The Hand Lurking on the Island (2)
Ten hours.
That was how long the sailors—Urgo among them—had been in the forest, and how long Chester and Monia had been striking at them in irregular intervals.
Relentless ambushes. Sailors screaming. Arrows flying without a sound, comrades dropping in the same instant.
Only when the sun had set and darkness claimed every direction did the attacks finally cease, and only then could the sailors ease their tension and try to rest.
It was no true rest, though.
They had barely moved from their positions, so their bodies still held strength—but ten hours spent under the constant threat of ambush had carved deep into their mental stamina and will.
The invisible enemy fed their terror, giving the fantasy of a demon ever more solid reality.
Before long, in the sailors’ minds they were no longer facing a single butler. They were fighting a shadowless demon with eight arms and wings, long horns, and a lashing tongue.
The Floating Island itself had transformed from an ordinary drifting scrap of land into a hell that housed a devil.
That, too, had been Chester’s design.
He used the bow to thin their numbers physically or multiply the wounded and thus their burden, while at the same time deploying inhuman endurance to pile on endless psychological pressure—planting fear and despair.
Simply remaining on this island would weigh on the sailors’ minds; their strength and spirit would erode, and cracks would open among them.
Their numbers were burdensome to face, so if those cracks widened into a mutiny, so much the better.
If someone simply killed the captain, they would flee the island at once.
That ship—one of the few means of leaving the island—would vanish, but Chester and Monia knew next to nothing about ships or the sea; trying to sail it themselves would be suicide.
No—they could not sail it at all. It was physically impossible. A vessel like that needed more than a hundred hands.
“……Are they not coming anymore?”
Night had fallen. Some of the sailors who had returned to the ship to sleep still could not close their eyes; they stared out the windows at the dark mouth of the forest.
Whether from the wind-stirred trees or something else, the forest entrance writhed like the gates of hell.
It was hideous.
Ten hours of ambushes. Of twenty-one men, three were dead and more than nine wounded.
Two of the nine had been hit in the legs and could no longer walk; the others had taken arrows in arms, backs, or shoulders, leaving parts of their bodies stiff and awkward.
For a slaughterer who had once killed dozens in short order, the tally seemed almost trivial—yet the slow, gnawing sensation of being eaten away left the sailors breathless.
“We’re going back in there tomorrow, right?”
Someone spoke, and a sailor lying awake alone in the distance bit his lip.
The hammock swaying with the waves made his brain rock and roll, filling him with a restless, dreadful feeling.
Every one of them had lived so long aboard ship that they grew seasick on land instead—yet somehow tonight’s waves brought a seasickness that was almost unbearable.
“I don’t want to go.”
“Me neither.”
Rough seamen who would laugh off losing a few fingers in an accident were making such weak sounds.
That was how thoroughly Chester had tormented them.
“But big brother was really something.”
“Yeah. How does he know an arrow’s coming from that far and cut it down?”
Naturally, when Chester attacked he had aimed mainly at strong men like Urgo.
Yet Urgo had turned aside every single ambush with his two-pronged sword and returned without a scratch.
“I tried lifting that sword once, you know.”
“Yeah. Just lifting it shouldn’t be that hard, right?”
“Right. The crates and ropes we haul every day are heavier. But when I tried to swing it… damn, every joint in my body was screaming curses at me.”
“Hahaha.”
“How does he swing that thing all day and still look fine?”
“Because he’s not human.”
The sailors traded such positive talk, trying to drive back even a little of the island’s terror, and one by one those who had stayed awake late finally drifted off.
Around the time every sailor not needed to keep the ship following the island through the night had fallen asleep……
“Hm.”
Chester, who had slipped aboard, was examining the ship’s hold.
As part of the work of sowing discord among the sailors, he meant to make off with their supplies.
Food was good; rum—the sailors’ very lifeblood—was even better. Once important stores began to disappear, more of them would want to run.
Of course, they might also come after the goods more fiercely.
“……Nice.”
Yet what caught Chester’s eye first was not the dried fish or rum stacked in the crates, but the coils of rope lying in a corner.
Sturdy ship’s rope, far stronger than anything he or Monia had made.
Chester carefully lifted the rope and lowered it gently. Fortunately the island was close enough that he could set it down right on the beach below.
After getting the rope off first, he checked the other crates piled in the hold.
