Chapter 99

* * *

Traveling a long distance was a truly grueling ordeal. Walking for hours was hard enough, but one also had to endure the difference between daytime and nighttime temperatures, uncomfortable sleeping conditions, thirst, and hunger—all at once.

There were no maps. They did not know how far they had to go, and so they did not know how long it would take. This was an age when many simple country folk believed that leaving their village meant death. Most people never left the place where they lived for their entire lives.

Thus, setting out on a long journey meant being prepared to die.

Children grew up quickly in such circumstances. They rarely cried and never whined, because they knew instinctively that doing so might actually get them abandoned.

They knew that the adults' patience had run dry, like water in the dry season. And they knew that when it rose a little again, the adults would reach out to them of their own accord.

Patience was armor even a six-year-old needed to wear.

Hartmann's son Roy walked without a word of complaint. He never let his exhaustion show. Instead, he wanted to grow up quickly so he could carry his older sister's things, then grow a little more and carry his mother's, then grow even bigger and carry his father's. His only frustration was that time would not pass faster.

There were things he naturally learned while following the adults: cross open ground as quickly as possible, keep to the edges of forests, and remember that mountain passes, though arduous, offered some safety from mounted bandits.

That was why they were struggling over a pass now. Naturally, the cart's wheels rattled much more violently than usual.

CRACK!

A wheel came off. Everyone turned in alarm, while the cow, unaware that the cart had broken, kept dragging it along for a while.

"Whoa, whoa."

"Damn it."

The procession stopped. Would it take a long time to fix? Roy thought he might get to rest. Thank you, cow, for letting me rest. Cows had such pretty eyes.

The adults looked grave. They could not simply put the wheel back on; the axle itself had broken. It had held up well enough until now, really.

"You'll have to leave some things behind," Bremen said, looking at the household belongings strewn about.

"These are my possessions. I can't abandon them."

Gazer frowned in irritation. His tone seemed to ask who Bremen thought he was, telling him to throw away his property.

Bremen's years had evidently taught him something; he was not easily rattled.

"Losing a few pieces of furniture won't starve you. Since it's come to this, I'd suggest using them for firewood. We could go a little farther and make camp."

"..."

"If you don't want to leave it, have your children carry it instead of the cows."

One of the young men in the group spoke mockingly. He had no family with him and stuck close to two friends about his own age.

Gazer hesitated, unable to decide what to do. Hartmann, who had been quietly watching from a short distance away, approached him.

"Is there anything you absolutely must take? I'll help you."

Hartmann's own load was by no means light. Even so, he was offering to carry some of Gazer's things if there was anything he could not leave behind.

"..."

After a silent moment, Gazer called his three daughters and his son. He discarded all the furniture and kept only the necessities: a tin pot, a ladle, bowls, sacks of provisions, salt, a tent, and blankets.

He loaded these back onto the cows and decided to carry the rest himself.

"Lend me your axe."

Hartmann lent him his felling axe, and Gazer began chopping apart the furniture he had grown attached to over the years. But wielding an axe was surprisingly difficult for someone unused to it, and he made less progress than he expected.

As he stood panting, merely wasting his strength, Hartmann silently took the axe back. With one stroke apiece, he split everything cleanly along the grain.

CRACK! THUNK! CRACK! CRACK!

Then he tied the pieces together with rope, just like ordinary firewood, and set them atop his belongings. When he hoisted the load onto his back, it towered well above his head.

"Looks like we've got another cow here," Bremen said with a laugh.

Hartmann truly seemed the very picture of a sturdy, steadfast man.

The group set off again, laboring up the mountain pass one step at a time rather than walking on level ground.

Despite the talk of finding somewhere nearby to camp, they walked another two hours after crossing the pass. Only in the late afternoon, when the sun had sunk quite low, did Bremen suggest resting at the foot of the mountain. Strong as he was, Hartmann set down his load and rubbed his shoulders.

Roy hurried over to knead his father's shoulders. It did not do much good, but his son's thoughtful touch brought a smile to Hartmann's face all the same.

