Chapter 57

Translator: Willia

Two corpses lay sprawled in the mud of the road near the cemetery. Yet no one had bothered to collect them. It was truly ironic.

People seemed to go about their daily lives without caring in the slightest, and the lively cries of merchants hawking their wares rang out from the market.

If only for the sake of sanitation, it would have been better to remove the bodies. The fact that no one touched them suggested that it was more than simple laziness or indifference.

The reason, in fact, was the Lokir Merchant Company, which Oder had belonged to. People knew that getting involved for no reason might bring trouble down on their own heads.

A few days after Oder was murdered, a group of hooded figures arrived.

Maggots swarmed over the bodies in places. The severed head had already had its softest parts, the eyes, lips, and tongue, eaten away by insects. There were holes in the cheeks as well, exposing the maggots writhing inside the mouth.

One of the hooded figures rummaged through the corpse with gloved hands. After pulling open the front of its clothes and searching it, the figure apparently failed to find what they wanted. They tossed off their gloves and stood.

The next place they visited was Oder's house. They examined documents and traces of his presence there. There was nothing that could be called a clue.

They left the house again and departed Benholm. One of them carried something covered in black cloth. When the cloth was lifted, a pigeon and a raven could be seen perched inside a cage.

They took out the raven, tied a small note to its leg, and released it.

The raven immediately took flight. Following its training, it flew swiftly toward its appointed destination and arrived late that afternoon at a tall tower attached to a large mansion.

The moment it perched on the windowsill, a man retrieved the note and rewarded the raven with a tasty piece of meat.

He stroked the raven a few times as though praising it, then placed it on a perch inside the room. There were many pigeons and ravens there, and the stench of bird droppings filled the air.

Taking the note with him, he left the room. He descended the spiral staircase for quite some time, left the tower, and crossed a courtyard with a carefully tended garden. He entered a building with a gallery, stopped before one of the rooms, and knocked.

Knock, knock.

“Liaison.”

“Come in.”

The man carrying the note opened the door and entered. A young man with black hair was sitting behind a desk, attending to his work.

He raised his head and looked at the liaison. His hair was long enough to brush his shoulders, and he was a handsome man with relatively gentle features.

His eyes, however, were full of certainty and confidence, giving him an air of strong, easy composure.

“What is it?”

“A raven messenger.”

A raven messenger was an emergency message bird sent only when something required immediate attention. Pigeons were normally used.

“......Is that so?”

The liaison approached and handed him the small rolled-up note. The man set down his pen and unfolded it.

<Tax collection agent dead. Deed granting tax collection rights missing. No significant clues regarding the death. Believed to have been assassinated by a skilled assassin.>

He stared quietly at the note, then casually tossed it onto one corner of the broad desk as though it were nothing important.

“Hmm...... Send for Mas.”

“Understood.”

The liaison left the office, and a short while later, a man named Mas entered. He had a genial face and was somewhat portly.

“You sent for me, Young Master?”

“Our tax collection agent was assassinated.”

“......Was it the Aria Merchant Company?”

The Aria Merchant Company was one of the Lokir Merchant Company's many competitors. Lokir overwhelmingly surpassed it in size, but Aria had deep regional roots, so it could not simply be crushed outright.

“You think so too?”

“For now, those bastards are the only ones that come to mind.”

“Then pick five suitable people from their side and kill them.”

“Without investigating further?”

“As you know, we have many enemies. Aria is only one of them. What matters isn't the truth, but the result. We need to show people a result quickly, so they know what happens when they lay a hand on us. If one of ours dies, the price is fivefold. In the end, this sort of thing is just another calculation.”

“Understood. I'll see to it.”

“Make it a punishment. Simply killing them isn't the only objective. Hang their heads somewhere crowded or throw their bodies where plenty of people will see them. Make it as shocking as possible. Cut their bellies open so their entrails are on full display.”

“Understood.”

“Ah, and I'll execute the last one myself. Somewhere within Westlanding would be best. We should send that cowardly count a warning as well. And make sure the true culprit feels properly afraid.”

The reason for warning the Count of Westlanding was that he had borrowed a great deal of money from the Lokir Merchant Company and had failed to repay it on time. In truth, the tax collection rights were little more than pocket change.

“I'll arrange it.”

“You may go.”

Mas bowed to the young man and left the office.

The man returned to his paperwork. Who knew how much time had passed before someone rudely flung the door open.

