Like a Dream (5)
An autumn rain had come without warning and drummed against the roof. Tudduduk — the monotonous patter sounded like beans frying in oil.
On this late-autumn day, with a chill wind blowing, the steady roar of rain gave those sheltered beneath the roof a feeling of cozy contentment.
Thanks to that, a tavern deep in a sparsely traveled forest somewhere in Gistol Province was peaceful enough. The handful of customers had mostly claimed corners of the taproom and stretched out to sleep, while the rest sipped their beer and listened to the rain.
Amid all this, the tavern's owner was busy scurrying about.
"Damn it all."
The old man, his beard thick and unruly, muttered under his breath as he set an old wooden tub beneath a leak.
"Rained exactly four days after I rethatched the roof. The gods must be laughing at me."
"Can't be helped. It's not like thatch is for anything but keeping out wind and rain," said Janghan, rolling out an oak cask of beer.
"And when I laid it, I saw those silvergrass stalks were no ordinary tough ones. It'll hold fine."
"Tough or not, if the rain soaks it through before it's properly dried, even silvergrass rots fast." The old man clicked his tongue, setting another tub under a second leak. "To make it last a full year, you're supposed to wet it in the dew and let it cure in the sun for a good half-month."
"It looked like a passing shower — it'll let up soon enough. And if it really bothers you, go up the ridge and cut some more silvergrass."
"And risk running into some monster on the mountain? It's turned cold, too — hippogriffs or bear-folk could come down out of the heights any day now."
"Aigo, Father worries too much." Janghan heaved the huge oak cask up onto the counter with a single motion and snickered. "A man running a business in the middle of nowhere, scared of a mere bear-folk? Really, now?"
"Shut it and go check on your brothers. I told them to gather the hides and blankets, and I've heard nothing but crickets since."
The tavern door swung open before he'd even finished speaking. Three men strode in — all of them big, all of them resembling one another so closely they could only be brothers.
The old man was about to say something to his sons when one of them dropped a pile of blankets onto an empty table and spoke up.
"Mercenaries are coming."
"Mercenaries?"
"Looked like about twenty of them."
As the second son said this and vanished into a back room, the eldest, standing behind the bar, frowned and asked his brothers.
"Twenty, eh. Rough crowd, were they?"
"Nothing ordinary about them. Their gear's solid, and I think there are mages mixed in."
The third son tossed a few rain-dampened hides into a corner and picked up a long-handled axe.
The eldest scratched the back of his head, then shouted at the folk sprawled in the corners.
"Oi, guests! Gonna need you to wake up for a moment."
"...Ugh, what now?"
"Word is some mercenaries are coming. Better stay on your feet for a bit, just in case."
The party already in the tavern were merchants from the west. As men who crossed the mountains to and from the High Plains, every one of them was armed.
By the time the second son emerged from the back room with a crossbow, sword belt at his hip, his brothers were stationed behind the bar. Axes, maces, and the like had been stashed out of sight.
The old man — father to the brothers and owner of the tavern — dragged a chair out in front of the bar and sat down, gesturing to his youngest.
"Kigon, pour me an ale."
"Yes, Father."
The young man called Kigon used a small wooden mallet to drive a brass tap into the oak cask. When the dark beer had filled a pewter mug, he skimmed a little of the foam off with a flat wooden paddle and handed it over.
"Ahh."
The old man was draining half the mug in one long swallow when the monotonous song of the rain changed, turning tangled and uneven. Heavy footsteps had been mixed into it.
This went on for a moment.
Then, with a clatter, the wooden door swung wide. The group that appeared crowded over the threshold — and abruptly froze mid-step.
"Welcome."
The old man wiped the beer from his beard and greeted them.
"What brings you folks out this way?"
A brief silence followed.
Half a dozen mercenaries had entered the tavern. Every one of them was big and heavily armed.
Caught in the strange tension that hung in the air, they stood rooted and for a moment could not answer the old man's peculiarly casual greeting.
Presently, a man with a horsehair mohawk and a flail slung over his shoulder stepped forward.
"...Heh. What a stupid question."
He sneered, letting out a savage laugh.
"We came to drink and rest at a tavern — what else would we be here for, old-timer?"
"Ah, is that so? Customers, then."
Though vicious-looking mercenaries crowded before him, the old man remained perfectly composed.
"And where might you be traveling from?"
"Do we have to tell you that too?"
"That's the rule of Oressa's Tavern. It's my little pastime, you see."
"Shut up and bring us hot food and ale. We've got no intention of entertaining an old man's pastimes."
At the mohawked mercenary's growl, a short-haired woman among them made a face of pure disgust.
"Just shut up, Fritz."
"What?"
"If you want to pick fights whenever it suits you like some damn cockfight, go back to the Empire and be a gladiator."
"...Ha. Done talking?"
The woman, bigger than most any man, flashed her eyes and twisted her mouth into a grin.
