I. Where the Frost Lingers (5)
I. Where the Frost Lingers (5)
Keldric hurried to the armory adjoining the stables in the manor's front courtyard.
Carlton Village received heavy snowfall.
Heavy snowfall meant meltwater soaking into the ground, leaving places with heavy foot traffic damp.
Moisture in an armory was unacceptable, so House Bellaf employed a keeper to maintain it.
"Malcolm."
That keeper was Malcolm, a sturdy middle-aged man seated on an old chair outside the armory.
Malcolm sprang to his feet when Keldric approached, a hint of tension on his face.
Malcolm was one of only three soldiers in the fief.
He had even followed his former lord, Sir Volfen, into a territorial war.
In other words, Malcolm had killed before and knew how to judge a warrior.
In that sense, Malcolm could not help but marvel every time he saw Keldric.
'Just look at that body... goddamn.'
He stood one or two heads taller than an ordinary man, with a massive frame to match.
The fact that his bulk consisted not of fat but densely packed muscle sent a chill down Malcolm's spine.
"Master Keldric. What brings you here?"
"I'd like to enter the armory for a moment. That won't be a problem, will it?"
Malcolm had once seen Keldric tear a firewood log apart with his bare hands, so he did his utmost to remain deferential.
"O-of course. No problem at all. It's just..."
"Only?"
"W-well... may I ask why you wish to enter the armory...?"
"Hmm."
Keldric stroked his chin and hummed thoughtfully.
His navy-blue eyes were so still and unreadable that Malcolm had no idea what he was thinking.
"I want to inspect the things my father left me. You must have heard about them."
"Y-yes! I heard right away! I've made sure to maintain them and keep them free of rust!"
"Then may I go in and inspect them? I'll be taking them with me in a few days, so I'd like to check their condition."
"Of course. Please, come right in."
Malcolm did not harbor a shred of doubt.
Instead, he was preoccupied with the possibility that a speck of dust had settled on Keldric's equipment after the hurried maintenance of the past few days.
'I didn't check yesterday, did I...? Fuck it. No idea.'
Malcolm opened the armory door. A stale, musty smell greeted Keldric.
"Has mold set in? The smell's a bit odd."
"I scraped it clean a few days ago and applied oil, so there shouldn't be any problem."
"Hm. So, where is it?"
"Ah. This way."
Malcolm readily led the way.
Although it was called an armory, the number of men who could be armed was small to begin with, and since even Sir Volfen wore chain mail and a surcoat rather than plate armor, the size of the armory was not large.
With Keldric and Malcolm standing in its center, the small armory felt packed.
Malcolm led Keldric toward one corner of the armory.
In the corner stood a sword, a navy-blue surcoat, and a suit of armor that included chain mail and gauntlets.
"I couldn't find a separate gambeson. It seems Sir Volfen didn't prepare one..."
"I have my own, so it's no problem."
"Ah, yes. Would you like to inspect the sword first?"
Keldric nodded.
Malcolm carefully lifted the propped-up sword with both hands and presented it to Keldric.
It was a longsword designed for two hands, and an unusually heavy one at that.
Keldric accepted it and drew it from its scabbard. The cold blade gleamed in the dim light.
"It's a fine-quality sword. A blade forged by a Bellam craftsman is clearly different."
"It's a sword made in Bellam?"
"Yes. The blade is flawless. The leather wrapping on the grip is neatly finished, and neither the pommel nor the crossguard has the slightest wobble. I wouldn't dare attempt a sword of this quality."
Malcolm was a soldier of Carlton Village and the armory's keeper, but ordinarily he ran the village forge.
His work with metal made him an obvious choice as the armory keeper.
Even Malcolm did not dare attempt a sword like this.
Holding the sword, Keldric slowly examined the blade as though seeing it for the first time.
Just as Malcolm had said, the sharpness of the edge was extraordinary.
Even if it was not a masterwork, it had clearly cost a considerable sum.
"As you say, it seems a fine sword."
"The local smiths can't hope to match it. Only craftsmen in a city can produce work at this level."
"You're a fine smith yourself."
"Compared to the artisans... I am nothing."
Malcolm's expression instantly became glum.
'Come to think of it, hadn't Malcolm done an apprenticeship in Bellam too?'