No one in the Lokir Merchant Company dared disturb his peace and quiet. There were only two exceptions: his father and his younger sister.

“Brother!”

A clear, high voice as sweet as an oriole's song seemed to pierce through the office, and in swept a girl every bit as dazzling and adorable as her voice.

Her blond hair was braided and pinned up, adorned with ornaments set with jewels of every color. They were extraordinarily extravagant. With a little exaggeration, it looked as though selling the ornaments alone could buy an entire fief.

And that was hardly all. Between her necklace, earrings, brooches, rings, and everything else, she looked almost like a walking jewelry exhibition.

She appeared to be around fourteen or fifteen years old, and the beauty that could only exist on the boundary between girlhood and womanhood outshone even all those ornaments.

There was no question that anyone who saw her would call her beautiful.

For some reason, however, she was in a terrible mood. Thoroughly sulky, she shot her older brother a sidelong glare.

The man looked troubled, yet a faint smile crept onto his face.

“Lucy, I told you not to disturb me while I'm working.”

The girl's name was Lucilia, and Lucy was her pet name.

“You can actually say that to me right now?”

“What do you mean? Explain it slowly.”

“The treasure. The treasure! Sigurd the Dragon-Slayer's holy relic. I heard you're giving it to the Valkyrie. How could you?”

“Who told you that?”

“Does that matter right now?!”

Lucilia shrieked. The man apparently realized he had made a mistake, because his expression immediately turned regretful. He hurriedly rose and approached his sister.

He gently took her arm as though consoling her and spoke.

“I'm sorry, Lucy. But it's for the sake of the family. You know you're the only woman in this world I love.”

“Then why are you trying to marry that Valkyrie woman?”

“As I said, it's for the sake of the family......”

“Didn't you say you'd make me shine brighter than anyone in the world? Then why are you giving even the most precious treasure in the world to her? The marriage, being the brightest of all, she gets everything.”

To anyone else, it might have looked like nothing more than petty jealousy. To Lucilia, however, it was the most unfair and heartbreaking thing in the world.

She had been born the only daughter of House Lokir, the family that led the Lokir Merchant Company, and had grown up surrounded by everyone's attention and affection.

She knew little of the ways of the world, but she was not ill-natured and was capable of being considerate. Her unhappiness had begun only after a woman appeared who received as much attention as she did, perhaps even more.

People who used to visit her stopped coming, the amount of attention she received dwindled, and everyone seemed interested only in currying favor with the Valkyrie. It had gotten to the point where Lucilia even felt as though she herself had become worthless.

Anyone who lived worrying whether they would manage even one meal a day would have found the whole thing absurd, but the feelings themselves were genuine. Tears began to stream down her face.

Seeing her like that, the man wore the saddest, most heartbroken expression in the world and gently wrapped his younger sister in his arms.

“I'm sorry. It's because your brother is inadequate. Blame me if you must. But please believe just one thing. You're the only one I have. No other woman can take my love from you. My love already belongs to you.”

With that, he gently tilted up his sister's chin and kissed her.

“Luke......”

Lucilia called him not Brother, but by his pet name.

Lucas was his real name. He was House Lokir's only son and the elder of its two children. With his father bedridden by illness, he was also the one effectively running the vast merchant company in his stead.

He possessed both meticulousness and boldness, and despite his young age, people already said his business acumen surpassed even his father's.

In any case, it was hard to say whether this was the kind of thing siblings normally did, and quite a few people privately suspected there was something questionable about their relationship.

They were simply too intimidated by the merchant company's power to ever say it aloud.

On a tranquil night, the stars shimmered as they sang in silence.

A wagon had been stopped by the side of the paved road, while the horses, freed from their harnesses, grazed leisurely on the grass.

Beside the parked wagon was something short of a proper tent, merely a rough canopy of cloth, beneath which a campfire burned.

“Hook it there. Your pinky. Then pick this up.”

Knut spoke. They seemed to be playing cat's cradle, with Knut, Yorik, and Ivy taking turns holding the string.

But whether Yorik simply could not move his fingers properly or was hopeless at learning it, he caught the string strangely and ended up tangling the whole thing.

“No, you have to spread it upward from underneath. What are you doing just pulling on it?”

“Ah, I'm worried that if I mess it up, I'll lose the loops around my fingers.”

“Wait a moment. I'll untangle it. Stay just like that.”

