Opening the Doors, One by One (3)

They had passed through mountain paths and forest trails perfect for ambush without a whisper of trouble, and even the narrow tracks winding past rivers and hills had been quiet.

And then, of all places, out in the middle of an open plain—

Why out here of all….

At the far edge of his vision, Cariel came upon the scene plain as day: mounted brigands falling upon what looked to be a trading caravan.

The caravan was sizable — four wagons and more than a dozen freight carts in all. Plenty of people in this era launched their trade with a single cart, so this fell short of a grand convoy but could fairly be called mid-scale.

After all, caravans of true magnitude were usually consortia — noble houses, wealthy families, and merchant guilds pooling their goods and traveling together. If this really was a single independent caravan, then it was more than impressive enough in its own right.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Luirin licking her lips.

She was watching them the way one might watch a herd of wounded deer.

"You know, if you turned around right now, you might avoid getting tangled up in this at all? Or you could step in and collect a nice fat reward? Interrogate the bandits, and depending on what you learn, you could even raid their storehouses. Are you really just going to stand there and watch?"

"…."

Shrewd, that one. When profit was on the line, her mind worked with frightening speed.

Was this something she had honed desperately for the sake of survival… or had she simply picked it up along the way, out of necessity?

"So your conclusion is that whichever side we back, we win?"

"Say it once and I've said it enough."

Then that settled it.

Truthfully, it wasn't so much that he stood to gain—

"Who the hell are they?!"

"What, just a couple of brats?"

He hadn't intended to sneak up on anyone, but they too had been watching the perimeter against exactly this kind of surprise — and the mounted bandits spotted them first, racing over to ring them in, shouting whatever came to their lips.

"Where does a couple of wandering vagrants get off crashing a fine affair like this!"

"What's with these little punks? You that desperate to be sold off as slaves?"

"Well, this is convenient! That one's a pretty enough piece — we'll have ourselves some fun with him and then sell—"

That they could afford such leisure meant, presumably, that this affair of theirs had been going smoothly.

Banditry was livelihood, sport, and entertainment all at once.

As with any hunt, the sense of accomplishment was considerable — and hunting beasts filled the belly, fattened the purse, and made daily life easier besides. Hides had a hundred uses and sold well; learn to work them, and better still.

"Wha—?!"

A gust of wind whipped past his side — Luirin had already bolted.

In the blink of an eye that followed, one of the riders took a hit that sent man and horse alike tumbling with a mighty crash, plowing through the earth like a ploughshare. One of the bandit crew lay sprawled across the plain in a wrecked, pitiful heap.

"Hck—!"

"Wh-what?!"

The other two froze solid at the sheer absurdity of the sight.

They had gotten ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠out barely a few words apiece, and already Luirin had personally flattened one of them.

"Spend your breath dying instead of yapping! Drop dead already, you vermin worse than mangy dogs! Who's mocking who, you sons of bitches!"

Before the words were even out, another rider was dragged into the tide of her advance and thrown clean from his saddle.

…The way they'd circled nearby on horseback, deliberately flaunting themselves at the sight of two strangers — that must have grated on Luirin far more than he'd realized.

The moment we appeared in their sight, they too had lost the luxury of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠letting us go. If word of them reached a nearby village or city, a punitive force might well have been raised against them.

Banditry, after all, was a business that demanded discretion.

In some cases it meant cultivating a workable relationship with the local lord — give and take, half in secret.

…Though in most cases they were simply targets for extermination and execution, and how that was handled was ordinarily the lord's jurisdiction.

It was surprisingly common, in fact, for even bandit crews from other territories to be claimed under a regional lord's authority.

Whether to assign blame for the failed policing, treat the bandits as de facto private soldiers, or press them into serfdom or slavery — the answer reshaped the entire legal dispute over the territory.

…Was that something I learned in canon law?

He remembered being taught it, nominally as part of the basic church law every noble was expected to know.

…Though this wasn't the Empire, so the circumstances would differ considerably.

The reasoning, if he recalled, was that because the issue technically fell under church law — and because this was the imperial frontier, where arbitration and official processing from the center came slow — the church itself often ended up handling such matters directly.

"Hk—!"

While he'd been lost in the thought, a handful of bandits came charging in from the press around the caravan, and he met them.

Between a few measured breaths, four had dropped to their knees.

He had cut for the ankles and the legs, aiming deliberately for non-lethal points — they would not be moving easily.

Worried some might still resist even so, he knocked them about with a slam of the pommel and a boot to put them quietly into the dirt.

Arrows and thrown weapons came flying, and he deflected or sidestepped them with ease.

…Thrown weapons, in truth, were only marginally effective across a sliver of situations. Unless one's body was hopelessly sluggish, simply identifying where an attack was coming from made evasion little trouble at all.

…Of course, if an opponent calculated even that — played the psychological game, restricted and controlled the target's movement — then ranged weapons could turn into a genuinely serious threat.

And in large battles and open war, where range, firing arcs, angles, and vantage points were all called out by separate command, none of it mattered much anyway.

"…."

Why am I even thinking about this.

While the quick-footed Luirin handled everything on horseback, Cariel devoted himself to crippling those who pressed the caravan or carried out its capture and slaughter.