Those who failed or dropped out of their apprenticeships often became blacksmiths in rural villages.
Assuming Malcolm had followed a similar path, Keldric gave the sword a few light, experimental swings.
"Suitable enough."
"S-suitable...?"
Malcolm was a sturdy blacksmith, one of the strongest men in the village.
Yet the sword was so heavy that even Malcolm's arms shook when he held it, while Keldric swung it up and down without the slightest strain.
And with one hand, no less!
Though designed to be wielded with both hands, the sword did not make Keldric so much as raise an eyebrow.
Keldric soon sheathed the sword and nodded with satisfaction.
"It feels a bit on the light side, but once I grow accustomed to it, it shouldn't be a problem."
"Yes... A weapon can become several times more effective once you're familiar with it. You have to learn its balance and handling."
Malcolm nodded. Keldric continued as though he had been waiting for the opening.
"Speaking of which, might I keep this sword with me for the time being?"
"Er... the sword, you mean?"
"Yes. I'll be using it eventually, so I thought I should begin getting used to it. It's mine anyway."
"That is..."
Wearing a weapon inside the manor house was not looked upon favorably. By custom, it was a matter requiring the permission of the household head, Hilmer.
However, Hilmer was away inspecting the hunting grounds, and Fritz was acting in his stead.
Which meant he had to obtain permission from Fritz.
Malcolm's face immediately fell when the implication occurred to him.
'His temper was foul enough already. What fault would he find this time?'
That meant approaching Fritz, whose reputation was already poor, and asking him to let his younger brother carry a weapon inside the manor.
Malcolm grimaced at the thought of being flogged afterward. He wanted no part of it.
"Of course, getting used to your weapon is important... Even so, wouldn't it be better to ask Sir Hilmer after he returns? He should be back sometime today..."
"I can ask him tomorrow. Besides, won't he return late tonight? It wouldn't be appropriate to bring this up at dinner."
Malcolm could think of no rebuttal.
As Malcolm hesitated, Keldric delivered the final argument.
"If you're still worried, just tell them I ordered it. Better for me to be scolded than for you to be flogged."
"M-Master Keldric...!"
When it came down to it, Keldric was causing the trouble and would be the one scolded.
Yet Malcolm looked at Keldric with eyes full of emotion.
Malcolm was deeply moved that a noble would show such consideration to a commoner like him.
"Ahem! If you truly insist... I will speak of it separately once Sir Hilmer returns today."
"Mm. Until then, I'll wield it discreetly, so don't worry yourself too much."
"Yes. Understood."
Despite what he said, even Keldric could not promise that.
Perhaps this very night, the sword he held might taste blood.
☩ ☩ ☩ ☩ ☩ ☩ ☩
"Hey. Is this really all right?"
Joseph turned to look behind him. Two mercenaries were grumbling as they stared at Joseph.
"Is there a problem?"
"A problem? Fuck, there are plenty. You never said we'd be attacking a noble."
"That shouldn't matter. We were effectively hired by a noble ourselves."
Of the two mercenaries who heard Joseph's words, the one with a large scar across one cheek let out a derisive laugh.
The thick-browed mercenary beside him did not laugh openly but seemed to share the same sentiment.
The scarred mercenary's sneer faded. He lowered his voice and stepped toward Joseph menacingly.
"Hey, you blockhead of an employer. You empty in the head or what? Huh? It's fine 'cause a noble hired us? You talking 'bout the second son of some piddling hereditary knightly house at best? Gunther, you say something too."
"Hans is right. If you were that confident, you should've specified it in the contract terms from the start. That we were going after a noble."
With Gunther joining in, Hans grew even more aggressive.
"We didn't take your job 'cause we wanted to croak in some backwater hole like this."
Ptui. Hans spat thick phlegm and laid his hand on his sword hilt.
The other mercenaries standing behind him all wore equally disgruntled expressions.
"He's a knight, damn it! A knight! One with a fief!"
A seasoned mercenary could handle three serfs armed with pitchforks and therefore command at least double an ordinary man's pay.
And a being who could face ten such mercenaries was precisely a knight.
A knight.
A living weapon trained from childhood solely to fight and kill.
Knights varied enormously in strength, but Hans and Gunther had only encountered those who casually cut down mercenaries. To them, any knight was someone to avoid.
Nothing good came of getting tangled up with one.
