Those Who Stand at the End (7)
When he opened his eyes, he was on a carriage.
"...What is this."
His mind was hazy even with his eyes open, and Vesta pressed hard at the bridge of his nose.
I clearly remember parting with Ashtien and returning to my tent.
But the scenery before him held no tent at all — it didn't even look like Ainuwail.
"Back with us, are you?"
"That voice is..."
He turned his head, eyes going wide, and there was a familiar face. His master. Ahak.
"Master."
"Oh-ho. So now you bother with honorifics."
"You were taken by the orcs, I'm certain of it..."
Hadn't they parted ways in the Wasteland, as good as forever? Vesta had been seized by the elf slavers, and Ahak dragged off by orcs. A meeting like this should have been impossible.
This isn't real, then.
The excitement drained away.
A pretty vivid dream, though.
The carriage even jolted and swayed just as it should. If last night's memories hadn't been so fuzzy, he might have sunk into it completely.
"Why are you so out of it?"
"Ah, it's nothing."
"Bland as ever."
It felt like their first real conversation in ages. Back in the old days they'd only ever found each other tiresome, but now there was even something welcome about it.
"Where are we?"
The annoyance on the old man's face was plain as day, but he still gave an answer. This was neither the Steppe nor even the Wasteland.
This is the road we passed not long after I met Master.
Probably less than a month after.
So this is from back when I'd only just left the Arena.
When the great rebellion had broken out in the Arena, Vesta had refused to join it and chosen to flee instead.
Nearly died that time.
Breaking through the encirclement had been surprisingly doable. The problem came after the escape — the moment he'd slipped into the crush of the crowd.
Vesta had never once set foot outside the Arena in his entire life. Every scrap of knowledge and every skill he possessed, he had learned within its walls.
Which made him a hardened expert only inside the Arena — and utterly ignorant of the world beyond.
There was nothing he could do out here.
Looking back now it was almost laughable, but the Vesta of those days had been a strange creature who could survive in the Arena yet would starve in the open world.
His strength failing, his wounds beginning to fester, hunger gnawing at him — within days he would have been a dying man.
Back then, this was the thought that kept circling his mind.
So this is freedom?
And that, even as he wasted away.
That was when that man appeared.
"Hmm? What are you staring at?"
Ahak. Vesta's master of the elven tongue.
[You're asking what you should call me? Hmm, becoming a widower would be a bit inconvenient. Having a child in tow counts against you when you remarry, you see. Wait — do elves dislike widowers too?]
Hah. What a madman of a human.
[Listen, brat. From this moment on, you will call me Master.]
"No, Master."
An undeniable madman — but at the same time, the man who had saved Vesta's life.
Someone he owed a great deal to. Which was why he had spent years looking after the old man's affairs.
How many lives have I pulled him out of by now?
As far as Vesta was concerned, the debt was paid in full. What remained between them now was not obligation but friendship. Or so he liked to believe.
"What's gotten into you today, you brat?"
Vesta would wear a faintly rueful expression, then laugh to himself. At other times he'd nod along, looking thoroughly satisfied.
"Have you lost your mind?"
The scrawny little thing he'd first fished out of the gutter had been as expressionless as a block of wood. The old man wondered if the boy had eaten something bad.
"Did you catch a fever or something..."
"No fever. I'm fine."
Brushing aside his master's worry, Vesta stretched himself out.
Loosen the body up.
If not now, there would be no chance.
After all, I have to deal with the raid.
As he watched the scenery roll slowly past, the memories came flooding back — and what would happen next unfolded clearly before him.
"Bandits."
The carriage was about to be attacked.
"What?"
"BANDITS—!"
The driver shouted the exact same words, word for word.
"What the..."
His master's eyes went round as saucers. Watching him, Vesta let out a hearty laugh. It had been a while since he'd seen that flustered, helpless face.
His master was stubborn to the point of tyranny, a man who trusted himself with almost eerie conviction. And yet, every time the unexpected happened, he froze up solid.
"Right. This was when the bandits showed up."
He could speak of it so casually now, but back then it had been a moment of sheer crisis.
Bandits meant raiders on horseback, and the Vesta of that era had no idea how to fight cavalry.
It was only because Master covered me with his crossbow that we drove them off.
Had the old man, hiding inside the carriage, not picked the riders off one by one with his crossbow, things would have turned very dangerous indeed.
"Damn it all. Bandits, here of all places. We're done for."
His master was flailing into a full-blown panic.
Now, where's my sword...
He glanced at his waist and found a blade hanging there. Unexpected.
It wasn't the imperial sword he'd once carried, but the spirit blade Ashtien had given him as a gift.
"...Right. It's a dream."
Perhaps because it was a dream, the blade — which normally refused all answer — slid smoothly from its sheath.
No flames rose from it, though.
"Vesta. What do you think you're doing?"
Ah. So even up to this point, he had no idea I could actually fight.
His master was glaring at him as if to say, don't be an idiot.
"They're on horseback. What do you plan to do with that little sword?"
Vesta snorted.
"What do you think?"
And with that, he leapt from the carriage.
"VESTA—!"
The world spun. Vesta tumbled across the ground and sprang back to his feet.
"A kid fell off the carriage!"
"He's got a sword!"
"Don't kill him! We might be able to sell him!"
One of the mounted bandits came galloping in, swinging a lasso overhead.
Whoosh—
"His lasso work is pathetic."
