What Cause Does a Knight Fight For? (7)
The old knight, calm and kindly through every word until now, spoke all at once in a hard, unyielding tone.
"There is one misunderstanding I ought to clear away. Our knight order has never, under any circumstances, learned necromancy."
"R-right. Of course."
"I will say it again. We have absolutely never learned necromancy. Black magic least of all!"
"Yes. Yes..."
"That armor is nothing more than cutting-edge plate, made through alchemy and the physician's art alone. The materials may be monster bone and muscle, but every piece has been purified with holy water. Ah, and for reference, the power that moves the armor is a spirit we have subdued. As for the Ghost Horses, think of them as contracts struck with the spirits of animals that still have regrets in this world. I would be grateful if there were no misunderstanding on that point."
"You've been insisting there isn't one for a while now..."
"Ahem. D-did I?"
"...You've been wronged a great many times, haven't you?"
"...A great many. Truly, a great many..."
In Ganok's muttering there lingered a deep, old sorrow, and the grievance of countless days gone by. They had probably spent their lives being mistaken for necromancers and black mages—ominous men, the sort people crossed the street to avoid.
Well. Fair enough.
They do look ominous. That's just a fact.
Lee Han let his gaze drift, quietly, over the Hundred Ghosts keeping a zealous watch ahead. Armor was armor, and yet the living ghost-plate could only be taken for something cursed. The Ghost Horses were built from the bones of every kind of beast, blue flame wrapped around their hooves and tails. Where, in any of that, was a person meant to see a knight order?
Cursed Knights. Or the Knights of Death. Either name would fit better.
One thing, though, he could say for certain. However grim they looked, the presence they gave off was perfectly clear. There was none of a spell-slinger's peculiar unpleasantness, none of the gloom and corpse-stink that clung to necromancers. Only the iron and sweat that belonged to knights. So they were simply—
Too far ahead of their time.
A hundred years, give or take? If this world ever grew a taste for subculture and costumes, perhaps then they would be tolerated.
"When I retire, maybe I'll try drawing comic books."
"And what is that?"
"It's a kind of book. More to the point, why aren't you wearing that armor? You said you belonged to the same order."
He was fairly sure he'd heard the man was vice-captain, and yet here he stood alone in thick plate, a black swan among white ones—no. A monstrous bird among swans. Wondering if there was a reason, Lee Han had asked.
"Because taking aid from such implements is a thing I cannot abide!"
"...Ah."
The answer was enough to drive a man mad. In an entirely different sense, Lee Han gave up on understanding him. How was anyone supposed to make sense of a person who seemed to have regressed a hundred years all on his own—no, several hundred? Once again he found himself thinking that a sane man was a rare thing among the knight orders of the great noble houses.
Lee Han's awkward company with the Hundred Ghosts lasted less than ten minutes. Not because they parted ways.
The Captain has returned!!
Open the gates!!
With a deep, grinding rumble, the encampment—the vast camp where Mordred's knights were stationed—opened to receive them.
Even a glance told him the numbers were no small thing. By the presence he felt, roughly five hundred soldiers. Fifty knights. And those who were neither soldier nor knight, somewhere around eighty. Six hundred and thirty in all, a great camp that five years of occupation had left crude, but impressive in its scale.
And that host drew in a sharp breath the moment it confirmed an outsider. Because he walked with Ganok they showed neither hostility nor killing intent, but the spirit of the place was disciplined and keen as a drawn blade.
Not a weak one among them.
The soldiers were the elite of the elite. The knights looked like men who could boast of standing one against a thousand. Even the ones who seemed to be servants, unarmored and unarmed, were not weak.
So this is the real thing.
Set beside them, the branch houses and vassal families of Wales he had broken in a week would have been lucky to scrape a mediocre mark on an exam—and even that would have been generous. These were the sort who took the top rank on a nationwide trial. If they had been out in the world, Lee Han thought, the Wales edition of Game of Thrones would have taken seven years, not one week.
"Wait a moment. First I must see my son—ahem. The family head. Then I will return."
"Take your time, sir. I'll stay right here."
"You may make yourself comfortable, if you wish."
"I'd like to stay alive."
"Ho ho! Such a fuss!"
"...?"
"An amusing jest."