That remained true even for a knight whose fief was a backwater village like this one.
"I heard Baron Yaven personally granted him the fief and guaranteed his hereditary rights."
"How big a deal's that?"
"Doesn't that mean Baron Yaven is backing him?"
Worse, the village was a fief personally granted by Baron Yaven, a man famed for his wealth, and its hereditary rights had been guaranteed.
Which meant that if they stirred up trouble here, they would earn the enmity of Baron Yaven.
The mercenaries began to grow agitated. But Joseph, facing them, remained utterly unruffled.
"Say something already!"
"Calm down first. You're all too worked up."
"Calm? Look here, if push comes to shove we can just drop the work and head back. No matter how much this trade runs on trust, fuck. This ain't it."
Gunther remained composed as he laid out his objections, but undisguised resentment flickered in his eyes.
"Forget it. Let's just drop the job. We'll be heading back as soon as the blizzard lets up, so—"
"Ten Florin gold coins! I'll pay in genuine Florin gold coins!"
The area fell silent in an instant.
The mercenaries' noisy complaints died at once.
"...You'll give ten Florin gold coins?"
"Yes! If this job wraps up cleanly, I'll throw in one more. Will you still refuse?"
The silence stretched.
The mercenaries stared at Joseph in disbelief.
As doubt spread among them, Joseph drew a leather pouch from inside his coat.
When his hand emerged, it held a glittering gold coin.
"Florin gold coins. Exactly ten. One more if the job is handled cleanly."
"..."
Hans roughly snatched the gold coin. Gunther came up beside him.
"Is it real?"
"It's real. A Florin gold coin issued by the Avalonchne Republic. This ain't something you can easily counterfeit."
"Hm..."
"Well, dunno if they're still issuing 'em. It's been a while, after all."
Not the Grasen silver coins they'd originally agreed to take, but Florin gold coins. Ten of them at that.
The two payments barely compared. That amount could buy a house in a rural village.
With a little more, they could even buy farmland.
"Damn... this is..."
The eyes of the ten rough men instantly began to glisten with greed.
Every single one of their eyes was fixed on the Florin gold coin in Hans's hand.
"Not Florin gold coins. If you give us Ducat gold coins, we'll do it."
Gunther quietly made his demand. Hans stared at him with wide eyes.
"Hey. Ducat gold coins, is that even possible? Would a backwoods peddler like this have Ducat gold coins worth as much as ten Florin gold coins?"
"If not, then forget it. When you put it that way, carrying around ten Florin gold coins is strange in itself. That's about equal to my yearly earnings in my luckiest year. Isn't that right, Mr. Employer?"
Joseph considered it under everyone's gaze.
An owl hooted in the distance.
As if taking that as a signal, Joseph stopped stroking his chin and made his decision.
"Very well. Eight Ducat gold coins. I'll value them at the Republic exchange house's rate. I've deducted half a coin for the exchange fee."
"For real? No, show us the Ducat gold coins first."
"I don't have them on me now, but I expect to have them soon."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Crunch—.
That was when footsteps crunched through the snow.
The mercenaries' gazes turned toward the source of the sound.
Six cavalrymen in sturdy leather armor emerged quietly from the darkness.
"Wh-what the fuck?"
"I'm only a peddler. Did you think I'd attempt this alone? I needed backing capable of handling Baron Yaven's retaliation."
Joseph gave them a mean, crooked grin.
"A merchant never does business at a loss."
"Is that backer of yours more powerful than Baron Yaven?"
"Let's just say he isn't inferior."
"..."
"And so, what will you do?"
One cavalryman slowly rode forward, holding a small leather pouch.
Joseph took it and put his hand inside the pouch.
Joseph reached into it and drew out a lustrous Ducat gold coin.
"Will you do it? If the job is handled cleanly, I'll consider the exchange fee nonexistent and give you eight and a half Ducat gold coins. The offer still stands."
A knight with a decent village as his fief earned about twenty-five Ducat gold coins a year.
By that measure, it was an enormous sum. Given the ducat's high value and reliability, it was an unparalleled windfall.
With a genuine Ducat gold coin in Joseph's hand, the mercenaries' answer was already decided.
"What counts as handling the job cleanly?"
They were mercenaries who would gladly spill blood for a single gold coin.