Chapter 95
Chapter 95
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 95
Chapter Title: 31. Words Won't Cut It (2)
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The five dwarves gathered around the campfire stared at me intently.
I handed them wooden cups filled with liquor I'd prepared in advance, signaling they shouldn't hold back.
The dwarves, who had reflexively taken the cups from me, flinched and glanced my way.
I made a show of it, tilting my cup back and downing the liquor in front of them in big gulps.
"Kuh."
Then, with exaggerated flair, I wiped my mouth.
Gulp.
The dwarves swallowed hard.
I refilled my cup to the brim and tossed it back in one go.
After I'd emptied about three cups in quick succession like that, the dwarves—who'd only been watching and swallowing their saliva—finally started chugging theirs.
And that was the beginning.
The dwarves drank like madmen, as if they'd never been wary of me at all.
The amount of liquor they'd polished off would have floored several grown men, yet it vanished in moments.
I summoned the carriage waiting a short distance away. At the sight of the liquor barrels loaded inside, the dwarves gulped audibly.
But that lasted only a moment before they pretended nonchalance, pulling stern faces.
Even as they feigned indifference, their eyes darted wildly toward the barrels on the carriage, their throats bobbing nonstop.
Their expressions were grave and stubborn, yet their bodies were brutally honest.
Dwarves hadn't changed a bit in four hundred years—or now.
A grin spread across my face unbidden.
"As you can see, there's plenty of liquor. Drink your fill."
The dwarves exchanged glances before handing their cups back to me. It wasn't a refusal to drink more.
Each pulled out massive wooden cups from their bags.
Common traveler's cups anyone might carry, but unnecessarily large and finely crafted.
They must have found the small ones I'd given them unsatisfying.
"Ahem."
They sidled up to the carriage with hands clasped behind their backs, sneaking glances at me as they hauled down barrel after barrel. Then each claimed one and started drinking straight from it.
And just like that, the drinking party was underway.
**
Twenty men who dared call themselves the best drinkers had emptied a total of ten barrels before passing out cold.
Yet these five dwarves drained ten barrels—the load of an entire carriage.
And even then, all they said was,
"Only twenty barrels left now."
A lament that the liquor was running low.
That was the first thing the dwarves had uttered after a full day. After that, they fell silent again.
Another day passed.
The dwarves drank more slowly than the day before, perhaps rationing it, but their pace was still brutally harsh by human standards.
How harsh? Even the rangers—who'd held firm through days of fierce orc battles—slipped away from camp under the excuse of hunting game for snacks.
Where had their earlier bravado gone, the boasts of showing these dwarves what real drinkers were made of?
Yorden, who'd left camp, didn't return for a full day.
Not that I could blame him.
Hell, if I could, I'd run too.
I wanted nothing more than to ditch the dwarves, the test, all of it, and escape this vomit-soaked camp.
Gawain was no different.
Too proud to flee outright, but he'd slowed his drinking to a crawl. His eyes had long gone glassy.
Arwen was the only one who still looked somewhat fine.
Her porcelain skin had a faint flush, but her eyes were clear, her posture steady.
"Hoo."
The dwarves murmured in quiet admiration, subtly raising their cups. Arwen responded in kind by lifting hers.
Another day passed.
Yorden, who'd left to hunt game, was nowhere to be seen.
Gawain lay sprawled on the ground, snoring loudly. Arwen, unlike the day before, was swaying drunk, blinking sleepily in a disheveled slump.
Five barrels remained now. The dwarves were openly nursing their drinks.
But their pace was still too much for me to keep up with, and in the end, I got thoroughly wasted.
As I fought the encroaching haze, forcing my eyes to focus, Arwen suddenly spoke up.
"Your Highness. Do you know...?"
It was out of character for her—she never initiated unless spoken to first.
"When I first swore my loyalty to you, all I felt was despair. I thought my life as Knight Arwen Kirguyen was over."
Ah, so she was plastered too.
Her slurred rambling from that lolling tongue showed she'd forgotten all about the dwarves.
"But not anymore."
As I blinked at her sudden confession, I sensed an odd presence.
I turned to see the dwarves casually downing their drinks. Their eyes fixed on the barrels, the night sky, or the fire, but their ears were all perked unmistakably toward us.
Through my power, their whispers flooded my ears.