These were not personal luggage but stores meant for use when needed, so opening them was easy.
There were a great many crates.
Crates of dried fish. Crates of rum. Sailors’ clothes. Even crates of cannon shot.
Can’t use the cannons. Monia’s in the forest.
No need to worry about the guns.
If they went so far as to fire the cannons, the People of the Summit would certainly intervene. They would never, ever forgive outsiders who damaged the island.
They were good people. Even after building their own civilization in this remote place, they lived by the values of “protect and preserve.”
Good—and because they held that goodness, they could fight fiercely to defend what they cherished.
Come to think of it, what about that Grace of the Summit they said they’d give us? Should be about time…
With that thought Chester moved about the ship, avoiding the sailors.
He came across one sleeping alone in a secluded corner, but could not bring himself to kill the man and withdrew.
While roaming here and there he found a second hold, and there a crate locked far more carefully than the others.
What is this?
He forced the nails free and opened it. Inside were dresses and small boxes.
Dresses? Prepared so they could dress Monia up? ……
A wave of distaste rose in him. He pulled the dresses out one by one.
Why is this one’s chest so open? And this one shows the whole back? Are they joking?
He almost tore them apart, but the sudden image of Monia wearing them made him tuck a few dresses away.
“Ahem.”
He cleared his throat and opened the small boxes.
Inside were various ornaments and a tiny square box that fit in the palm. It was not hard to guess what lay within.
Earrings, bracelets, anklets, necklaces—every kind of jewelry was there except one.
A ring.
He opened it. Inside rested an elaborately worked ring. Not a gaudy stone flaunting wealth, but a thin band set with jewels so tiny and finely cut that they showcased the craftsman’s skill.
Quietly Chester took the ring and the other ornaments as well. Unlike everything else, these were resources almost impossible to obtain on a deserted island; he would leave nothing behind.
Nothing else worth taking.
After a last look around he climbed to the deck.
Being on deck raised the chance of being spotted by patrolling sailors, yet he used the piled cargo to hide and moved without being seen.
While he was roaming, his foot came down on an especially old plank.
Damn.
Creak.
“Huh? Who’s there?”
One sailor headed toward the sound, but found no one.
“Must’ve been hearing things…”
Hanging by his fingertips from the rail, Chester drew a knife, ready to drive it into the man’s throat the moment he leaned any farther out.
The sailor stood at the rail, scanned the area, never noticed Chester dangling beneath him, and walked away.
“Hoo.”
Chester let out a breath, gave up checking the rest of the deck, and carefully climbed down the ship’s side, fingers and toes finding the tiniest cracks.
He slipped silently into the water, climbed onto the island, and gathered the supplies he had already moved in secret.
One by one he carefully carried them into the undergrowth, where Monia waited tensely and greeted him with relief.
“Chester!”
“I’m back.”
“Thank goodness. You weren’t spotted?”
“No.”
“What did you bring?”
“We’ll look after we get it home.”
“All right.”
Just then the sea erupted with a noisy splash.
“Ah.”
Chester, his back turned, did not see it—but Monia saw clearly.
Someone plummeting from the ship into the water.
Moments later the figure that had fallen into the sea climbed onto the beach, and even the blurred silhouette was enough to know who it was.
“Lucky I was sleeping on the main ship just in case. I’ve been hearing unfamiliar footsteps for a while now—they were starting to get on my nerves.”
The man Chester had been most wary of. The one he had never approached and had always meant to kill. The one he had failed to kill.
Urgo appeared.
Speaking the kingdom’s tongue he had learned from Rotin, Urgo looked straight at the spot where Chester stood, drew his two-pronged sword, and charged at terrifying speed.
“T-to the trees!”
Chester and Monia tried to climb, but Urgo was faster.
The instant Chester reached a branch, Urgo kicked the ground hard, his massive frame soaring upward as he swung the two-pronged sword.
And he sheared clean through the thick branch Chester was sitting on.
“Kh?!”
Chester grabbed a nearby branch before he fell, but Urgo, falling with him, seized Chester’s ankle in an iron grip.
“Aaagh!”
Caught by that monstrous strength, Chester was yanked down and crashed to the earth.
Thud!
A heavy shock raced through his whole body. Urgo swung the two-pronged sword at him.
“This is the end.”