The Night the Death Collector Arrives
The sun had long since set, and the late hours of night had wrapped the vast Prairie in a blanket of quiet stars. Vesta found his way to Ashtien’s dwelling without trouble.
“Vesta-nim.”
The warrior on guard at the entrance exchanged greetings with him. She did not stop the champion.
The guard dogs, which had once barked furiously the moment they caught sight of him, now simply yawned and stretched. They had grown used to his scent.
Vesta stood before the door of the dwelling.
“Ashtien. I’m coming in.”
—Mm. Come on in.
The door creaked open. The moment Vesta stepped inside, his eyes took in the array of ornaments and weapons that filled every corner, along with Ashtien herself.
She remained the same mysterious landscape he had first come to know.
Ashtien sat upon the thick carpet of her dwelling, stringing an arrow onto her bow.
“Polishing the bowstring. Wait just a moment.”
“Yes. I’ll wait.”
“Hmm. There’s a strange feeling in the air tonight.”
Vesta made to take a seat, and Ashtien narrowed her brows, clearly trying to remember something.
“Ah. That’s it. It clicked now.”
“…?”
Her smile bloomed, bright and knowing.
“A bowstring should always be left loose when not in use. But if there might be a need to draw it, I leave one strung overnight.”
“Pardon?”
It was a memory that lodged itself in his mind oddly.
“Ah. That time.”
The words had been spoken the first time he had visited her dwelling in the past.
‘I was trembling with terror back then.’
Everything now—except the bowstring and the night—felt different. He could feel how much had changed.
Ashtien must have felt it too. The change in him. Vesta matched her rhythm.
“What did I say? Impressive, aren’t you?”
“Exactly as I said.”
The Khan looked at him, lips curving.
—And.
“Just familiarity.”
Yes. She had definitely said that back then.
Vesta and Ashtien laughed at the same instant—quiet, silly, almost childish. It was an old, harmless joke.
‘But harmless jokes have their own charm.’
Vesta lowered himself onto the carpet. Ashtien set her bow aside, still holding the string.
“So. What shall we talk about tonight?”
This short moment before sleep was their usual ritual. Usually Ashtien would share tales of the Prairie’s legends.
“I have something I wanted to tell you.”
This time it was Vesta who set the topic.
The story of his master.
When speaking to Ashtien, he never said “master.” He called him the benefactor who had saved his life. He did not hide the fact that he had learned the elven tongue from the man.
“Your benefactor?”
Interest flickered in Ashtien’s eyes.
Vesta began to recount the day.
The attack by orcs along the road to the Prairie.
“The orcs ambushed me on the way to the Prairie. The elves saved me, but my benefactor had already been captured. When I tried to flee, they took me with them.”
“I see.”
Ashtien scolded him lightly. He had nothing to say.
Vesta had never forgotten his master.
‘Rather, it was because I could not fully trust you.’
Ashtien had always been kind, yet to Vesta that kindness felt strangely unsettling.
‘He was suspicious of why she treated him so well.’
“So that’s how it came to be.”
“Could you find out more?”
“I can try. It won’t be easy. But I cannot promise a happy ending. You said he was taken by orcs, not elven merchants.”
The Wilderness, the realm the orcs ruled, lay outside Ashtien’s own influence.
“You should have spoken sooner. You rascal.”
Ashtien flicked Vesta’s forehead with one finger.
“Make sure they didn’t eat him.”
“You don’t have to worry. They’re wild beasts. If they were going to eat someone, they’d have done it by now.”
Vesta’s expression hardened. Ashtien reached out and stroked his head.
“They live far more economically than you might think. They know that saving someone is far more profitable than eating them. Usually they keep them as slaves, or sell them off.”
“I see.”
“Your benefactor speaks the elven tongue so well?”
“Yes. He’s an expert.”
“He’ll be fine. The market value is high. Don’t worry too much.”
Vesta nodded. He had faith.
“He’s a strong-willed man. He’ll survive and thrive, just as I did against the orcs. He’ll overcome whatever trials stand before him.”
