Soaring Wolves (2)
Roy's plan hit a minor snag.
Before the baron would let him launch the business, he asked that weapons for the mercenaries be forged first — free of charge, not for sale.
The baron would cover the cost of materials and offered Roy ten gold coins plus a fine sword as his fee.
Well, nothing for it, then.
As lord of the territory, the baron carried a heavy sense of responsibility. Even though the mercenaries were hired men, they were the ones holding the line in his place, and he wanted to give them every edge he could. With no troops of his own to spare, weapons were the next best thing he could send.
"Understood. We'll open the business once autumn has passed safely. There's no rush. Taking the time to prepare properly and start on firm footing may not be such a bad idea."
The baron was thoroughly pleased with Roy's answer.
Not as if I'm losing anything by it, either.
Roy, for his part, was thinking along different lines. He pictured the mercenaries hunting monsters with the new weapons and hauling back every kind of material he could put to use. And the advertising value alone was nothing to dismiss. Considering how many men the Sword Mercenary Group fielded across the continent, every last one of them might become his customer someday.
Business is about looking far and aiming high.
The baron was footing the entire bill, and a more stable territory was something Roy wanted for himself as well. Having accepted the proposal without hesitation, he immediately contacted the smithy and the general goods shop, secured his materials, and set to work.
In only a few days, dozens of magic-enchanted weapons were ready and shipped straight to the mercenary company. Mass-producing low-grade pieces was no great challenge once the materials were on hand — Roy's mana reserves had swollen far beyond anything he had possessed in his previous life.
"You sent for me."
Even after that work was finished, the baron's orders showed no sign of ending. Roy presented himself at the study when summoned.
"Roy. You said that enchantment of yours works on armor and accessories as well, didn't you? Can it be applied to things my family and the stewards use?"
"Yes. I can craft what I call a guardian amulet — something that will absorb a sudden accident at least once. It isn't all-powerful, of course."
"Is that so? Roughly what level of protection?"
"It depends on the materials and the method, but I can set it so a light slap won't trigger it, while a serious blow — say, a weapon strike that would otherwise take off a limb — is nullified once. Armor is out of the question at this stage; we simply don't have the materials, and no one walks around in full plate all day. Guardian amulets are the better choice."
"I see. Begin production at once. I'll cover every expense. And for the pieces my family will wear…"
"I'll prepare the highest grade I can manage."
"Good. Contact the merchants, draw up estimates, and bring them to my study. For this job I'll see that you keep a tenth of the profit."
"Yes. Thank you."
The baron no longer treated Roy as a mere seven-year-old. Whenever they spoke of work, he addressed him almost as he would an adult. For Roy, who had always found his child's body stifling, the arrangement was not unwelcome — though it had its drawbacks.
He may treat me like a grown man, but he's still the lord and my father. I'm still the son and the subordinate.
Being issued orders instead of requests grated a little. Roy decided not to let it bother him. There were other places to find his advantage.
The baron had no precise idea how much of each material an enchantment required. With the mass-produced lower-grade goods, a simple comparison of material estimates against finished quantities would have given him a fair sense of the costs. But the expense of a truly useful amulet varied wildly depending on the quality Roy chose to craft.
"Heh heh heh… just you wait."
Roy ordered far more materials than he actually needed and began quietly stockpiling the surplus mana solution for other uses. On top of the tenth the baron had promised, he had started filling a second pocket of his own.
Greenhilt Territory, in the southeastern reaches of the Steel Kingdom.
A wagon had just arrived at Wolf Tail Hill, the southernmost point of the barony. Padec and Galbert of the Sword Mercenary Group had personally escorted the cart all the way from the city. The escort itself was thin, and at a glance the wagon looked like nothing more than a plain supply cart loaded with rations.
The mercenaries, scraping by day after day without their commander, took one look at the unimpressive arrival and let out involuntary sighs.
"Guess reinforcements were a no-go again?"
"Doesn't look like they're dissolving the branch, not if they sent a wagon. But why more food? We're already so short-handed the numbers aren't dropping."
