The Smell of Grilling Shad
Gizzard shad.
There is a saying in the East that if you grill gizzard shad, even a runaway daughter-in-law will come home. Some claim it is because the grilled fish tastes so good. Others say it is because the smell is so similar to that of a mother-in-law being cremated—the stench of a burning corpse.
Whatever the reason, the thought rose unbidden now, because Ren was watching his parents’ bodies burn with his own eyes.
After he had begged for help the day before, they had agreed—fortunately, because he was still young.
When he returned to the village that morning, what greeted him were the remains of Jenny and his parents. Only Jenny’s lower half was left. Of his father, nothing but the head. Of his mother, only the torso. Everything else was scattered scraps of flesh and dark stains of blood.
The troll was gone—fled, or moved on to another village. Nothing of it remained here.
In Midgard, funerals—or more precisely, the funerals practiced by these mercenaries—were traditionally cremations. Only when the flesh was burned away, they said, would the soul stop wandering and pass cleanly into the afterlife. It also sealed off any chance of rising again as undead.
The smell of burning corpses was thoroughly revolting. They were unmistakably his parents’ bodies, yet all he felt was a strange, muted melancholy. He ought to have been weeping.
Ren wondered, with a kind of detached curiosity, why his heart was so numb. Was it because he had been born through the peculiar route of reincarnation? He had lived with them for fifteen years. To feel so little attachment… perhaps he had taken a blow to the head at birth.
Or maybe he had simply been born a psychopath. No—that could not be it. Psychopaths failed to empathize with others; they felt for themselves without limit.
A hand settled on his shoulder. Ren turned before he could think. The woman was nearly his height. White hair, pale skin, eyes of a severe three-white cast with a subtle upward tilt at the corners. The pointed tips of her ears marked her as an elf. Her beauty was sharp enough that he guessed she was nearly pure-blooded.
The priest had once explained that elves were pitiful creatures forged for the purpose of breeding with demons, and that they had been given extraordinary beauty to match that purpose. Now, after the great catastrophe that had produced so many half-elves, the only real measures of how thick or thin an elf’s blood ran were the shape of the ears and the fineness of the face.
“Hmm. Doesn’t feel real yet, does it.”
Her tone was flat, almost indifferent. Ren was certain she was the one who had pressed a blade to his back the day before. The husky, androgynous voice matched, as did the long white hair and the dagger at her hip. Her name, he recalled, was Erika.
He remembered the fragments of talk he had heard before sleep. They belonged to the Ewaz Merchant Group… closer to brokers and informants than to ordinary mercenaries… a long, dull, pedantic monologue that had washed over him without leaving much behind.
Of course he had paid it no mind. They were strangers, and he had not cared. He had simply seized the rope that was offered because he needed help that very moment. Whether the rope was gilded or silver-plated meant nothing. So long as it was not rotten, that was enough.
Fortunately, it seemed to be a decent length of well-oiled hemp—not a thin twine, but a solid, serviceable rope.
“What do you plan to do from here?”
She settled quietly beside him—not truly sitting, but crouching on her heels. She watched the fire crackle and spit as the logs burned, then tossed the question out as if it cost her nothing.
Ren had no answer. He had never made plans for the future. Until yesterday he had simply fled, clinging to life by pure stubbornness; before that, he had only gathered herbs for his ailing father. He had lived like any ordinary commoner, day to day. There had been no grand cause. A quiet, ordinary life had been the entire goal. And the road leading to that goal had collapsed beneath him—or rather, a natural disaster had torn it away. It had never been a path he could have defended even if he had tried.
He turned his head and looked at Erika. Her profile was beautiful, cold, and hard. The low voice suited that face perfectly.
“…You haven’t decided anything yet, have you. Your mind’s still in chaos.”
“…”
When Ren only nodded faintly, she looked away again. Watching a log spit sparks, she continued.