Killing them would have raised no complaint — but she'd said sparing them was the better profit.

If one couldn't bear the cost, then killing to smother the danger in advance was a perfectly sound method, to be sure.

But a caravan, by virtue of holding the freedom to travel, occupied a position wholly apart from that of ordinary commoners — a point worth noting even against commoner peers.

Most would call financial authority the heart of it, yet for merchants and caravans whose freedom of movement was guaranteed, financial power was… for all practical purposes, already assured.

Or else they knew the means and methods of obtaining sanction from whichever authority held jurisdiction.

Nobody taught you that part — you had to work it out yourself, and it hardly mattered anyway.

Someone who knows that much can work out more than that, too.

By now half the caravan's attackers were bound or badly wounded, and their will to resist had died with it. A few who fought on to the bitter end spewed blood that would not cool and became corpses, or stood with death staring them in the face — but those meant to live, lived.

Word arrived that thanks to those who had fled, the numbers of any pursuers would be somewhat thinned.

"The ones who scattered will be back before long."

That they even brought horses meant this was no ordinary bandit crew.

As emergency treatment got underway, the caravan master approached, offering thanks wrapped in a warning that was not quite a warning.

"Filthy bastards. They meant to kill every one of us, pen up the survivors, and then — most likely — make off with the entire cargo, passing their plunder off as legitimate trade."

Raid one village and sell or trade the spoils in another, moving between town and city on opposite ends of the road.

…A method that, barely a century ago, had been utterly commonplace. Three hundred years back, there were those who made it their principal enterprise outright.

…That some of those very houses now stood as noble families of the Empire and several other nations was a thing everyone quietly declined to mention.

The present Empire, however, strictly forbade such unsavory practices — and should any be discovered, the organizations involved faced execution and forced conscription into penal labor without exception. Add a charge of murder to the tally, and it was death or public execution, no exemptions.

That too had come from the academy's teachings. Metran Kingdom, it seemed, operated under somewhat different circumstances.

To speak so casually of slipping off with other people's goods and pawning them as trade…

Just as the situation was being brought under control, more than ten additional bandits appeared.

Five of them were mounted, as the others had been.

…Maintaining that many horses — perhaps this was a far larger bandit operation than it had looked?

"No decent stones around."

Cariel drew a sling from his inner pocket.

Luirin startled. "You know how to use that?!"

"…No bow, do I."

"You never once took it out even while we were wandering forests and mountains!"

"…It was unnecessary then."

Out in the forest, if the wind cooperated, he could move faster than a squirrel or a hare — what would he need with it?

It hardly suited him, admittedly, but it beat having nothing.

More to the point — if that entire crowd had come charging at once, he would never have drawn the thing in the first place. But with one of them brazenly aiming a drawn bowstring his way… well. What could he do.

The only real concern was whether his strength would carry the stone that far. He lacked the power for it.

"…Maybe you should just handle it, Luirin?"

"You should have said so from the start!"

And with that she charged — running straight at the oncoming bandits.

Then ran right past them.

"Huh?"

For those who had fully expected to be seized, cut down, or flattened, the sheer gall of a little brat breezing past without so much as a glance left them gaping in bewilderment.

Then she turned — and came running back toward him.

"In here—…."

First he felled two or three with flung stones, and then he too broke into a run.

Behind him waited the caravan's armed guards, held in reserve out of caution — but with most of the fighting men sprawled in the dirt or dead, dumping the rest onto non-combatants would have been an act of sheer cruelty.

"Has the whelp lost his mind?!"

Where did they find the nerve to shout like that?

And who, exactly, was guaranteeing them the time to be shouting it?

He cut across the waist and kicked a knee sideways, snapping it. As fast as he could manage.

These men were not fixated on him — they would think nothing of switching targets and turning on those behind him. The only reason they hadn't opened with hostage-taking was complacency, the assumption that a nobody like him amounted to nothing.

Now, though, they would use every means at their disposal.

He knew it, and so did they.

….

The affair was settled without further loss, and a promised reward was secured. A further agreement followed — that they would travel with the caravan as temporary escorts — and Cariel selected two of the horses the bandits had left behind.

Luirin, seated atop her mount with an ease that outstripped even his, whistled low.

"Guarding a caravan this size means your master's whereabouts are going to get narrowed down sooner or later. You really didn't mind that?"

"…."

No — that part hadn't occurred to me.

But thanks to Luirin, who went and aired it out loud for him—

"That's exactly what you were brooding over, isn't it?"

…He could hardly bring himself to say no, it hadn't, or it slipped my mind.

Apparently he remained woefully blind to the ways of the world.

"You spared them so you could find out where the band's main camp is, right?"

"…No."

"Then why?"

There was something almost pitiless about it — a carelessness that suggested neither squeamishness about slaughter nor any consideration at all.

Though perhaps, to her, all of it was simply self-evident.

"The caravan has to be able to prove the scale of what happened, or they can't make their case."

"…Sorry, what?"

"This happened inside a territory. A failure of public order — whose fault is that? And people died, so if the families of the dead are to receive even a token of consolation, it's better the affair be treated as grave as possible. Handing over the criminals serves that too."