Ivy spoke. Now that she had been washed clean, she was quite an adorable child, with long blond hair left loose and large eyes. Whenever her eyes moved, they looked like smooth marbles rolling around.

Yorik, however, frowned and snapped at Ivy.

“What would a kid who used to milk sheep know?”

Despite saying that, he still held his hands out for her to have a try at fixing it.

Knut chided him instead.

“You were a pickpocket, and your hands are this clumsy?”

“Pickpocketing only needs these two fingers. You don't use your whole hand like this. Only amateurs use all their fingers. That's how they get caught and have their hands cut off at the wrist. Pickpocketing is its own kind of life-or-death sword fight.”

“Why are you proud of that......”

Meanwhile, Ivy concentrated on tugging and looping each strand one at a time. When she finally spread the string open, it somehow formed a shape like a star.

“Oh, that's impressive. Yorik, we don't need you anymore. Go away.”

Knut's eyes widened in admiration before he coldly dismissed Yorik. Naturally, Yorik's face soured, and he glared at Ivy for no particular reason.

He left his spot while muttering that it wasn't as though he'd wanted to play, and that he'd only been humoring them.

The only place left for him to go was beside Valery. Valery was sitting on a flat rock, nibbling on boiled green soybeans.

Valery often, in fact quite frequently, spent long stretches alone in contemplation. He was not particularly deep in thought just then, but solitude seemed to fit him better than any other garment in the world.

Ironically, that also meant he did not look particularly lonely even when he was alone.

Yorik sat down beside him, interrupting his not-quite-contemplation.

“Adults like us aren't suited to childish games like that.”

“True.”

“He really does have a childish streak, I'm telling you. You know that as well as anyone, Valery.”

“Right.”

“The fact that he gets along so well with a ten-year-old proves it.”

“True.”

“Am I bothering you?”

“No.”

Valery was only half-listening and letting most of it go in one ear and out the other, but he knew Yorik was acting this way out of pointless jealousy.

Until now, Yorik had been closer to Knut than anyone, looking after him and keeping him company. Over the past few days, however, Knut had grown close to Ivy, which had made Yorik sulky.

Valery did not think jealousy was necessarily a negative emotion. It was merely one of the feelings any human being naturally experienced, and he believed that if it was expressed appropriately, it could even be healthy.

A little harmless badmouthing behind someone's back was one way of doing that.

“How'd some country wench like that end up joining us? Let's ditch her at the next city.”

“No. That's for her to decide.”

“Then shouldn't you teach her the pecking order a little, Valery?”

“What pecking order?”

“Technically, she's the newcomer, isn't she? If this were the Thieves' Guild, she wouldn't have dared even speak to me. The gap between us is this huge. This huge.”

Yorik spread his arms wide.

“Then why haven't you taught her the pecking order yourself?”

“Well, she's still a kid, for all that......”

“Same goes for me.”

“Still, the age gap between you two is smaller, isn't it?”

“What are you talking about? What kind of hierarchy are you even using?”

“If we're ranking by strength, you're obviously at the top, Valery. But if we're ranking by age, I'm the highest, aren't I? You're the one who said even ledgers have to be kept in duplicate to be accurate.”

Valery was so dumbfounded that a laugh escaped him. Yorik had apparently been joking too, because the moment he got a laugh out of Valery, he grinned in satisfaction.

The atmosphere was pleasantly light and comfortable. It made Valery feel lighter too.

A short while later, however, Snow did something he normally never did and began blowing noisily through his nostrils. Prrr, prrr. It almost seemed as though he were making the sound deliberately, and Valery naturally turned toward him.

At the boundary between light and darkness stood a man. He was so tall, with shoulders as broad as a mountain range, that at first Valery wondered if a werewolf was standing there.

It was already night, and the man's clothing made him look even darker, dressed as he was in a dark monastic habit. More precisely, he was a warrior monk, a man wearing armor beneath his habit with a sword at his waist.

He appeared to be carrying something on his back, and exhaustion was plain on his face. After peering cautiously toward the group, he looked at Valery and spoke.

“May we share your fire? I have a sick man with me. It isn't contagious. It's simply the infirmities of old age. Please.”

He was speaking to them, yet somehow Valery felt as though he had come face-to-face with a wild animal. Meeting strangers on the road was like that. Especially when one of them possessed such an overwhelmingly large physique, his very existence felt threatening.

Valery stared calmly and directly into the man's eyes for a moment, then nodded.

“Very well.”

