44. Like a Dream (3)

Just as the morning sun was lifting its face over the eastern horizon,

"Grraaaagh-!"

The ogres, maddened with rage at losing their shaman, came charging with hideous shrieks.

Ogres are very dangerous monsters. True to their nature as the last livestock of giants, they possess enormous bulk and brutal strength, and they roam in packs of three or four at minimum, up to thirty at most.

Worse still, they prefer human flesh and delight in hunting people, which is why they're said to be the chief culprits behind the ruination of rural domains and villages that lack a proper standing army.

But that was just the common perception of ordinary folk...

To a monster who had soared far beyond the realm of common criminals, ogres simply weren't much of a threat. To put it with only slight exaggeration, they looked like nothing more than humans a bit on the large side.

So I drew Hrunting and charged straight at them.

"Huh! Th-that—"

"My lord!"

The mercenaries who'd joined the party not long ago shrieked in open disbelief.

I shot forward like an arrow, shrugging off the shock rippling behind me. Then, overtaking the spreading glow of the western light, I drove my feet hard into the earth.

"Grawww!"

The lead ogre swung a log of a club at me. I threw myself diagonally to the right and slashed out with Hrunting.

Shunk.

The milk-white blade punched through the thick belly hide and sank in halfway. Then something caught at the tip of the blade with a gritty resistance. I tightened my grip on the fangs and twisted my waist like swinging a baseball bat.

With a heavy thud-crack, the spine gave way. The ogre, severed past the midpoint of its waist, spilled blood and entrails as it tumbled across the ground.

Slosh—

The once-snow-white blade was already gorged with rancid, fatty blood. As the Blade of Blood flicked its tongue, Hrunting—already long for a one-handed sword—stretched another twenty centimeters or so.

With another of their kin felled right after the shaman, the ogres bellowed and swung their weapons wildly. One of them, clutching a crude but massive stone axe, pointed at me.

"Koagral—!"

Using greenkin speech in an image painted with brown skin and splashed red blood—ridiculous creatures.

I thought that, and drew in a breath.

"Hoo-oop,"

Was it just my imagination?

I hadn't even activated the Thirst skill, and yet the world seemed to slow a little.

"Haaaah—"

With a slow exhale, I let half the breath out.

And swung the sword.

I flayed the windpipe of a fat ogre draped in human skin, cut both elbows of the one raising its stone axe, slid the blade beneath the club of a slack-jawed brute and split it from groin upward, snatched the throat of a younger one gaping in horror with my left hand, ripped open the necks, chests, and bellies of three charging me with the point of my blade as I pirouetted a full 360 degrees like a pole dancer spinning her pole, and from the young one whose throat I'd crushed—my improvised pole—I drained a bellyful of blood and flung a Cloud of Blood at the ones fleeing.

"Gguh, ggwaaah-"

Two or three ogres who'd been quick to bolt at the sight of the slaughter went down mid-stride, rolling across the ground with bloody shrapnel riddling their calves and heels.

"Mmm." Thanks to my considerably strengthened magic, the Cloud of Blood's power had become fairly serviceable, but its effective range was still abysmal. Because of that, three ogres were slinking off toward the forest with their bodies intact.

Just as I was debating whether to chase them down—

Shuuung!

With a vicious whistle of splitting air, two ice lances the length of my arm carved through the empty sky. The transparent spears of ice and the fine ice shards scattering in their wake glittered against the dawn.

One of the frost lances slammed into the mid-back of a slightly smaller ogre, while the other tore out the throat of the one beside it. Clearly Ellen's spell, no need to guess.

And the last survivor, lucky enough to be standing, took a silently flying crossbow bolt in the shoulder.

"Gguk!"

The ogre, with its tusks conspicuously oversized, ignored the tiny steel dart hanging from its thick hide and kept running toward the forest. Just as it reached the edge of the trees, it suddenly pitched forward, mouth foaming, and collapsed.

Tap.

Mungchi, who had been perched in the trees behind us until moments before, emerged from the forest. She walked up to the ogre felled by the paralytic poison and strangled it with a thick cord.

While Mungchi finished the thing off, I approached the ones dropped by my Cloud of Blood.

"Kkegh, ggwaaah-!"