“First, ask the elves living near the Wilderness for news. Don’t expect miracles.”
Vesta bowed his head.
“Thank you.”
“It’s nothing. When you find him, bring him back to the tribe. I’d like to have dinner with him sometime.”
“That… isn’t a good idea.”
‘He’d cause a ruckus, that’s for sure.’
Vesta had no idea how much commotion the man would stir.
The man who had tried to brew mare’s milk wine to embrace elven culture all by himself.
‘He nearly died when the milk soured midway through.’
[Come on, try it.]
[What is this?]
[Among the elven people of the Prairie, they offer airag to guests all the time.]
[Airag?]
[Ah, it’s made from mare’s milk.]
The smell alone had been off-putting. Vesta had never drunk it. That choice had turned out to be the right one.
Perhaps one of the best decisions of his life.
[Waaah! Wub! Gurgle gurgle]
[Up and down… hup.]
[Queeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek.]
Because of some mistake in the brewing process, his master had spent nearly three days vomiting his guts out.
He had learned then that even “alcohol” could spoil if the strength was too low.
“Hmm.”
Was bringing his master to the elven world truly the right choice? He felt a deep unease.
He had been rude and might have become dependent.
“…He will like it when he arrives at the tribe.”
Vesta answered heavily.
‘What is he doing right now.’
*
The master of Vesta, Ahak, was speaking with a certain man.
“Your brain is different. Are you really going to try it?”
“Yes.”
“Foolish.”
Ahak’s declaration made the man react. His bloodshot eyes locked onto Ahak’s face.
A swallow.
—In any case. What kind of eyes are those.
“Human.”
“Yes. Please speak.”
“Never speak the word ‘foolish’ to me again. Understood?”
“…”
“I’m going.”
*
Orc men gathered around a bonfire, talking among themselves.
“They say the Arrow Princess has taken a human husband.”
“I heard rumors, but is it true?”
“There’s a rumor that the reason the Arrow Princess started all that trouble this spring was because of her son-in-law.”
This spring, the Arrow Princess had captured hundreds of orcs.
“Stupid idiots. They had to poke the one who could poke back.”
“What do you think, old man?”
The question came from an orc using a surprisingly polite tone. The speaker looked toward an elderly orc seated in the place of honor.
The orc elder. Soon to be called the orc elder warrior.
Such figures were rare. Orc society did not actively care for its elders.
Orcs who lived long enough to reach thirty and die were the exception.
Death was always at their side, and the weak were culled. That was orc custom.
In that sense, an orc who had survived until his blue fur turned white must be extraordinary.
On his necklace hung various ears and teeth from different species. A full collection.
“He messed with the wrong person.”
The old orc spoke calmly, and drew his knife.
“And now there’s another fool messing with the wrong person.”
“An ambush?”
“Yes. The numbers… seem to be one.”
The atmosphere froze instantly. The orc warriors scattered sand onto the fire to snuff out the flames. They were hiding their position.
“The moon is bright. This is a foolish act.”
The elder warrior spoke while groping through the darkness.
Piiing!
“!”
He swung the knife he had drawn from the darkness, deflecting the incoming arrow. The orc warriors crouched behind cover and nocked arrows.
“Ku!”
—He pierced the neck.
“Your archery is good. Even with the moon bright… but…”
Still, he did not fear.
The old orc waited.
Soon the warriors would give up on the attack, and the ambusher would step into the open.
A young orc.
“…”
His appearance was anything but ordinary. The skin still smoldering beneath the ugly burn scars, eyes sharp as blades.
“Who are you?”
“Captain.”
Captain. A defeated leader. Strange reply.
“What brings you here?”
“I heard there are technicians nearby, so I came to pay my respects.”
Technician.
Men who had mastered the lethal arts through decades of hunting and war. The elder warrior.
“I want to test that great skill of yours.”
“Arrogant brat. Tsk tsk.”
The old orc spoke, never taking his eyes off him.
A foe who could not be underestimated.
“What is your name? I’ll remember it.”
“Narinhoon.”
Narinhoon Ibahtar.
The end.