"That feels good."

The women gathered firewood, lit fires, and set kettles and pots over them to prepare a meal.

This was where the difference between those with families and those without became apparent. Those with families each had a role, and a circle that sheltered them.

For an unmarried mother with a baby and no husband, times like these were painfully awkward. During the day's march, she could simply blend into the group, but night made her solitude plain.

They were little things, but what everyone else took for granted, she did not have. It left her feeling small and ashamed.

So she would take her coarsely ground grain somewhere out of sight, soak it in water, and eat in silence. It was less a meal than a way to fill her belly. Then she would nurse her son.

She was eighteen years old.

She was about to do the same that evening when someone called to her.

"Ma'am, come and eat with us."

Dahlia did not respond, not realizing she was the one being addressed.

"Ma'am? Ma'am."

Only belatedly did she realize someone was calling her. She turned to find Hartmann's wife, Elia.

"Yes? Me?"

"Yes, ma'am. The soup's warm. Have some."

Dahlia blinked in bewilderment. She had received so little kindness in her life that she could not make sense of what was happening.

In the end, Elia had to get up and lead her over by the hand.

When Dahlia sat down beside the fire, still looking dazed, Roy asked,

"What's the baby's name?"

"... Hm? Oh, Riche. His name is Riche."

"Does it mean you want him to be rich?" asked Roy's sister, Becca.

"No... I want him to be a person of refinement..."

Dahlia answered shyly. She knew that refinement was not a word that suited a prostitute. But a mother's heart wished for her son, at least, to be different.

"That's a lovely name."

"And what is your name, ma'am?"

"Oh, I'm Dahlia."

It was precisely the sort of name a prostitute would have. But Hartmann's family knew little of that world, so they simply thought it exotic and pretty.

Elia ladled some soup from the pot and handed it to Dahlia. In truth, it was little more than thin, pale gruel.

Dahlia accepted the wooden bowl with both hands. After watching the others uncertainly for a while, she took a sip. It was warm. As she felt that warmth, a tear fell before she knew it.

"Eat with us from now on," Elia said.

But Dahlia's throat was so tight she could scarcely answer, much as she wanted to. If she spoke, she felt she would burst into sobs.

Hartmann's family understood, and said no more to her.

The other travelers quietly watched Hartmann's family show kindness to the unmarried mother who had once been a prostitute.

They, too, felt a stirring in their hearts, but the world was so harsh that they dismissed it as a passing incident.

Dusk fell, followed by full night. People laid out their bedding in their little groups and prepared to sleep, while the men arranged to take their appointed watches.

Then they heard someone approaching through the darkness.

At first they tensed, but hearing only one set of footsteps, they thought it might be a traveler. It was not. The man wore a leather outer garment and carried a sword at his waist.

Even after seeing how many of them there were, he showed no fear. Instead, he stared openly at them. Standing with his weight on one leg, he tossed out a question.

"You're the ones, aren't you? The bastards who killed Bilki."

"..."

His provocative manner intimidated some of them and put others on edge.

"We don't know anyone by that name," Bremen said.

"Listen, old man, I already know. Someone in your group killed Bilki."

Apparently, Bilki was the man Hartmann had killed. They might wonder how he knew, but a few questions would have yielded the answer readily enough. More people knew than did not that the man carrying an axe had left with Bremen.

"I told you, we don't know him. Don't accuse innocent people. There are six men here. If you mean to fight, you'll have to be prepared for losses yourselves."

The stranger smirked.

"This old man really has lost his touch. But don't jump to conclusions. I'm only here to make a very reasonable offer. Hand over the man who killed Bilki, or give us one woman, or one cow. Then we'll forget it ever happened. That's three whole choices, you know? You don't get an offer like this every day. Take your pick."

"And if we refuse?"

"Something unpleasant will happen as soon as it gets light tomorrow."

It was no offer, merely a threat. Hartmann had been silent, but now he stood and spoke, apparently unable to bear any more. Whether it was wise or not, he seemed incapable of tolerating injustice.

