Caravan Escort
By the time I came down from the mountain and reached the capital, the sun had already set and evening had settled in.
My condition had started to sour halfway down the slope, and by the time I was passing through the city gates the fever had climbed so high I could barely keep my feet under me. It was far too severe to dismiss as a simple chill from the winter wind.
My steps carried me, almost of their own accord, toward the Adventurers’ Guild.
I showed the receptionist the request form and handed over the items I had gathered. She said something while counting out my pay, but the heat devouring my skull turned every word into a distant blur.
I do remember staggering all the way to the inn. When I next opened my eyes, I was in a familiar room.
Apparently the goblin’s claws had been laced with poison.
I twisted and turned on the sweat-soaked bed while the fever slowly dragged my consciousness under. I spent an entire day laid out by the illness.
“Ah…”
I woke, pushed myself up from the bed, and let out a low groan. The reek of stale sweat rising from my body was enough to make my eyes water. The clothes I still wore were steeped in the same foul smell—soaked through with sweat on the inside and melted snow on the outside. Everything was miserable.
I stripped off every last garment and called for Mary to run errands. She was efficient; growing up in this inn and looking after countless adventurers had clearly taught her well. I scrubbed myself clean with the hot water she brought, then slipped into the thin clothes she had prepared and headed downstairs. They were her own, but our frames were close enough that they fit without trouble.
“Ah, Ceris!”
Ceris… who was that again? It was the name Mary called as she hurried over, beaming.
“Did you come down for something to eat?”
“Ah—yeah.”
Only then did it sink in that Ceris was my name. The one I had chosen on a whim still felt foreign. I had answered to Emily my whole life, after all. From now on I would have to grow used to it. Ceris.
I murmured the name under my breath.
“Thanks for the clothes.”
“Hehe…”
Mary’s cheeks flushed pink at the simple thanks. I smiled at the pleasant sight and found myself a seat. After a full day buried in bed, hunger hit me like a hammer.
Mary was busy—the inn was packed with guests. She clearly wanted a longer chat, but the press of work refused to leave her alone. In the end she hurried off toward the kitchen wearing a small pout.
The plate set before me held the usual appetizing fare, only a little more generous than what the other patrons received. Mary’s doing, no doubt. I moved my fork and let the recent memories surface.
Swordsmanship filled my head. The dazzling dance of moonlight I had woven with my own hands still burned bright behind my eyes. I knew, even sitting here with nothing but a fork in my grip, that I could call that technique forth again at any moment. The nameless sword art had become wholly mine.
And that was exactly why a sharp regret lingered. The more I practiced it, the clearer it became that something still waited beyond. The unfinished moonlight kept reaching for a higher form—one I could only imagine, never truly see. The swordsmanship I had learned was still shallow. You cannot summon what you do not know. In my mind the little girl swordsman simply turned pale shards of moonlight this way and that.
After the meal I used the hair tie Mary had lent me to gather my long, dull-brown hair and pin it up. The lustrous golden threads were gone. Like new shoots waiting for winter to pass, it would take considerable time before my natural blonde returned.
“Heading out?”
“Mm.”
I nodded at Mary’s question and stepped outside. Her quiet wish to grow closer to someone her own age remained stuck in place. She dashed off to take a new order, and I made for the street where adventurers gathered—a place where almost anything could be bought.
My clothes were ruined, so I needed new ones. Armor as well. The mountain had taught me, in the most personal way possible, that sturdy protection could mean the difference between life and death. I had already known as much from the Swordsman Guild’s pamphlets, yet only after feeling it in my bones did I finally resolve to buy some. Without direct experience, knowledge never truly sinks in. The mind of the modern man I once was now regretted every careless decision made on half-baked information.
Still, I knew the regret would not last long. Everything worth knowing is learned by colliding with it head-on until you are broken and worn smooth.
“Welcome~”
The first shop I entered was a leather workshop. Everything from boots to hats lined the shelves; it was hard to find an item they did not carry. The owner who had greeted me so warmly ran his eyes over my small frame—from toes to crown—then settled on the heavy iron sword strapped across my back.