"…Why is a master's teaching fussing over someone else's caravan? Whether they feast or starve, that's their problem, no?"

"If you're going to grant a kindness, grant it thoroughly. You of all people know that."

"I— well, yes, but—"

"And a band of this scale would surely have built up quite the notoriety in the region. Only once they're dealt with and the severity of it is made plain will the lord take the matter properly in hand — and the people will breathe a little easier for it."

"Then what, we hand over everything in their stronghold's treasury to them too?"

Hm.

…Right — that was what she'd been getting at.

He had actually intended to be greedy about it, deliberately, so the lord would be moved to sweep up the remnants himself.

"Take what fits in both hands — that's enough. Don't confuse possession with greed. Silver and gold beyond what your hands can hold is only appetite, and chaos."

"I can carry all of it, though?"

"…."

Hm.

Put that way, out of nowhere, and there was nothing left to say.

"Let me get this straight — you can't spare the time, and you'd rather quash the bandits' infamy across the whole territory and ease the people's suffering, all for the sake of that grand old principle of yours. Very noble. But a man has to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠live like a miser if he wants a full belly, and… oh, right, you were a noble. Never known hunger, so you've no idea what actually matters. An entire life comfortable enough to stake it all on loyalty and honor! How magnificent! Truly befitting a great lord of the aristocracy!"

"…."

"A fallen noble, though — that'd never happen to you, would it? Judging by how little you cling to wealth, it wasn't some inborn refinement at all. You simply started out rich enough to never envy anyone in your life."

"…Think whatever you like."

For the record, both of his parents were the sort to pour out wealth without hesitation wherever it was truly needed.

And yet, when it came to their own comforts, the two of them had been fanatical ascetics.

…With those two above him, had he really lived a life of idle extravagance, wanting for nothing?

"…."

But to say that aloud would be nothing but an excuse dressed in different clothes.

And so Cariel sealed his mouth shut, tight.

"Waaow~ the young master of a great house, as expected! I'm so jealous! Fine then — someday I'll be your handmaid, Master! No wait. Your son's? Your daughter's? I could be their handmaid, at least—"

Watching Luirin carry the mockery on and on, veiling it as flattery with neither end nor sincerity in it—

Cariel delivered a knuckle-rap squarely to the top of her head.

A stone cell.

A barren chamber built of heavy, somber rock — the floor no less than the walls, the ceiling above them. No window pierced it anywhere, so save for a small candle burning low, the interior was endlessly dry, and dark.

There.

A man seated at a wooden chair and desk, carving letters onto yellowed parchment with a small quill, paused for a long while and simply stared at the flame.

Creased seams ran across his face like the folds of a serpent. Faintly mottled eyes — dark striations set against pupils split clean in half, as though a bisected moon had been deliberately grafted onto them. Age had settled into his skin, but his features remained handsome. It was only his expression, perhaps, that made his bearing seem so austere and barren.

He had the look of an established mid-career scholar — and yet, with his long, color-faded white hair spilling down his back, the monk's habit he wore could not make him pass for any ordinary priest. The fabric, dyed a deep russet red, threw off a dim ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sheen in the candlelight, but even that stirred nothing in him.

Clank!

A heavy, rough grinding of iron rang out, as though some bolt had come undone—

Screeeech!

An iron-barred door yawned open with an agonized wail.

"Rupert. My brother of long years. I have come."

A man in the same habit entered, carrying a basket wrapped in cloth, and said it again. A belly that no robe could quite conceal; a clean-shaven chin, save for a lush mustache. He wore the face of the neighbor, the uncle, one might find on any street corner — only his thick gray eyebrows stood out, sharp against it all. His half-grayed hair caught the candlelight and lent him a sinister cast, but there was no one in this room to chide him for it.

He spoke again.

"The hour you foresaw is at hand."

"…."

The silent man — the one called Rupert — set down his quill.

His mottled eyes bored, unblinking, through the dark.

"Truly. You believe it — that a Demon King will be born not in the Demon Realm but in the Middle Realm. That he will be resurrected… and of all beings, that one. Of all places, where the Sword of Grandeus is embedded."

He set the basket down on the cramped desk, and the candle flame shuddered precariously. He peeled back the cloth and drew out a leather pouch, took from it a silver cup, set it down — and even in the moment he tipped the pouch and poured the wine within it generously, without stint, the man with the mottled eyes gave no reaction at all.

"Pour me one. It's been a while, hasn't it."

"Usoff. As ever, my… prophecy will not change. The interpretation may go astray; the content does not. Same as before."

The man with the mottled eyes —

his serpent's pupils suddenly stirred.

"The moment the sword is drawn, we will bear witness to it."

That day.

"The Hero, and the Demon King — on that day, at that place, in the same hour. Yes. In the same place, all together, they shall be born."

The man called Usoff was the first to raise the cup to his lips.

But Rupert, lips parting as though entranced, kept murmuring on — half whisper, half recitation.

They would meet it.

A trial such as none before. A hill of wailing and agony.

…O you whose eyes were blinded by a brief span of peace and ease —

your ending, at last,

comes into view.