were enough to let people feel it.

God showed them everything. It was merely humans who refused to look.

Yet some people had no leisure to appreciate the freshness of spring. Life was simply too harsh and difficult.

This was especially true of those driven from their homes by brutal lords, corrupt priests, and outlaws.

Unless they had relatives elsewhere, settling in a new place was no easy task. These were times when people were particularly hostile to outsiders.

But among these outcasts with nowhere to go, a rumor began to spread.

The eastern frontier. They said that land was free there, that no brutal lord ruled over it, and that everyone could find salvation through their own faith.

More and more people were setting out with nothing but that promise to guide them.

Places sprang up where such people gathered, and there were guides who made a business of leading them to the eastern frontier.

It was difficult to tell whether these guides were swindlers. Even if they were, their victims had nowhere to complain, let alone any means of obtaining redress.

Near the border between the Empire's central and southern regions stood a settlement that was neither village nor town, merely a place formed by people gathering together. It had no name. People simply called it the Crossroads.

There were a few shabby buildings and a spacious cowshed. Most people lived in makeshift huts or tents.

A graveyard lay nearby, and undertaking appeared to be the most profitable trade. The sick gathered near the graves to await death.

A family arrived at this place. The father was a sturdy man with a thick, unkempt beard; the mother looked considerably younger than her husband. With them were their elder daughter and a younger son who looked about seven or eight. A family of four.

They looked as though they had a story behind them, but that was nothing unusual here. Tales that could not be heard without tears were as plentiful as the rubbish littering the roads.

The father carried a felling axe with its blade wrapped in cloth. A load of household belongings rested on his back. His wife and young daughter each carried a load as well; only the youngest boy had none.

After surveying the wretched, barren place, he headed toward a building called Lilylily.

It looked like a shabby inn, but although it was no government office, it served as one. Here, people bound for the eastern frontier were gathered and sent on their way once enough had assembled.

The moment they stepped inside, a nauseating stench of bodies greeted them. The people within were all thugs, criminals, and whores.

The father went straight to the bartender.

“I want to go to the eastern frontier.”

The bartender was wiping a wooden cup with a filthy rag. He glanced up at the man, then continued wiping as though scarcely acknowledging him.

“Name.”

“Hartmann.”

“Were you with the Church of Judgment?”

“No.”

“Criminal?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do?”

“Killed a priest.”

“... An outlaw, then.”

“No.”

The bartender set the cup down with a clack and looked over Hartmann and his family.

His wife stood with a bundle on her back. On either side of her, the young daughter and son clutched her skirts, staring up at the bartender.

“Three adults and one child. Three silver coins and one copper.”

“There are two children.”

“Over ten, and they're no longer children here.”

The bartender gestured at the daughter with his chin.

Arguing would not bring the price down. It was by no means a small sum, but perhaps it was a fair price for setting out in search of their last hope.

Hartmann placed three silver coins and one copper on the bar. The coins were nicked and slightly misshapen.

The bartender pocketed the money and indicated a direction with his eyes.

“Those two over there. Riemann and Yap will be leaving soon. And that old man in the far corner, Bremen. You'll have to wait a bit for him. Your choice.”

Hartmann turned to look at the people seated by the wall. The men called Riemann and Yap were young and reasonably well armed. Judging by the people at their table, they appeared to have companions as well.

The old man called Bremen, on the other hand, sat alone at a table, his coif-covered head bowed low. It was impossible to tell whether he was asleep. A short sword hung at his waist.

Guides did more than show the way. They needed enough fighting strength to offer their charges some protection on the journey to the eastern frontier.

In that respect, the old man called Bremen inspired the least confidence.

Yet Hartmann approached him. Not for any other reason, but because if Riemann and Yap turned their blades on him, he would be unable to fight them off.

He would protect his family himself. All he needed was someone to show the way.

As Hartmann reached the old man's table, Bremen slowly raised his bowed head to look up at him. His thick white mustache was striking.

He glanced over Hartmann's family before speaking.

“Know how to handle that axe?”

“I've swung an axe all my life.”

“No, not cutting trees. Can you sink it into a man?”

“That's what brought me here.”

“... I see. Your name?”

“Hartmann.”

“I'm Bremen. I could use another pair of hands. You can help me. There's plenty to load.”

“Before that, how can I trust you?”

The man had not been formally appointed by a lord, nor did he belong to an organization with at least some measure of credibility, such as an adventurers' guild. He was simply a guide.

Bremen gazed steadily at Hartmann as he answered.

“You're looking for trust in a world like this? Well, all you can do here is trust me or not. You have to choose one.”

Hartmann did not reply. This time, Bremen asked him a question.

“Let me ask you something too. Nine out of ten people who set out for the eastern frontier die along the way. Will you still go?”

Hartmann thought of his family. That alone made it difficult to speak. Yet he could do nothing but nod.

Bremen slowly rose from his seat. He did not appear to have difficulty moving, but there was a sluggish stiffness to him peculiar to old age.

Expecting to stay a day or two, Hartmann rented a room. None were available, but the bartender made one available by evicting someone who was behind on payment.