"I killed him because he tried to harm my family. Why should I bargain with you?"

The bandit looked at Hartmann and his family for a moment before answering.

"Your wife and children are alive, and our friend is dead. I'd say offering you a bargain is very merciful of us."

"Did he have a daughter?"

"What?"

"Did this Bilki have a daughter?"

"Who knows where he might've shot his load?"

"Then there can be no bargain in the first place. Not unless his daughter suffers the same thing."

"... Hmm, is that how it works? I don't know. Anyway, you've got until morning. Think it over."

In an age when even the concepts of fairness and justice were not firmly established, arguing was futile.

The bandit walked into the darkness and vanished. An uneasy silence settled over the travelers. Only the crackling of the campfire could be heard.

Bremen, their guide and a leader of sorts, was the first to speak.

"Let me make this clear: we will not hand anyone over."

"How?"

"Because I made a promise to each and every person here. I promised to take you to the eastern frontier."

"What are you saying? That we should all die together?"

"I hardly need to tell you that our woodcutter is the strongest man here. If we hand him over, we'll be weaker, and they won't leave us alone once we're weak. Don't trust bandits to keep a promise. Second, we cannot give them a woman, either. As I said, I made a promise to everyone here. A cow would be the least costly option."

"Don't talk nonsense!"

Gazer's shout shattered the quiet night. His reaction was understandable; this was an age when a cow was worth more than a human life. It was the greatest wealth a commoner could possess.

"Why don't we just give them that whore?"

One of the three inseparable young men spoke. Dahlia was seized with fear.

"I-I paid. I did pay."

"Who here didn't pay? But you're the most useless of us. That money was just for a guide, not protection. Have you even got money to buy supplies along the way? Are you going to keep leeching off us?"

"M-money, the money... I can find a way to get it."

"Sell yourself when we reach a city? Sure, old habits die hard. What the hell is a whore doing in our group anyway!"

"Watch your mouth!"

Elia shouted fiercely. She went this far to defend Dahlia because she had watched her conscientiously tending her son over the past few days. As a fellow mother, she could not stand it.

In a sense, Hartmann was the one responsible for their present predicament. Yet no one suggested handing him over.

That was because a strong, grown man was what the group needed most. Indeed, men like him were desperately needed everywhere these days. War and all the rest were forever killing off able-bodied men.

When a crisis struck, groups ultimately tended to sacrifice their weakest members first. It was difficult to call this good or bad, for it was simply ordinary human nature.

Yet even so, there were always people who rose above it. Such people were called heroes.

"Where is that shepherd, Riki?"

A young voice broke into the adults' argument. It was Roy.

Some frowned at a little brat daring to interrupt, clicking their tongues at how poorly he had been raised. But Bremen listened to him.

"Shh! Wait! Everyone, be quiet!"

The heated argument in the middle of the night fell silent for a moment. Bremen mentally calculated the distance between their current location and the place where the shepherd he knew tended his flock.

Shepherds roamed over a wide area, so it was difficult to find one unless you went to his home. But Bremen had only met him by chance before and did not know where he lived.

Still, he thought there was no other way now. He would not abandon a person, no matter what happened.

"Get ready to move. If we travel through the night, we might find that shepherd."

"What the fuck is that supposed to..."

Gazer could not believe they were pinning their last hope on that absurd story of a shepherd. All they had to do was hand over one whore, and it would be over!

But Hartmann's family was the first to agree with Bremen, and they began packing all their belongings. Naturally, Dahlia was going with them, and since Hartmann was the most dependable person there, the three young men also intended to follow.

"F-Father..."

One of Gazer's daughters called to him. He spat out a curse—"Damn it"—and packed his things.

Walking through the middle of the night without sleep was an indescribable ordeal. Worse, though they knew it risked exposing them, they had to carry torches to see their way.

Within a few hours, the children began to tire. Hartmann threw things away to carry them on his back. He even discarded precious food. Survival came first.

Elia also abandoned household belongings and took someone else's child on her back. Dahlia held her own son in front of her while carrying another child behind.

