Chapter 1: The Curse and the White Dragon

Chapter 1:
The Curse and the White Dragon

 

IT HAPPENED in the margrave’s city, on the northernmost border.

A cup of Bago tea brewed by a junior officer sat steaming on the table. The chief accountant was about to reach for it, but before he could do so, his nearby subordinate claimed the cup for himself. Nevertheless, the chief said nothing about his subordinate’s lack of courtesy. His assistant was an orc who was earnest beyond compare, and he was apparently quite tired, so the chief accountant only watched silently as he took a sip.

The second he tasted the tea, the accountant winced. It had been brewed extra strong, according to the chief’s preference. As the chief let a laugh slip, the other orc shot him a glare, but his resentment was hardly justified—after all, he had been the one to steal the cup. In any case, the bitter tea was evidently enough to shock him out of his drowsiness, as he quickly returned to work with a grimace.

After asking the junior officer to fetch another cup, the chief returned his attention to the document before him. His logistics department was busier than it had ever been, and there was no time for frivolities.

Chief accountant was a surprisingly important position in the margrave’s army. When the main army had sallied forth on their expedition, he had been granted the position of deputy commander and had stayed behind as the sole high-ranking official in the city. It was his job to oversee everything from logistical support to public order. If, by chance, misfortune befell the supreme commander, the chief accountant and his staff would immediately become the new commanding officers of the army, at which time his duties would shift toward rebuilding the army and defending the margrave’s city from whatever had eliminated the main force.

Fortunately for him, the orc who currently served as chief accountant had never had to shoulder responsibilities of that sort. In fact, if it were to happen now, he would surely die from being overworked. He was already more than occupied with the usual yearly mobilizations, which consisted of about a third of the standing army and the militia (those soldiers who opted to live among the pioneers). This year, they had mobilized all available hands, scraping together every pioneer they could find and sending them north, making for a terrible mess.

On top of that, there’d been an abnormally high number of refugees this year. The humans used their dragons to burn down settlements from the sky, and thus, smoked out of their homes, the pioneers flooded into the margrave’s city seeking beds, food, and safety. The cost of food had shot up in the blink of an eye, while public order fell into disarray just as quickly. To deal with these food shortages, they had been forced to open the doors of the army’s storehouses, which meant that the expeditionary force—which had been on the verge of cornering those accursed humans—had been forced to retreat. Emergency food distribution had been added to the chief’s long list of duties.

If that had been his only responsibility, he could have put up with it. He was working far beyond his pay grade, and he would be the first to call himself a slacker, but he knew his job well. Thankfully, the expeditionary force would return soon, and once that happened, he wouldn’t have to worry about organizing all the supply shipments anymore.

The earnest assistant who had snatched his tea handed him a sheet to look over. A grimace settled on the chief’s face as he took in the words victory celebration.

His understudy looked at him dubiously. “Is something wrong?”

“It’s nothing. Just brought up some unpleasant memories.”

This was certainly his biggest headache. In a normal year, when the pioneer militia dispersed, his only duty would be to pay each settlement for their contribution, but this year was going to be different. This year, they would hold a victory celebration, of all things. All the allied forces would gather in the margrave’s city and parade down the main thoroughfare.

It was not a sensible undertaking. These festivities would do little more than use up supplies they didn’t have to keep the troops fed. In addition to that, they would need to find sleeping arrangements for over fifty thousand soldiers, which was far more than the existing facilities could accommodate. Even if they had them make camp, there weren’t enough empty plots of land for miles around. If they went that route, they would need to flatten farmland—at a time when there was a food shortage, no less—and pay the farmers considerable compensation for it. The chief accountant already had an idea about where he might attempt this, but negotiations were at a standstill. Worst-case scenario, he would need to put the military police to work to get it done.

Even if they overcame the challenges of arranging the victory celebration, the next issue was waiting for the troops. Most of the militia had lost their home villages, so he could no longer send their payments to each village once they had the funds. If he didn’t call off their missions and pay them now, there would definitely be problems to come.