"Done talking, you bastard. So what's it gonna be?"
"You orc of a woman—"
The other mercenaries were moving to separate the two when a voice came from the back of the group.
"What are you all doing out here? Get inside."
Along with the voice, someone else stepped into the tavern.
A tall young man, a full head above the other mercenaries, was handsome at a glance — but his cold eyes lent him an oddly frigid air.
"Ah, move aside."
At the irritation in his tone, the mercenaries clustered at the entrance shuffled out of the way. The young man stepped forward and shook the rain from his black half-cape.
"No stablehand even? Why is nobody coming out?"
Grumbling like that, the young man wore a gleaming breastplate, a fine belt, a long straight sword at his hip, and tall boots. At his uncommon looks and bearing, the old man spoke with a careful expression.
"You'll have to forgive me. Our tavern has a rule of not serving guests until they give their name and origin."
At that, the young man, who had been shaking out his cape, asked with a hint of exasperation.
"...Are you the one who runs this place, elder?"
"The owner?"
"I mean, are you the master of the house?"
"I am."
The young man flicked the rain from his hair and shoulders, then spoke.
"I am called Phoinix, a knight from the Razuil region on Aillant Island. These are the mercenaries I've hired."
"...A knight, then."
As the old man made to rise from his chair, the young man waved him off.
"Please, don't. And don't call me that. Hearing such words from a man of your years makes me feel like I've become some villain."
Having said something the old man could hardly make sense of, Phoinix shrugged his shoulders.
"Anyway, that settles it, right? As you can see, we got thoroughly rained on coming here, so I'd like to rest a while."
"Ah, of course. Only—" The old man moistened his dry lips and continued. "There's a little too little room for your whole company to come inside."
"...It doesn't look cramped to me. I'd say thirty more could fit in easily."
"Oressa's Tavern never takes more than thirty guests at once. That is the rule."
"What a strange rule."
"When space is tight, quarrels break out. And in a place this remote, a quarrel almost always ends in blades."
"Besides, quite a few of your companions look to have rather explosive tempers."
At that, Phoinix looked back over the mercenaries. The grim faces averted their eyes this way and that. It was a fairly amusing sight.
"Fritz. That'd be you, wouldn't it?"
"...No, Sir. I—"
Just as the mohawked man with the flail, Fritz, began spilling out excuses, yet another figure emerged from the rear of the group.
Hair fine as silk and black as night, eyes like black pearls, skin pale as snow set off by crimson lips...
Pushing back her hood as she entered was a woman. An extraordinarily beautiful woman.
The old man, his sons, and the merchants from the west all stared slack-jawed at the peerless beauty who had appeared so suddenly.
"Is that Oakdely cheese?"
"...Pardon?"
"The cheese."
The woman pointed at the shelf behind the bar. More precisely, at the great wheel of cheese sitting in its middle.
"...That's right. Oakdely cheese."
"What do you cook with it?"
"We make roll pie."
"Roll pie?"
"Yes."
When the woman blinked slowly, the old man found his mouth opening before he knew it.
"...You bake a flour dough, lay the cheese on top to melt, then finish it with toasted sesame seeds and honey." The woman — Heila, who had somehow already drifted past him to stand before the bar — drew out a silver coin and said,
"Sounds delicious. One, please."
"...Er, miss. As I mentioned already, our tavern—"
"No."
Heila pulled out a fistful of gold coins and set them on the bar.
"Twenty-two. Match it to our headcount."
The old man exchanged a glance with his four sons, sighed, and nodded.
Heila took a seat at the largest table in the tavern and looked at Phoinix. He blinked at her as if to ask what she was doing.
"Poi. Sit here."
Phoinix gave a wry smile and scratched his brow.
Once the whole company had settled in, the once-spacious Oressa's Tavern somehow felt cramped.
Fritz, the mohawked mercenary, chewed his roll pie with a sour face.
Oressa's Tavern's special roll pie had a nutty, sweet flavor.
But Fritz couldn't enjoy it in peace. Phoinix sat at his left and Utekwai at his right.
This is going to give me indigestion, damn it all.
Fritz seethed at the injustice — at the way, at some point, he'd come to be treated as the resident idiot of the company.
Honestly, there are worse lunatics than me, aren't there? Umberta and Dervish, those two for starters — and Gidon's hardly a sane man either.
Just as he grumbled inwardly, a middle-aged man approached the table — the head of the merchants who had been in the tavern before them.
"May I trouble you for a moment, Sir?"
Phoinix, who had been chewing, took a swig of beer and asked in return.
"What is it?"
"I'm a merchant from the west, Sir, and I carry news you might care to hear."
"...Sit."
"Thank you."
The middle-aged merchant, seated between Mungchi and Mospis, began with a smiling face.
"I've heard plenty about you, Sir."
"About me?"
"Ah, well — the ports of the southwest are where we mostly trade. Places like Bitian in Albivton, or Oduenne in Avidon. So we'd often hear news out of Southharbor too."