The room was filthy and disordered from its previous occupant. Hartmann's wife, Elia, tidied it as best she could, set down her heavy load, and took a breather.

Hartmann followed the old man outside to meet the people living in tents. All of them intended to travel to the eastern frontier with Bremen. They would be his traveling companions.

There was one other man with several children, like Hartmann. The rest consisted of three young men who looked like thugs and one unmarried mother.

Including the children, there were fourteen of them altogether. No one knew where the others had come from, what they had done, or what stories lay behind them. They shared one thing: the desire for a new life.

They were awkward around one another. Wary, too. Even so, they helped each other organize their belongings and purchase traveling supplies, quietly slipping one another anything they happened to need.

A man named Gazer was around Hartmann's age. His wife had died, leaving him with three daughters and a son.

Surprisingly, he owned two cows and three calves. Considering that livestock was the greatest wealth a commoner could possess, he was a rich man. What circumstances had driven him to seek the eastern frontier, however, remained unknown.

Dahlia, a former whore, held a newborn in her arms. She had no husband. Whether it was an act or not, she was shy and uncomfortable around men.

By the time Hartmann had familiarized himself with the others, arranged the baggage, and learned what he would need to do on the journey, evening had fallen.

Exhausted by the grueling journey, his wife Elia had fallen asleep with the children in her arms. Then the door rattled open. The heavy footsteps told her it was a man, and she assumed it was her husband.

He lay down with the daughter and son between them. A moment later, the girl called to her mother in a voice trembling with fear.

“M-Mama...”

Only then did Elia open her eyes. In the darkened room, a filthy stranger was grinning at her. His hand was groping her daughter. A chill swept over her skin.

“Eek!”

The man clamped a hand over Elia's mouth. He was the man who had been evicted for failing to pay for the room.

“Shut up, you fucking bitch. Unless you want to die.”

He drew a rusty knife. Elia was too terrified to make a sound. Just then, her daughter tore herself out of his grasp and screamed.

“Father! Father!”

“That little bitch!”

The man caught the young girl just as she reached for the door and flung her aside. She landed with a crash. He began undoing his belt.

“Children who don't listen need a beating.”

Just then, the door rattled open. As he turned, a heavy sound cut through the air.

WHOOSH! CRUNCH!

The axe blade sank squarely into his head. He collapsed in a limp heap.

The thick-bearded Hartmann stood with his teeth clenched in fury. Only then did his young daughter run into his arms, sobbing. The corpse lay sprawled on the floor, blood pouring from its head.

“Father, Father...”

Hartmann held his daughter tight for a while, then seized the dead man by the scruff of the neck and dragged him out. Though the corpse was no small burden, he hauled it with one hand. His thick forearm looked like a rough-hewn log.

The walls did little to muffle sound. Hearing the crashing next door, people in the other rooms opened their doors and peered out.

Ignoring them, Hartmann dragged the body to the stairs and threw it down.

The loud, tumbling crash made everyone in the dining room look up. Hartmann bellowed in his deep voice.

“What other fucking bastard wants to touch my family?!”

People looked from the corpse to Hartmann and back. They were not frightened. If anything, their expressions barely changed, as though this were a familiar occurrence.

Bremen was among them. He gazed silently at the body.

Hartmann returned to the room with his bloodstained axe. His wife was wiping up the long streak of blood across the floor.

He held his frightened daughter and son close so they could fall asleep again. He himself did not sleep a wink, standing guard over his family all night.

The next day, Hartmann's family left the Crossroads with Bremen. Their departure felt somewhat hurried. The ox cart rattled along on its wheels.

But unlike the other parties heading north, Bremen took the eastern road. Finding this odd, Gazer asked him about it.

“Why are we heading east?”

“The road is rougher this way, but safer. We'll stop in Wertheim for supplies.”

“Safer? What difference does it make?”

“The man killed last night belonged to a local bandit gang. If they try to take revenge, we'll need protection.”

Gazer glanced toward Hartmann.

The killing had been justified. But it might have put them in danger.

“Who's going to protect us? If someone like that existed, this place wouldn't be so lawless.”

“That, I couldn't tell you. They probably just want to live in peace.”

“Who are these people, anyway? The ones who'll protect us?”

“A young shepherd and his wife. It's less that they'll protect us, and more that we'll run to them if things turn bad.”

“What?”

“They started tending sheep about four years ago, I think. Not a single sheep stolen in four years. They're no ordinary shepherds.”

“That's all you're basing this route on?”

Gazer frowned. Not even a retired mercenary, but a shepherd? He did not seem pleased.

“And I saw it myself.”

“Saw what?”

“Him killing five seasoned robbers with a single wooden stick.”

Gazer's scowl deepened. It sounded like complete and utter bullshit.

He, too, had avoided the other guides for a reason: his cattle. If the guides turned on him, he doubted he could protect his animals. Now he was beginning to regret his choice.

“What's the shepherd's name?”

The question came from Dahlia, who rarely let her baby out of her arms. As though he knew these people would not believe anything he said, Bremen heaved a deep sigh before answering.

“Riki...”