Vesta snatched the flying loop clean out of the air. The rider's eyes went wide with panic. Holding the rope's knotted loop, Vesta charged straight at him.
"What the—?!"
Neighhh—!
Startled by the human suddenly right in front of it, the horse reared its forelegs high. Vesta flung the lasso over the rising legs.
"Wh-wha—!"
The bandit was still gripping the rope. The instant the horse's hooves came slamming back down, the loop cinched tight and yanked the man's body forward.
"Oh my."
Vesta swung his sword at that plummeting neck.
Thwack. Blood sprayed. Scenting it, the horse panicked and tried to bolt away from him.
"Guess I'd better lend a hand."
Quick as a flash, he stepped into the stirrup and swung himself up.
"What is that brat?! The little bastard stole a horse!"
"Forget selling him! Kill him!"
The horse began to gallop fiercely. It did not refuse Vesta's command, moving exactly as he willed it.
Because he had felt it — the spirit of some great beast slumbering in his own body, and the animal had felt it too.
The horse ran on fear as its fuel.
"Shoot him down with arrows!"
"Don't talk shit! How am I supposed to hit a moving target on horseback? From horseback? Do I look like an elf to you, you bastard?!"
"Less talking, more shooting!"
"Damn you—!"
Twang—
"Oh."
"SHIT—! I hit him!"
Judging by the trajectory, the bandit archer had clearly confirmed his own shot, celebrating far too extravagantly. It looked less like skill and more like dumb luck.
"Hup."
Clang—!
With practiced ease, Vesta swept his blade and cleaved the arrow in two.
"...What."
Dudududu—
While the bandits gaped in disbelief, Vesta drove his mount even harder. The beast beneath him was no famed steed like Gansinbae, and it was already panting desperately from the effort alone.
Doesn't look like a proper warhorse.
It couldn't hold a candle to the steppe's battle-trained mounts.
"What's everyone scared of some brat for?! Just ride him down and crush him!"
A burly bandit blocked the path head-on. His horsemanship was...
"Mediocre."
Was this really the same adversary who had once brought him to the brink? Vesta angled his blade and charged forward without hesitation.
Now.
Thud—
The bandit's head went spinning into the air.
"Uh..."
Leaving that final syllable behind him, Vesta rode on.
Neighhh—.
The horse, unable to bear any more of Vesta's commands, buckled as if it might collapse then and there.
"Can you hold on a little longer?"
The animal's eyes were half-rolled back. Thick drool dripped from its muzzle. Its lungs had hit their limit.
Did I push it too hard?
Horses were beasts of tremendous stamina — but their endurance was not infinite.
A full gallop, the absolute top of their speed, could be sustained for only a few minutes. And the horse Vesta rode was no warhorse like Gansinbae, so its limit would come even sooner.
Whinny—
Push it any further, and the beast would keel over into the dirt. And when it did, they would die together.
"Understood."
Hooking his foot in the stirrup, Vesta dismounted in one fluid motion. It was horsemanship of a caliber these bandits could never hope to imitate.
"There! He's off his horse!"
"You're dead now, you little shit."
Toward the roaring bandits, Vesta walked forward, unhurried, step by steady step.
Twang—
An arrow flew. No wonder their aim took so long — the shot had taken an eternity to arrive.
Clang—
He batted the arrow aside as another bandit spurred his horse into a charge.
It was an intimidating sight, certainly — but not intimidating enough to frighten Vesta.
Really, now.
Did knowing how to handle a horse make a common bandit the equal of Tei of the Altan-gerel?
Not a chance.
The man came swinging low, blade sweeping in from a deep crouch.
Vesta watched the man's hand and shoulder, waiting for the perfect moment — and struck.
"AAAGH!"
The bandit's torso was nearly cut in half at the waist. Gushing blood, he blundered past Vesta, then staggered — struck by a crossbow bolt from who knows where — and crumpled to the ground.
His master, no doubt, delivering the finishing touch.
One left, then.
The last of them, the bandit archer, aimed at Vesta with hands trembling like leaves.
"You... what are you? What the hell are you?"
"A warrior of the Khan of the Wilderness."
"The Khan of the...? Who the hell is th—"
Whoosh— THUNK!
The sword Vesta hurled punched clean through the archer's throat.
"Ghhk...!"
He dropped his bow, clutched at his neck, and fell.
"...That's all of them."
Men he had once risked his life to bring down.
I've grown, haven't I.
He just hadn't expected to confirm it quite like this.
Neigh—
"You did well too."
It was the horse he'd been riding. With eyes still half-rolled, it labored to catch its breath.
Perhaps Vesta frightened it; dragging its exhausted body along, it shied away from him.
"So Gansinbae really was a fine horse after all."
Hardly fair words from the one who'd been riding it, but this creature was nowhere near trustworthy enough to stake his life on. He found himself missing Gansinbae all over again.
Well, of course. That stallion had originally been raised by Ashtien herself. The Khan's own horse, in other words. It was never going to be measured against some bandit's nag.
"Is the carriage all right?"
The carriage hadn't gone anywhere — it sat right where it had, abandoned and forlorn.
The fact that it hadn't fled said something for its loyalty, at least.
His master's head was poking timidly out the carriage window. The dumbfounded look on his face was a sight to behold.
Vesta beamed and waved up at him.
"I wonder if the real Master is safe too."
He was worrying about his master in the waking world when—
"Are you enjoying yourself?"
Someone spoke to him.
"Hm?"
He turned his head.
"Hello, Baatar."
A girl white as snow stood there.