A light clap landed on his shoulder, as if to say an old man should not be made to laugh so hard, and Ganok went on his way. Lee Han tilted his head. He hadn't been joking.
He would have liked to explain, but Ganok was already off about his business.
Wait. Is it really all right for him to just leave?
Thinking back, Lee Han had never stated a purpose at all. The old man had simply convinced himself, marveled, and nodded along. That had been the end of it. Lee Han himself had never managed a word. Which meant—
These people don't actually know anything, do they?
He glanced around. Dead quiet. Had it always been this quiet? He would have bet an Assistant Instructor's wrist that it had not. They were drawn tight with wariness of him, and he was left wondering what he was supposed to do if the old man simply walked off.
So he tapped a shoulder.
"You. Say something."
"Hm?"
"Everyone's on guard."
"Ah. That. Pay it no mind. They are only weaklings, weaker than you. The strong are simply meant to stand alone."
"Quit the bullshit."
"?"
"...Forget it. I'm sorry. I picked the wrong man to talk to."
Freshly aware that he had chosen badly, Lee Han turned to one of the knights who had walked with him until a moment ago.
"Did you hear about me through Spirit Eye too?"
"...The Spirit Eyes we possess are infinitely feeble beside those of Mordred blood. We can only see spirits. We have not the ability to hear their voices, much less converse with them."
"You aren't Mordreds?"
"Aside from our lord, the Captain, the Vice-Captain, and the nine young masters, there is no Mordred blood in this place. We are merely people who came to possess a spiritual gift, whether born with it or gained later. Those of a spirit-medium constitution often have evil spirits cling to them, or bring frequent misfortune down on the people around them, so many are orphans, or live unhappy lives. Mordred has a way of needing such unfortunates. I myself was an orphan until the Captain took me in and made a knight of me. That is why the knights of Mordred are, for the most part, fiercely loyal. Among the knights, at least, no one will try to threaten you. You are the Captain's guest."
"...Thanks for the thorough answer."
"Not at all, sir."
It felt like more than he had needed to hear, but the information wasn't bad. So—
"What's your name?"
"?"
"Your name. Ah—is it a secret?"
By way of thanks, he had decided this man would receive the first gift.
"Ah, no, Sir Santa. I am Denny."
"Denny... Your son's Denny Jr., isn't he? And your wife's Hanna?"
"H-how did you—!?"
"Funny coincidence. Yours was the first letter I got."
The moment Lee Han set his pack down, a tremendous boom shook the ground. It was a small bag, barely large enough for a bedroll. How it could make a sound like that, no one could say, and eyes went wide around him. Then came a soft rustle.
"Here. Your son asked me to pass this on. Says he wants to be a knight, so he's been training with the sword lately."
Denny said nothing.
"This is your wife's letter, and her lunch. What was it—she said the sandwich made with mashed trout is your favorite?"
Still nothing.
"Though your boy also told me it's painfully obvious you choke that tasteless thing down on purpose, and your wife's the only one who doesn't know. I tried one. Respect. She keep you on a short leash?"
"...Ah."
The knight called Denny stared blankly at the lunch tin and the two letters held out to him, his face stripped of any sense that this was real. Then, with a trembling hand, he took the tin, opened the lid, and studied the sandwich.
It was made with health in mind: hard bread of rye, and between the slices boiled trout mashed fine, drowned in olive oil and wine vinegar. The vinegar didn't merely brush the nose. It made a man suspect the sandwich had already turned. Even so—
He ate. Without hesitation, very fast, as if he were starving. In less than a minute all four sandwiches were gone, and he laughed, a little empty.
"...Her cooking still hasn't improved."
"Your wife thinks she's a genius in the kitchen. You should have told her it was awful years ago."
"...Once you are married, you will understand. There come moments when love means you must endure everything."
"Hahaha!"
Lee Han laughed, bright and easy, and Denny clutched the two letters to his chest as if they were a treasure no fortune could buy.
A hush settled over the camp. It was not the silence of wariness from a moment before. Every eye was fixed on Denny's letters, and on Lee Han's pack, and into that stare Lee Han spoke.
He showed them that their longing might actually be answered, and the people shouted their names with everything they had, as if the tension had never existed—faces lifted past all restraint.
In later days, this would be remembered as the very first page of the Santa custom that spread across Wales.