The list of issues went on. Even if they were paid for their services, the militia fighters had nowhere to go. Most would likely join the city’s growing number of refugees. How would they feel once they discovered the paltry amount of bread loaves they could afford with the money they had risked their lives for? They wouldn’t be pleased, that was for sure.

The chief’s stomach churned and ached. He thought back to the resignation form he had filled out the other day. All he had to do was hand it in to the appropriate parties, and that would deliver him from these troubles; yet even now, it remained tucked in a corner of his desk. His health had taken an unfortunate turn as of late, and the days he’d needed to spend bedridden were growing more and more frequent. To top things off, there was no one but him left to give his idiot son a well-deserved kick to the rear.

Considering all that was to come, the chief accountant felt his spirit slipping away.

 

***

 

The day after His Majesty ordered me to mediate the dispute in Kerulgarz, I loaded a dragon keeper onto Veralgon’s back and made for Kadann Hill. Kadann Hill was a modest bit of land consisting of just two villages and a temple, with a hill in the center that was considered sacred ground. It was about half a day from the royal capital by dragon.

Kadann Hill was the land that had been granted to me—the hero from another world. It came hand in hand with the irksome title of field marshal. This title would normally have given me control over the kingdom’s entire armed forces in place of His Majesty, who was still only a minor, but as I had just arrived in this world without any personal connections, it was little more than a formality.

Kerulgarz lay south of Kadann Hill, just one territory over. The plan was to spend a night at the lord’s manor in Kadann Hill before leaving early the next morning.

Having touched down in front of the stables, I handed off the reins to the keeper, who took them and gingerly led Veralgon inside. This was understandable, as Veralgon was in a foul mood. I had forced him on when he wasn’t in perfect condition, carrying two riders to boot. That would’ve made me grumpy too.

Under normal circumstances, we would have rested several days before embarking, but there was little to be done when the king gave a direct order. He had said, “After witnessing the intensity of that white dragon, I think no one would dare oppose you.” He did speak some truth. After seeing such an irritated dragon, anyone would drop their pitchfork and run for the hills.

Torson soon came from the manor to greet me. I’d sent him a message within the day to alert him of my coming, which must have arrived safely, as he didn’t seem the least bit surprised. Behind him, a woman and several attendants appeared in the manor’s entrance. It took a moment for me to recognize the woman as Megriel, the aspiring hero. Today, she wore riding clothes, primarily red in color. The outfit wasn’t meant for women but was akin to the clothing a man might wear under his armor. The contrast between her calm childlike face and masculine crimson clothing evoked sensuality somehow.

I glanced questioningly at Torson, but he only shook his head. He evidently had no idea why she was there either. I didn’t know how the news of my coming had reached her, and it would probably be in my best interest to look into it.

“It’s been a while, Hero.” Meg got down on one knee and offered a knightly salute. Torson retreated a step behind her and followed suit. Meg was the proxy head of her house, which put her at a higher rank than Torson, who was a royalty-appointed governor.

Once greetings had been exchanged, Meg pouted and came out with a rather incomprehensible statement. “You’re getting up to some interesting things, I hear. But not a word of it to me? You don’t feel bad about that?”

“What are you referring to?” I asked, and she scowled.

“That’s no tone to take with a retainer who’s sworn their loyalty to you,” she rebuked me. So was this the proper tone for a retainer to take with her lord? I highly doubted that, but I didn’t care enough to get into it.

“What’s up?”

“Oh, I heard all about it! You led the dragon riders and forced the orcish armies to retreat. Didn’t you promise to take me into battle with you?”

I didn’t recall making that promise, but I was losing faith in my own memory, seeing how impassioned she was about this. Knowing her, though, it was possible she’d forced such a promise on me without me realizing it. It was best that I ask Torson about it later.

“I thought you’d be too busy getting your house in order,” I replied. “In any case, the forces of Morsharz couldn’t have played a part while the valley was sealed up. I don’t think they’ll have a part in the near future either.”