Putting them on the cows might have seemed better, but the animals were already fully loaded.

They were making a night march that would have tested even most soldiers, and unfortunately, the bandits followed. As expected, they must have been waiting nearby. Perhaps they would have attacked regardless of whether the travelers surrendered a cow or a woman.

Apparently finding it difficult to fight in the dark themselves, they simply kept following at a distance. For those being pursued, the strain on their minds was even worse than the physical exhaustion.

"Fuck, fuck," slipped from their mouths unbidden. At some point, they grew so tired that they lost all sense of time and merely kept walking.

Eventually, their legs moved on their own even as they nodded off. They would close their eyes for an instant and open them to an unfamiliar landscape.

Then, after the dark night, dawn slowly began to break.

When they could barely make out their surroundings, the bandits following them broke into a run.

Startled, Hartmann hurriedly handed the son on his back over to his daughter.

"Protect your brother, no matter what happens!"

"Father!"

His daughter called desperately, but Hartmann took up his axe and faced the dozen-odd bandits.

Becca could neither stay nor go. Then Dahlia seized her and dragged her away.

"Let go! Father!"

But now was the time to worry about herself rather than her father. Knowing Hartmann was no easy opponent, the bandits were only feigning attacks to keep him occupied.

The rest continued pursuing the travelers. Only then did Becca scramble to flee. Her brother, now awake, took her hand and ran across the field with her.

"Wait! I surrender! I surrenderrr!"

Someone was shouting surrender. It sounded like one of the three young men.

"Not my cows, you bastards!"

Sure enough, the bandits' main target was the cattle. Gazer tried to defend them to the last and was struck by a blade. Was he dead, or merely wounded? There was no way to tell.

Hartmann had meant to guard the rear, but when the bandits all but ignored him, he belatedly ran back and swung his axe furiously at the men trying to steal the cows.

But they released the lead ropes and withdrew well before he reached them, refusing to be drawn rashly into a fight. These bastards had plainly done this more than once.

The light continued to grow, and the sky took on a deep blue hue.

The frightened cows bolted, faster than any person could run. By now, the bandits could no longer decide whether to change targets and go after the people or pursue the cattle.

As their purpose wavered, so did their coordination. They scattered in a haphazard chase, and unfortunately, Becca and Roy were farthest behind. The bandits' hands drew closer and closer to the children.

Hartmann, desperately swinging his axe, saw them and gave a heart-rending cry.

"Roy! Becca!"

Roy looked back as he ran. The most terrifying hand in the world was almost upon him.

Then his foot caught on a stone, sending him flying forward.

Just before his face hit the ground, someone caught him gently. His sister? No, the strength in that touch was far too steady to be hers.

The bandit's hand stopped reaching for Roy. His feet stopped as well.

The person who had caught Roy set him upright. In the distance, the boy could see a few sheep.

He looked up to find a blond young man in shabby clothes, holding the sort of staff a shepherd might use.

The others, too, had stopped fleeing and were looking back. More precisely, they were looking at the shepherd.

"Close your eyes, child."

The shepherd spoke to Roy without taking his eyes off the bandit.

Roy closed his eyes as instructed. And in that desperate moment, even as he gasped as though he might lose his breath entirely, he somehow felt at peace.

The bandits came rushing up, wondering what a shepherd was doing here. They raised their weapons to threaten him, but they could not simply keep their distance and hold him at bay as they had with Hartmann.

For the shepherd moved like the wind, closing the gap in an instant.

WHOOSH!

A wooden stick whistled through the air, and the head of the bandit who had reached for Roy was cleanly severed.

With his eyes closed, Roy heard something heavy drop onto the field, followed by the thud of a body collapsing. There was no dying cry.

Pursuers and pursued alike stood still, as though time had stopped, staring at the shepherd. And at the headless corpse.

This was no ordinary shepherd who happened to be good in a fight. His skill bordered on magic. The sight left them dazed, unable to believe their own eyes.

Yet time had not stopped. The sun was slowly rising.