The warrior monk approached. Knut and Ivy, who had been playing cat's cradle, also turned to look at the stranger. He was so tall that they had to crane their heads all the way back to see his face.

The warrior monk was carrying someone on his back, an old man whose hair and beard had both gone completely white.

He carefully laid the old man down, then took out a waterskin so he could wet his throat. But not a single drop of water remained. Looking troubled, he glanced toward Valery's group.

“Wait a moment.”

Valery went to the cargo section of the wagon and returned with a bottle of oil, water, several simple herbs for first aid, and some emergency medicine. Then he brought them over and examined the old man's condition.

Judging from the old man's skin and temperature, he did not appear to be suffering from any particular illness. Considering that even the powerfully built young monk looked exhausted, it seemed the old man had simply been worn down by a harsh journey at his advanced age.

So Valery did not apply any particular medicine. Instead, he gave the old man some oil and water, then ground herbs into powder, mixed them into more water, and made him drink that as well.

The old man had been half-conscious. After taking in some water, he barely managed to look around before speaking as though he were leaving his final words, then fell asleep.

“Thank you......”

Valery soaked a towel in water, wiped the old man's face, and laid it across his forehead. Then he spoke to the young monk.

“Wet it again and replace it regularly.”

“......Thank you. I did not think there were still righteous men in a world like this.”

“I only helped because I had the means. If I hadn't, I would have pretended not to see.”

“That is only natural.”

“By the way, are you on pilgrimage?”

“Not exactly......”

The young monk trailed off. His short blond hair was plastered down with sweat. He wiped his face, ran a hand through his hair, then continued.

“There is a traitor. He was once one of our brothers, but he stole a holy relic and fled. Father and I are tracking him.”

“What relic?”

“The holy skull of Sigurd the Dragon-Slayer.”

With that, he stood, loosened his belt, and removed his monastic habit. Beneath it he wore chainmail and a surcoat, with an emblem depicting a skull at the center of a cross.

Amulet-like objects had also been fastened here and there with red wax. The outfit was peculiar, solemn in a way, yet also frightening and bizarre.

“We honor the saint's spirit of sacrifice and train ourselves by following his ideals and his life. We are the Jómsvíkingr, who revere truth, preserve chastity, and hold courage, trustworthiness, and a disciplined life as our creed. You have done us the grace of saving our lives in this difficult hour. I will be certain to repay that grace.”

It was the first Valery had ever heard of Sigurd the Dragon-Slayer having any particular philosophy to speak of, but the Jómsvíkingr were far too famous for him not to know about them.

The Jómsvíkingr were a group that practically worshiped Sigurd the Dragon-Slayer as a god, serving both as a monastic order and a mercenary company.

During the Conquest War, they had charged at the very forefront of the fighting more than anyone else, and the decisive roles they played in several famous battles had become the stuff of legend and myth.

Yet because they were loyal only to the king, they were equally famous for refusing to involve themselves in the Succession War at all.

Members were chosen through strict trials that tested everything from physical health and martial skill to courage and self-restraint. Once accepted, they were required to maintain chastity and discipline for the rest of their lives.

They spent nearly their entire lives at Jómsborg, their headquarters on the island of Jóm. There was even a saying that when they moved, invincibility itself moved, for the group had never suffered a single defeat in its entire history.

It was hard to believe that people like them could have had their holy relic stolen and ended up in such a wretched state.

Then again, considering their strict discipline and how little they involved themselves in the affairs of the world, perhaps something this absurd was entirely possible.

“I don't follow your faith. But it seems our ways of life overlap in some respects. If our road leads the same way, you're welcome to travel with us for a while.”

Valery readily extended the offer.

“......Thank you.”

“What is your name?”

“Sigbold.”

“Bold victory.”

“And yours?”

“Valery. This is Yorik, and those two are Knut and Ivy.”

“A pleasure, Valery. And all of you. Thank you. I will pray that Heaven be with you.”

Then he sat upright, clasped his hands together, and offered a solemn prayer. With his eyes squeezed shut, he murmured with such absolute seriousness and earnestness that it was almost frightening.

A warrior of that caliber would have cost a considerable sum to hire. In that sense, if he traveled with them, Valery's group ought to have been the grateful ones.

But Valery had not offered his kindness after doing the calculation, as someone else might have. Nor had it been out of sympathy or pity.

It was simply that when people's paths through life happened to overlap, they could travel together for a while.