The ogres, legs ruined, flailed their arms while baring filthy teeth.

Desperate struggles for survival. I felt nothing in particular.

One I dispatched by crushing its skull with the sturdy heel of my suede boot, the next I beheaded, and the last I stabbed through the heart.

"Kkuk, kkeogak,"

Through my iron grip on Hrunting, I could feel the stubborn life guttering out with perfect clarity. Only after the thing's wheezing had faded into the sound of a deflating bellows, and even that had gone silent, did I pull the blade free.

A rush of heat made me glance back—the sun was already more than halfway above the distant eastern ridgeline.

I stretched long and slow.

"...Nnngh."

Then I gave the sword a rough shake clean and headed back to camp with a step that somehow felt lighter.

The mercenaries who'd joined the party only recently—Fritz, Umberta, and the rest—wore expressions that could have been astonishment, exhaustion, or fear; impossible to tell which.

"...My lord."

Even amid all that, Confeir, who had been guarding the charcoal-burner's family alongside Cole, wore a decidedly calm face.

"What shall we do with them?"

I scratched my eyebrow, then shrugged.

"Let's eat first."

"...A meal? Here?"

"It's morning, isn't it. Aren't you hungry?"

When I asked with a grin, Confeir stole glances at my back. Then he eventually swallowed dryly and nodded.

By the time the dancing spirits Ellen had summoned swept away the ogres' bloody stench, their body odor, and all the rest of the horseshit smells, the party had seated themselves around the campfire and begun their meal.

While the mercenaries filled their bellies roughly with whatever they had—salted meat, bread, dried fruit—the bald Steedman had gone to considerable trouble laying out a meal for the party.

Granted, that amounted to all of two dishes—rabbit pie and 'dora soup'—but compared to water-soaked bread or rock-hard jerky, it was a veritable feast.

The rabbit pies had been purchased in a village we'd passed some time ago: rabbit meat, onion, and ginger finely minced, wrapped in dough, and baked in a hearth oven.

Steedman warmed the rabbit pies near the campfire while brushing egg wash over their surfaces. Once the egg coating browned nicely, the stale pies transformed, looking ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠fresh-baked and appetizing as new.

The 'dora soup'—simmered with fennel stalks, cabbage, and salted pork, then finished with a sprinkle of parsley—was delicious too. The broth could have been thicker, but we couldn't spare the time to reduce it. The sun was already up, after all.

Heila, chewing thoughtfully on a big bite of pie, slowly blinked her eyes and turned to Steedman.

"The pie and the soup go well together."

"You think so? It's rather rustic fare for a lady of your standing."

"It's good. There's sweetness in the soup. Strange."

"Heh, right? I sliced the cabbage before bed last night and salted it."

"Salt?"

"Yes. That keeps it crisp and draws out the sweetness even with just a short boil. The secret of 'Big-Handed Dora,' you see."

Heila nodded quietly.

"I want to take Dora back to Tauz Den."

"Wha—? Over a mere soup?"

"You said the pheasant stew and the apple fritters you made before were your mother's recipes too, didn't you?"

"Ah. So I did."

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Steedman chuckled and lowered his head.

"As I've mentioned before, my mother is ferociously stubborn. I doubt you could win her over on ordinary terms."

At his jesting tone, the freckled Mira burst into incredulous laughter.

"Honestly, what's there to win over or not? If a ducal house summons you, you go."

"That's because you don't know our mother. She's an old woman whose stubbornness is tougher than an iron cable."

Just then Ellen, sitting beside me, caught the smell of the rabbit pie and slightly furrowed her brow.

"Mmph."

"What?"

"It smells even more gamey now. It's reached the point where I really can't eat it."

"Really? It's fine to me. Has it gone bad?"

When I sniffed at my pie, Steedman—who'd been bickering with Mira—waved his hands in surrender and said,

"It hasn't spoiled. The vinegar smell has just gotten a bit stronger."

"Vinegar?"

"Yes. In the central provinces they're fond of vinegar made from red wine. Splashed on meat, it brings out the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠flavor, but the smell deepens over time, so some people can't stand it."

Steedman bit into his own portion of pie and tilted his head.

"At this level it's pleasantly tangy, I'd say."