"Must be telling us to stuff ourselves before we die. Like they think we're beggars or something."
When no additional fighters appeared, the snide remarks started flying from every side. One mercenary jogged over to Padec as he dismounted and asked him outright.
"Branch leader. No support this time either?"
Padec answered with a slight nod.
"Damn those bastards!"
Someone hurled a pig-thigh bone along with the curse; it clanged off a cooking pot with a racket that filled the camp.
Who did they think they were, behaving like that? The Sword Mercenary Group was no rabble. Its discipline ran stricter than most standing armies. But when things sank this low, the rot was bound to break open from within. The cracks were already spreading beyond anyone's control.
It was Galbert, newly raised to deputy branch leader, who stepped forward.
"Which of you sons of bitches is throwing a fit over food!"
The man who had flung the bone came out to face him, pig grease still smeared thick around his mouth.
"You said if things got bad you'd dissolve the branch — and this is what we get? Coming back empty-handed is the same as telling us to die right here!"
"You little—"
"That's enough!"
The air between them was hot enough for fists when Padec raised his voice.
"Galbert. Don't waste your strength. Show them."
"Right now? We could wait until the orcs start moving in force—"
"No. We don't wait. We go on the offensive. Starting tomorrow."
"Understood."
The mercenaries around them couldn't follow the exchange. Murmurs rose — what on earth were the two of them talking about?
"Offensive with this many men? Have they lost their minds?"
"Shh. They'll hear you, idiot."
Galbert's ears itched, but he climbed onto the wagon as ordered and began rooting through the cargo. Chickens brought along for fresh eggs squawked in noisy protest. The item he wanted had been stowed deep in the back, and it took a good deal of digging to reach it.
Thud.
A moment later a large wooden crate sat in the middle of the makeshift camp. The clink of metal from inside told everyone it held weapons. Any mercenary who'd spent enough years in the trade could guess the contents from the sound alone.
Galbert tore the nailed lid off by force. Swords packed the crate — ordinary mass-produced iron blades of the kind sold in any city smithy, without even cheap leather scabbards. Seeing more straw than rabbit hide stuffed between them to keep the edges from nicking, the mercenaries sighed all over again.
"You've got to be kidding me."
"Nobody asked for weapons. We asked for more heads."
Through the rising mockery, Galbert calmly lifted one of the swords. Then he leveled it straight at the man who had thrown the pig bone.
The man staggered back in shock and drew the sword at his own hip.
"W-what… what do you think you're doing!?"
Without another word, Galbert swung at him.
Whoosh — whoosh — whoosh—
A severed blade spun through the air and clattered to the ground nearby. Galbert had aimed for the other man's sword from the start. The upward cut meant the flying edge never threatened the onlookers — but everyone watching still jumped.
The sword the mercenary had drawn was quality steel, bought with real money, in a completely different class from the cheap iron in the crate. Yet a single stroke from Galbert had sheared it cleanly in two. There had been no trace of mana around the blow. No wonder they were stunned.
"These are the weapons you'll be using from now on!"
Galbert raised his voice.
"Take a good look. This isn't something you can just grab because you want one."
He let mana flow into the blade. A razor-edged aura bloomed along its length, the same fierce light that had once wrapped the magic dagger he had boasted about two years earlier.
Mercenaries crowded in from every side.
"Boss. Is that for real? Do I get one too?"
"Senior — can I have one?"
"You spent two years singing about that dagger and never found another, and now you've brought this many? Where the hell did they come from?"
"'This many'? We're still short, if you ask me."
Those at the front roughly counted the swords in the crate and immediately started arguing over who would take one first. Watching them, Galbert flared his nostrils and lifted his chin as if he had forged the weapons himself — especially since the man who had been talking back to him moments ago was now hovering near the crate with the rest.
A fight over ownership looked ready to break out at any second.
Padec gave Galbert an order.
"Bring the rest."
"Yes, sir!"
There was more than one crate.