“Really? That bites.” She thought to herself for a moment, no doubt scheming something awful.

“If you want action that badly, why not become a dragon rider? Once you’re able to maneuver a dragon well enough, I can put you to work as soon as you want.”

At this proposal, Meg lifted her face excitedly.

It wasn’t as if I’d offered it out of kindness; I had a gut feeling that keeping her close and reined in was far safer than leaving the frustrated young lady to take matters into her own hands. It would also be far more reassuring to leave the Knights of Morsharz under the supervision of her uncle, who seemed to understand common sense. On top of that, Meg had enough natural talent to casually touch Veralgon. That would surely be to her advantage.

“Yeah,” she said, considering it. “Becoming history’s first female dragon rider is certainly appealing…”

“Right? I bet you’d be a fine rider! Sir Rigel might oppose it, but I’m sure I could convince him.” I pushed the point, since she still seemed hesitant.

“But…”

“What’s stopping you?”

“That’s not exactly what I want to be.”

Apparently, the young lady didn’t just want fame and fortune.

“I see. So what do you want to be?”

“I picture myself leading an army and fighting like my father. I do admire dragon riders, but there is a limit to what one fighter can accomplish on their own.”

One’s individual limit was something I was well aware of myself. The powers I was able to use varied depending on which world I was sent to, but even in the worlds where I could draw upon massive wells of magic, I was unable to do everything alone. This was even more evident in this world, where the mana was so thin.

While I was ruminating about this, a gleam came to Meg’s eyes. “If I were to lead an army, then the powers at my disposal, the tactics available, and the freedom to act would be unlimited! I’d lead the elites of the elites into critical battles where humanity’s fate hung in the balance, using the utmost of my might and ingenuity! Doesn’t that get you heated just thinking about it?”

She said this with the passionate expression of a maiden in love, despite being anything but. It definitely did get me heated, but not in the way she meant. I was a gentleman visitor from a world where gender-based distinctions were fading, so I wouldn’t speak of such things out loud.

Instead, I asked about our current reality. “Incidentally, what are you doing here? Have you finished uniting the lesser lords?”

“Of course!” She perked up another notch, as if she’d been waiting for that very question. “They have all sworn loyalty to my brother, of course, and to me as well. Morsharz is ready to answer the hero’s call at any moment. Also…”

Meg turned and called to one of her attendants behind her. On closer inspection, I saw that her attendants were all women in masculine attire, and they were all quite stunning as well. Meg really had been doing whatever she pleased since coming into her new position.

One of the butler-like maids came forth with an item wrapped in expensive cloth and handed it to Meg. She undid the wrapping and revealed the sword and scabbard, adorned with my crest, that I had lent to her earlier.

“The lords took their oaths without any major complications, thanks to this. You can have it back now.” She reverently held it out to me with gestures befitting a knight. Grinning, she said, “Since you will be going on to Kerulgarz tomorrow, I thought it would be a good idea to have a sword on your person, so I came here as quickly as I could.”

In combat, a spear of light was more than weapon enough, and it was far more convenient than a sword. However, a field marshal needed a sword at his hip for the sake of appearance in public. Swords were a symbol of power, after all. I did have a spare on me, but it made little impression without the crest and ornaments of the real deal, so I was grateful for her consideration.

The problem, however, was how she had known to meet me here. I’d received orders from His Majesty only yesterday, after all. It had taken half a day by dragon to get here, so how had she caught word of my visit?

She must have read my dubious expression because she said with a smile, “I have a lot of friends.” She left it at that. I doubted I would get any more out of her, but to be fair, there were multiple ways to relay information, such as carrier pigeons.

I accepted the sword from her, looking it over to ascertain if there were any dents in the scabbard. Not that I thought she would treat the sword roughly, but it was an important ceremonial piece, so I felt I must. The scabbard seemed quite all right, but what about the weapon itself?

“You didn’t chip the blade, did you?” I joked as I unsheathed it.

“Don’t worry, I ground out all the nicks,” she replied.