"Tangy, sure. And the pork in the soup is rather tough too..."

Ellen grumbled with her lips pushed out in a pout, then stole a quick glance at my face and shut her mouth.

The girl was a fussy eater and often threw little tantrums over food, but after I'd scolded her appropriately each time, she seemed to have improved lately. Then again, maybe she'd grown taller recently and her palate had matured along with her.

Still, a scolding was a scolding. Steedman had put such care into it...

Just as I was about to give Ellen a piece of my mind, Heila blinked a couple of times and spoke up.

"The meat is tough. But the central provinces' pigs are simply like that."

"That's right. The pigs, and everything else—the central region never has anything worth eating."

At Heila's words, Eson, a mercenary eating at the neighboring campfire, abruptly turned his head.

"Leadburn pigs are finicky to raise and terribly expensive. Have you actually tried one?"

"Mm. I used to eat it regularly. Once or twice a month, without fail."

"A noble lady indeed... And I'm Leadburn-born, yet I don't think I've had it more than twice a year."

When Eson said this while scratching his pudgy cheeks, Mira shot back with wide eyes,

"Twice a year? Mister Eson, you must be pretty old, huh?"

"Ah, no, it's not that. My father did odd jobs for a monastery, you see. So now and then we'd get our hands on some sausage."

"A monastery?"

"Yeah. 'The Monastery of Saint Montral,' it's called—up north of Lemerick—"

The breakfast that had started off a little subdued in the aftermath of the battle gradually grew lively and noisy.

"A curious talent."

Utekwai, seated on a tree stump behind me working his way through his third bowl of dora soup, muttered that.

"......What is?"

He swallowed a rabbit pie whole in one bite, then answered.

"Heila."

"Heila?"

"Yes. Loses no dignity, yet mixes well with inferiors. Curious talent."

Before I knew it, nearly ten people had gathered around Heila, conversation blooming among them.

Not just the glib-tongued Steedman, Mira, and Eson, but Shimos the former bandit, the ever-wary Umberta, the ill-tempered Fritz, even Cole—who'd once been on the receiving end of a thorough beating from Heila.

Even Mungchi, who normally glued herself to my side, had been squatting beside Heila for a while now, sipping honey tea.

"...Is it really a talent?"

"Everyone likes Heila except you and Ellen. If not talent, what."

"If you're excluding me and Ellen—then what about you?"

When I scowled, Utekwai shrugged his shoulders.

"I like her too."

"Why? You can barely hold a conversation with her."

"Heila uses Darran kel. Very strong. Great warrior cannot approach her."

Hmm, Darran kel... what was that again. Ah.

"Wicked sorcery—or rather, Blood Craft?"

"Yes. She uses Blood Craft, but controls it well herself."

"Someone who 'controls herself well' takes an entire domain hostage?"

"Better than you, who lose your mind at the drop of a hat."

"...You little bastard, that hit bone."

As I grumbled, Utekwai laughed heartily and went on.

"I know you try. That you endure, that you meditate, I know too."

"Meditating, yes."

"Yes, meditation. Good method. But I have said it many times—you must learn from Heila. Darran kel—she understands it better than you."

"......Ugh."

"......K."

It was a hundred times correct, but still...

I scratched my eyebrow, then a thought suddenly struck me and I turned to Utekwai.

"Wait—you say you can't get along with someone who uses Blood Craft? Then what about me?"

At my question, Utekwai clicked his tongue loudly.

"Phoenix, still foolish. Overlooking a stain or two—that is what a friend does."

"...You little bastard, you sure know how to slip in slyly cutting things."

When he burst into laughter again, I rose from my seat and gestured to the veteran mercenary Confeir.

At that, he roused the charcoal-burner family, who'd been nervously watching over their jerky, and brought them before me.

"Right, now that you've all eaten your fill."

I rested my wrist on Hrunting's pommel and looked over the family.

Somehow the young couple's faces had gone deathly pale. And in the midst of all their frantic bowing and scraping, the small girl stared up at me with a completely ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠blank expression.

"Shall we hear some explanations, then?"

When I said that with a wide smile, the girl said to be possessed by a demon smiled back at me.

...Hmm. Somehow, that felt ominous.