“We’re going to finish the village’s funeral rites and leave. If you want to come with us, say so now.”
It was a proposal—or perhaps a threat. By demanding an answer now, she cut off any chance of asking later. For him, the choice was cruelly harsh.
This was not even a proper funeral for his parents; it was simply burning. Rebuilding the village was a dream beyond dreaming. He had no skills, no money. All he possessed was a young body.
He had never heard of relatives, never visited any.
“…”
Erika straightened, brushing dust from her cloak, and looked down at the crouching boy. Her gaze was sharp enough that meeting it was difficult.
“…Is there any other path open to me?”
“There isn’t. That’s why I’m offering.”
She answered without hesitation, closing off his retreat with the same quiet skill, maneuvering him toward acceptance. Ren slowly lowered his head again. Accepting was not easy either. He did not know whether these people could be trusted, or even who they truly were.
He had no information. For all he knew they meant to sell him into fine slavery. This world still seemed thick with the slave trade, and the priest had endlessly stressed that every race was equal—which might mean, conversely, that they were not equal at all, and that was why the point needed so much emphasis.
Someone who became an orphan overnight, with no one left who knew him, could be enslaved or murdered without consequence.
But what would change if he refused to follow them? If the troll returned—cold sweat slid down his back. His body felt slightly feverish.
“…Are you all right?”
Just as his focus on the world around him began to slip, a hand touched his shoulder again. This time the warmth was different—genuine heat.
Ren turned in surprise. She was smiling faintly. It was not mockery. If mockery looked like that smile, she would have been a fool—or a genius of performance. Fools and geniuses are only a single sheet of paper apart…
“…I’ll go.”
He spoke as though forcing out a heavy breath. For a moment the weight inside him seemed to lift. The relief lasted less than five seconds before a heavier burden settled in its place.
Something was going to happen. Of course, living without anything ever happening was impossible—but he had the distinct sense that he had just deliberately fed a larger fire.
“…Then follow me.”
Erika spoke to him, though she was no longer looking at him. She only turned her head and gave a light nod of the chin.
They traveled by carriage. Ren was little more than an extra body wedged among them. They introduced themselves to him one by one.
The old man from the day before was Naudiz Ewaz. He was the leader of this team and held a fairly high position within the Ewaz Merchant Group.
The short, thickly bearded man beside him—clearly a dwarf—was Lit Ewaz. He had originally been a blacksmith, but after killing a clever man he had fled and taken refuge with the group.
Everything was delivered by Erika as she came over and recited the facts. Because of that the introductions were brief and rough. The remaining members, she said, were not important; she gave only their names in passing. Falar and Galar—both dwarves, and brothers.
“…The Ewaz Merchant Group is important enough that you should know a few things before we go further.”
She explained various matters: roughly what the group did, how work was assigned inside the organization, how much money one could expect, and how much danger came with it. And after every point she added the same quiet rider:
“Of course, I’m quite capable, so I’ll be fine. You’re the one I’m worried about.”
For a fleeting moment Ren wondered whether she might actually be more entertaining than she seemed. The cold set of her eyes that followed immediately afterward made him drop the thought at once.
The carriage continued along the forest road. Though it looked like a mere woodland track, she told him it was a trade route within Midgard.
The continent’s trade roads were divided into two great arteries—the northern and the southern. Both passed through the kingdom whose name meant “the land in the middle,” Midgard. This path belonged to the southern route. It was surprisingly close to the rural village; that fact alone felt strange.
Perhaps the troll had appeared on the trade road and simply wandered as far as the village where he had lived. He decided not to pursue the thought any further. Further thought would only make things harder for him.
The carriage jolted. Then it slammed to a sudden halt, the cargo bed lurching hard. If Erika had not caught him, he would certainly have been thrown out.
“…What’s going on?”
“Troll.”
The old man’s question was answered by the dwarf brothers. In the next breath Erika vaulted over the side of the carriage and sprinted forward.