Don’t worry? Why had she needed to grind the blade down? The sword had been brand-new when I’d given it to her. I wanted to ask her about this, but at the same time, I didn’t want to get into it now. I slid the sword back into its scabbard after having drawn it only halfway out. I didn’t know what she had used my sword for, but no doubt she had swung it in my name.

When my conversation with Meg had concluded, Torson hesitantly approached me.

“Hero, I have something to report.”

“Yes, what is it?”

“I have finished removing the previous field marshal’s furnishings, as ordered.”

This was good news. Those uncanny orc items that the previous resident had left behind were gone now, which meant I could stay here with some peace of mind. But why did Torson look so apologetic about it?

“Did something happen?”

“Yes, well… I contacted Sir Aumas’s successor and offered to hand the items over to their household, but they declined.”

Of course they would. Those items were clearly cursed.

“They said I could dispose of them however I saw fit, so I tried donating them to a furniture dealer…”

Torson related how he had called in a furniture dealer he knew without going into details on the items in question. Once the merchant saw the articles he was to take, he swooned—and then fled the moment he regained consciousness.

“He always was faint of heart. Perhaps it was all a bit too intense. I know I should have warned him beforehand, but if I did, I feared he would have refused to even come. As you can tell, that approach backfired. My apologies.”

From the sidelines, Meg huffed, “I’m sure he was overjoyed when he came, expecting to receive the furnishings of a field marshal. Who can blame him for reacting the way he did when those cursed things came out? I feel sorry for him.”

She’d said something sensible for once. Perhaps it was going to snow.

“I have nothing to say to that.” It was Torson’s own fault for his dishonesty. Tricking a merchant to come here had already been enough grounds to turn down the offer.

“So where are my predecessor’s belongings now?”

“I have them piled up in a corner of the estate.”

Torson shot a sidelong glance at a mountain of junk.

“Why haven’t you burnt them yet?” Meg made little attempt to hide her disgust. “If you don’t act soon, you’ll have a vengeful spirit on your hands.”

When I inquired, she explained that cremation was the proper means by which to dispose of orcish bodies in this world. Otherwise, it was believed they would haunt the living and bring harm to everything around them.

Torson said, “I tried to burn them, twice. Both times, it rained. Sudden bursts of rain aren’t uncommon in these parts at this time of year, but everyone’s on edge thinking it’s an orcish curse.”

Even if it had been merely a coincidence, I couldn’t blame these religious folks for seeing the downpours as some sort of hex.

“They’re not yet fully dry from the last storm. I intended to check on them tomorrow to see if they were ready to try burning again.”

I walked over to the heap and scanned it from top to bottom. From within the pile of ominous pieces and firewood, those taxidermied heads stared back at me. For some reason, one rolled down to my feet at that exact moment, its tongue protruding as if it were baring its fangs in laughter.

“I hope next time they burn. It would be a huge ruckus if it were to rain again,” I heard Meg say to Torson forebodingly. It would indeed be viewed as a curse if burning the items failed a third time. Then again, another rain spell really wasn’t out of the question.

Meg then came closer to me. “Hero.”

“What?”

“Let’s have Veralgon burn it down.”

“I don’t think we have to go that far. The smithing grass he’d need to burn this doesn’t come cheap.”

Veralgon’s fire sack was already empty for the day. In fact, the grand dragon house’s stock of smithing grass was almost completely exhausted from our scorched earth tactics. There wasn’t much in general circulation, and the dragon riders’ supply managers apparently had to bid against city blacksmiths in order to obtain it. Thanks to that, prices were even higher than usual.

“Kadann Hill’s harvest wasn’t great this year, was it?”

“True, but what’s that got to do with anything?”

“If there’s illness and death over the winter, they’ll link it to the orc curse, no doubt about it. Then the people will turn their resentment on the lord who allowed it to happen.”

“The territory’s always had a shortage. That’s not my fault.”

“Fiefs don’t always run on logic. As long as the people think it’s that way, that’s how it is.”