I ignored the scrutiny and walked toward the goods that caught my interest. A deep sigh escaped me as I looked them over. This little girl’s body simply could not wear the impressive, sturdy boots on display. The best I could manage was a pair of neatly finished deerskin boots.
“Those catch your fancy?”
I tried them on and nodded. They fit perfectly. Once the laces were drawn tight they would brace my ankles firmly enough for hard movement.
“The quality’s excellent.”
“Isn’t it?”
A light compliment brought a smile to the owner’s face. I also bought a pair of wrist guards. I would have preferred proper armor that could truly protect me, but I lacked both the coin and any piece that fit my size.
“One gold, seven silver.”
The price he named was steep enough to leave me speechless. For someone whose fantasy knowledge came mostly from games, it was absurd. A great deal of what I thought I knew was clearly going to prove useless. Leather armor was no starter gear here. Properly treated hard leather boasted impressive toughness—and a price to match. If leather cost this much, what would plate armor forged from solid iron run?
“Short on coin?”
He must have misread my silence while I was lost in thought. I was not short; I was simply thinking it was expensive.
“One gold, five silver! That’s as low as I go!”
“Hah…”
I paid at once. I had not even asked for a discount, yet he lowered the price on his own. Such kindness was surely thanks to this bright, pretty face. I beamed and bowed politely.
“Thank you!”
I would be coming back often. No harm in staying on good terms with the owner.
Next I visited a shop that specialized in cloth. A loom clattered away in the depths of the store; to my eyes it looked more for show than actual work.
“Looking for something?”
Unlike the leatherworker, this owner greeted customers with open indifference. I walked past him and browsed the racks. True to a cloth specialist, everyday clothes filled the place in abundance. One garment in particular snared my gaze—what looked for all the world like a medieval padded jacket.
“Gambeson?”
“Ah, so this is a gambeson?”
“Interested?”
I nodded without thinking. Gambeson—I had heard the name before as a type of armor. I never imagined it would look so much like a thick padded coat.
The owner rose, disappeared into the back, and returned with a gambeson sized for someone small. It differed noticeably from the display pieces; the wool stuffing was thinner. The moment I opened my mouth to point it out, he stretched out a thick hand, grabbed a wad of wool from a nearby pile, and began stuffing it into the garment. I stood there open-mouthed as it puffed up, and he tossed the finished gambeson to me.
“Two silver.”
Dirt cheap compared to the leather. I did not pay yet; instead I picked out a few more sets of everyday clothes. The total came to four silver.
The gambeson felt comfortable enough. With all that wool packed inside, it looked more than capable of seeing me through the winter cold.
The next place I headed was considerably noisier. Clang—clang—clang—! Cheerful, ringing impacts filled the air. Even in the depths of winter the street radiated heat. This was where the craftsmen who worked iron and fire gathered—the blacksmiths’ quarter.
Inside the forge the racket was just as fierce. The owner, well aware of the fact, simply dipped his head in greeting rather than trying to shout over the din.
I was looking around when a sword mounted on the wall stopped me cold, mouth hanging open. Its blade ran straight and true, tinted a strange pale blue and so translucent it might have been carved from ice. A chill seeped from it that was no illusion; droplets of water beaded along the steel.
This was no ordinary sword. Something magical had clearly been worked into it. Beneath the display hung an iron plaque bearing the weapon’s name and price.
150G
“Impressive, isn’t it?”
The voice came while I was still lost in admiration. I turned slightly and found the owner, who had been seated a moment ago, now standing right behind me. I had been so absorbed I never noticed his approach.
“Did you make this?”
“Me? No. A piece far beyond my skill. My father forged it.”
Pride colored every word as he gazed at Icicle. I let out a pure sigh of wonder.
“Amazing…”
“Haha!”
The praise clearly pleased him. In high spirits he sold me two decent iron swords for the price of one. Six silver left my purse.
My hands felt far heavier on the way back than they had on the way out. If I had known, I would have brought a bag… I trudged awkwardly toward the inn.
On the fifth day of my stay at Mary’s inn, I decided it was time to leave and take on a new request. Gear shopping had burned through a fair amount of coin; I needed to work harder.
I wrapped myself in a thick wolf-hide hood and slipped out of the inn. The winter wind still cut like a blade.