"Without Your Highness, how could I have known the northern gales' sharpness? Without Your Highness, how could I have reflected on myself at the brink of life and death? I can only be grateful—endlessly grateful."
Arwen looked at me.
Even through the drunken haze, her starry eyes pierced straight through.
She stared at me for a long moment before suddenly shooting to her feet. She wobbled as if about to collapse, then dropped to one knee.
"Your Highness. Arwen Kirguyen swears for life to be Your High... ness's..."
Arwen bowed her head deeply mid-sentence and trailed off. She stayed silent after that.
I ignored the dwarves' mutterings as best I could, rose, and checked on Arwen.
She was out cold, snoring softly, still on one knee with her head bowed.
I'd thought she'd hold out well, but she'd hit her limit after all.
I scooped up her drunken, limp form.
"Ahem."
As I carried her toward the carriage, one dwarf cleared his throat and thumbed toward their own.
"No good lettin' the lass sleep in that rickety junk."
"Put her in ours."
I didn't refuse their kindness.
Their carriage was no ordinary traveler's cart. Dwarves never skimped on function or beauty in their craft—not even for something like a carriage.
Theirs was bound to be as cozy as home, even on the road.
Perfect for Arwen to sober up in.
I pulled back the tent flap.
Inside looked like a whole house shrunk down and plunked in.
I laid her on a bed in one corner.
"Mm."
The dwarf-sized bed was a bit short; she frowned briefly. But she curled up quick, finding a comfortable spot.
Not bad for a short rest.
As I watched her, it hit me: I'd never really talked to her properly.
It had been a year since Arwen started following me, dozens of battlefields we'd shared. Adelia too—always at my side since I woke up.
Yet I'd never once considered their feelings or thoughts.
I'd just taken their presence behind me for granted.
There she was, curled up. Scars dotted her hands, neck, her fine skin here and there.
They'd followed me so desperately, and I'd never once looked back.
I'd practically forced her loyalty oath out of her. Never properly cared for her since. Guilt tugged at me.
"Tch."
I gave Arwen one last look and stepped out.
"Come sit."
The dwarves beckoned me over.
Gawain lay far off, sprawled out. Looked like their courtesy to Arwen stopped short of him.
No one spared a glance at the man rolling drunkenly on the ground.
I eyed Gawain a moment, then joined the dwarves by the fire as they led.
"First kind or second?"
A dwarf asked the moment I sat.
"The sort who lived wild and wised up, or the pampered sort, smooth and well-rounded?"
Only then did I grasp the question and answer.
"First."
"Knew it."
"Knew what?"
"Your eyes—seasoned, not green. That feral stray-dog vibe. Textbook first."
I scowled at the backhanded compliment.
"Show me your sword?"
Ignoring my mood, the dwarf stuck out his hand.
His gaze was on Aurum, at my hip. I unbelted it, scabbard and all, and passed it over.
The dwarf drew Aurum from its sheath.
"This one's name?"
"Dawn's Twilight to me. Twilight's Dusk to its maker."
A flicker of awe crossed his eyes.
"Fine blade. Grand name."
High praise from a dwarf stingy with appraisals.
It felt good—like praise for me too.
Aurum, forged with a master's dying soul, was special to me.
"Treasure her."
An inexplicable gravity laced his voice.
"Her fate is no light thing."
I straightened instinctively, taking her back.
Dwarves don't speak idly of bonds, like elves don't of fates. Nor of a sword's destiny.
If he spoke of it, he'd seen something. Meaning this dwarf was no ordinary one.
Even among master smith dwarves, only the grandmasters glimpsed a blade's fate.
"A Meister?"
He gave me an odd look—neither yes nor no. A hunch struck me.
"No way..."
If right, he was beyond a Meister.
"Prima Meister?"
Grandmaster of grandmasters. One who read not just fate, but a sword's memories. Comparable to an Elder High Elf among elves.
"Pleasure, King Slayer."
King Slayer—for slaying the Warlord. He'd seen through me as I'd seen him.
Here for a few tasks, and I stumble on a heavyweight.
"Call me Turka."
Prima Meister Turka raised his cup with a grin.
Good lord.
That smile sobered me instantly. My foggy mind sharpened.
A groan escaped. My face had hardened without me noticing.
The Prima Meister guarded the Eternal Forge, origin of the dwarf clan.
"Why is a Prima Meister here...?"
They could never leave the forge's side.