I sighed, my gaze returning to that toppled head. Its expression made it seem as if it were sneering at me, taunting me. “If you think you can burn me, just try it.” I found myself growing irritated.

“Mr. Torson, do we have any smithing grass reserves?”

“Y-yes, enough for a breath or two.”

“Then tell the dragon keepers to feed Veralgon. Also, send a runner to the village chieftains.”

“Very well.” Torson blinked. “What do you want to tell them?”

“Tell them, ‘I’ll burn that junk for you. Come and watch.’”

I’d burn it right in front of their faces to allay those annoying rumors. It took a while after eating smithing grass before a dragon could breathe fire, as they required enough time to digest it in their fire sacks. By my estimation, the chieftains would arrive at just the right time.

For a moment, Torson seemed to want to say something, but then turned away to carry out my orders.

 

Daylight was meager in the winter days. The sun had dropped significantly by the time preparations were in order, the light around us going dim. The sky looked uncanny, with thick clouds hastening the arrival of darkness. The people who had gathered to watch the junk burn looked up at the sky anxiously. I had intended to call only the chieftains, but for some reason, every resident had come as well. This was most likely the work of Rick, that fast but careless messenger. Perhaps it was time for Torson to stop sending him on errands. Speed wasn’t the only priority when sending a message.

The cramped yard was filled with villagers, their numbers stretching farther than the boundaries of shrubbery. Was it really wise to light a fire with such a crowd congregated around?

While it worried me, it was too late to repel them. I told Torson to keep the spectators away from the pile as best as he could, and he in turn ordered the manor’s staff to push people back. The villagers pushed back too, and scuffles started breaking out. There were growls; there were cries. The general atmosphere had become unruly.

How had the simple act of burning trash devolved into this? Had Meg spread her foreboding warning about curses? She was off to one side, observing the proceedings with a grin, though I had no idea what she found so amusing.

Tensions continued to mount, but just before the first serious fistfight broke out, an angry roar reverberated through the air, stopping all in their tracks. The star had finally taken the stage.

Veralgon was being slowly led out of the dragon house. He had already been displeased upon arrival, and now he was far past that stage. It was understandable. He’d been force-fed smithing grass while feeling under the weather, and now, as he was dragged out of the dragon house, he was being swarmed by people without the talent. Of course he’d complain—I would too.

The dragon again roared at the heavens. Screams broke out among the crowd, and even the dragon keeper looked weak in the knees, so I rushed over and took the reins. Veralgon looked at me irately, but it appeared he would comply. As I led him along, the crowd parted at once, clearing a path to the pile.

I sensed Veralgon’s wrath grow as he spotted his target. This was bad. I stroked his leg to establish a connection with him. Though such minimal contact could only form an incomplete link, I still detected his intense hatred for the orcish race. By synchronizing his spirit with my own to some extent, I was just barely able to contain his madness.

“Clear a space behind the pile too!”

Hearing my shout, the villagers behind the heap scattered like baby spiders. The dragon was impatient, and he couldn’t be held back any longer.

“Do it!”

Veralgon lifted his head, sucked his lungs full of air, then opened his jaws wide as if snapping at prey. Flames sprang from his maw, enveloping the pile of rubbish. In an instant, all of it was turned to a massive pillar of flame, blazing toward the sky. Not a word was uttered by the dazed onlookers as all eyes shone with fire. The former clamoring had been replaced by awed silence, the only sounds coming from the crackling of burning junk and the low murmur of the flames. The fire continued to hold the villagers in a primitive sort of fascination as sparks danced and twirled above them like fairies, floating away into the darkening ceiling of clouds.

Not long after, a droplet struck my face. In looking up, I was pelted by more of them. It was actually a comfortable sensation after my face had been subjected to so much heat. The droplets quickly gained momentum, soon turning into a downpour. Those who stared fixedly into the cold rain seemed shocked out of their daze, raising anxious voices. However, the dragon’s flame remained undeterred by the downpour and continued to burn strong.