As if to prove his point, he reeled off epithets like the Blood Beacon, the Headhunter, the Red Bear, the Fire Witch. When the merchant showed signs of going on and on, Phoinix frowned.
"What's your point?"
"Ah, yes. Well, while crossing the High Plains, I did some business with a certain mercenary company."
"A mercenary company?"
"Yes. I heard their captain has some history with you, Sir."
Phoinix asked back, bewildered.
"What's the captain's name?"
"A woman called Grania. Does the name mean something to you?"
At the merchant's words, Phoinix's eyes went wide.
"Grania? Grania from the north, the one with the shield and blade?"
"Oh, you know her?"
"Of course. We've worked a few jobs together."
Unable to hide his gladness, Phoinix fired off questions.
"Right, I did hear she was heading west. Is Grania doing well? Arnal and Farel, and Sister Olga?"
"Mm, I can't speak for the other three. All I know are Avil, the company's quartermaster, and Captain Grania herself."
"Oh, really? A quartermaster, huh — sounds like the company's grown quite a bit?"
"Indeed. By size, they're among the top mercenary companies under Prince Ulkar's command. The members number roughly a hundred and fifty."
"A hundred and fifty? That many?"
Phoinix tilted his head.
"Hold on. Then how many mercenaries does Prince Ulkar have in total?"
"I can't say exactly, but I've heard it's around a thousand."
"...What?"
At his stunned expression, the merchant went on with evident enjoyment.
"Startled by a mere thousand mercenaries? Prince Ulkar has also absorbed the armies of Margrave Landry and other nobles — his regular forces alone number over two thousand."
Ellen, who had been listening quietly, parted her lips slightly.
"So all together, that's an army of three thousand?"
"Yes, that's right. About that, I'd say."
"Ha. The man's already got the king's hackles up, and on top of that he's gathered an army that size?"
"He had little choice. The situation is that dire."
"Dire situation?"
"Ah — you haven't heard, then?"
The merchant raised his eyebrows in mild surprise, then nodded.
"Well, no — word wouldn't have reached this region yet. Of course it wouldn't."
"What on earth are you talking about? What news?"
Pressed by Phoinix, the merchant deliberately hardened his face.
"The King of Death. He's crossed Blade Bay."
"...The King of Death."
Phoinix murmured it like a groan.
"You know of the King of Death? The monstrous necromancer who commands uncountable legions of undead."
"...Yeah, I know. I heard he was sweeping through the Empire. And you're telling me he actually crossed Blade Bay?"
"Yes. The last news I heard, he'd occupied Avidon Province and was pressing down on the High Plains. Prince Ulkar and his army are isolated on the plateau, waiting for aid from outside."
The merchant clicked his tongue and shook his head.
"Things were urgent enough that he even begged help from the Scarlet Bishops of the Calandri Order."
"A prince of Milanor begging the Calandri Order for help?" The mohawked mercenary, Fritz, barked a laugh. "Milanor treats the Calandri Order as heretics, doesn't it?"
"Mm, strictly speaking it isn't the Kingdom of Milanor that does. It was the Archbishop of the El Ganor Order who declared Calandri heretical — not His Majesty the King of Milanor."
"Everyone knows the Pious King licks the Archbishop's bootsoles, don't they?"
At Fritz's tirade, the merchant's face turned awkward.
"...Er, th-that's, a bold thing to say."
"Bold? How so?"
"I never imagined there'd be someone in the kingdom who'd say that out loud. Besides, this is land ruled by the King's own knights—"
At that warning-ish remark, Fritz clapped his mouth shut and stole a glance around. Thankfully, there didn't seem to be a single loyalist of the royal faction inside this tavern.
"So did the priest of the deep sea — that monster, whatever it's called — come across with the King of Death too?"
"The priest of the deep sea?"
At Phoinix's question, the merchant tilted his head.
"That's a new one to me. The one who led the fish-folk monsters was called by a different name."
"A different name?"
"Yes, that—"
The merchant rolled his eyes for a moment, then added,
"Ah, they called her the Witch of Hymns."
"The Witch... of Hymns?"
"Yes. They say she bewitches people with a voice like an angel's song, making them offer up their own necks before the undead and the fish-folk. Utterly horrifying, isn't it."
Mospis, the spellsword, who had just swallowed a bite of roll pie, went wide-eyed.
"A song that bewitches people — would that be a siren?"
"I don't think she's a siren."
The merchant shook his head.
"I heard she has no wings or feathers. She looks like a perfectly ordinary person on the outside — and an exceedingly beautiful woman at that."
"A beautiful woman?"
The merchant leaned forward and lowered his voice.
"Yes. They say anyone who looks upon her red hair and green eyes loses their mind."
Suddenly — a clang of metal striking the floor.
When Phoinix turned, Ellen had dropped her fork, her face drained white.