The shower was over in no time at all. Veralgon spread his wings wide before the mountain of junk, which still burned as brightly as ever. He roared, as if proclaiming his victory over the elements. Inspired, the villagers answered the call, no longer fearing the roars of this mighty creature.

“It’s a sacred dragon!” someone cried. “The hero and his sacred dragon have cleared the orcish curse!”

Now a different sort of heat was building. A number of folks had begun dancing around the pyre, their long shadows wavering in the flickering flames. Upon seeing this, more men joined in, grabbing one another by the shoulders and stomping their feet in rhythm. The dancers spun and jumped, creating one strong and steady beat. Their wives sang along to these movements in strange melodies, alien to my ears. I couldn’t decipher any of the words, unless they were simply meaningless sounds.

Torson whispered into my ear, “This is a dance for an ancient god. It has been prohibited.”

I nodded, but continued watching without a word. Some men, too old to dance, kneeled and prayed to the white dragon. The lord’s manor had suddenly become the scene of a festival.

Having let off some steam, Veralgon turned away from the villagers and trudged back toward the dragon house. The dragon keeper hurried after him nervously to take the reins, but by now, Veralgon had calmed down and was docile.

As I watched them depart, I murmured, “Mr. Torson, break open the ale.”

Torson headed off to begin ordering the servants. When the barrels were rolled out, the villagers cheered, and so the merrymaking continued. At times, young men and women would take each other by the hand and disappear off into the shadows.

The ruckus continued until the pile had burned down to cinders. Wine barrels from the manor’s cellar were emptied one after another, and once empty, those barrels were tossed into the pyre to keep the blaze burning. The fire only dwindled once the wine was exhausted, and with the flames, the festive mood subsided. The villagers stared longingly at the dwindling embers before finally returning to their homes.

The impromptu festival was over, leaving behind nothing but ash.

 

***

 

When the site of the pyre at the edge of the estate was eventually exposed to the morning sun, not a flicker of the night’s mesmerizing flames remained. There was just a pile of pure-white ash and a hint of black smoke in the air, and the manor’s staff moved in to deal with these remnants of the festival. Everyone moved more sluggishly than usual, and there was a peculiar wretchedness hanging in the air after that wild and beautiful night.

As I prepared to mount Veralgon to make for Kerulgarz, Meg came to see me off.

“Should I accompany you? I can make myself useful,” she proposed.

Flying with Meg aboard was quite an appealing idea, as I still remembered the sensation from the last time we’d ridden together. However, I needed the dragon keeper this time, since I’d heard there were no keepers stationed at Kerulgarz Castle. It was not impossible for three to ride a dragon, but I couldn’t force Veralgon when he was already feeling out of it.

“No need. I just have to see to it that they make peace there is all.”

There was no telling what Meg would do if I were to bring her to Kerulgarz. Just yesterday, her rash talk about curses might well have instigated that ruckus. It most likely hadn’t been intentional, but she seemed to be a natural trickster. I had the feeling something unexpected would happen whenever I got involved with her, for better or worse. Thus, I thought it unwise to take her to these important peace talks.

“Is that so…?”

Surprisingly, she backed off just like that. Thank goodness. She turned to her accompanying butler—or, being a woman, was she still considered a maid, despite her male garments? I supposed it didn’t matter.

“Lydia, send a message to my uncle. The retinue may stand down.”

“Stand down, you say? Certainly. I will see to it at once.”

The woman called Lydia turned to another butler-maid and gave her own order. This servant raced off for the stables and vanished from sight.

“What’s this about a retinue?” I asked Meg.

“Nothing. It’s just that if we won’t be needing my warriors, I thought it best that they return to the castle.”

“From where?”

“From the border with Kerulgarz.”

Well, that was close. If I’d carelessly taken her up on her offer, she had intended to march her elite warriors into the neighboring territory along with us.

“It is unfortunate that I can’t be of any use,” she said, her brow creasing sorrowfully. But the way I looked at it, not putting her to use was clearly a blessing.