Red Fist (2)
Unlike the road to the Magic Tower, the route north was quiet.
There were few passersby to begin with.
Now and then they’d meet a herbalist or a guard, but that was about it.
There were no other merchant caravans or peddlers heading north to be seen.
At least, not for long.
By the time two days had passed since they set out, they no longer ran into anyone at all.
“Whoa!”
“Take it easy! You trying to smash all the goods?”
The wagon jerking up and down had already become familiar by now.
The once-smooth road had turned into dirt, and the signposts pointing the way to Mistra were long gone.
Everyone could feel it, faintly but unmistakably.
The traces of people were growing thinner by the mile.
In places like this, monsters ruled as masters.
A tension slowly seeped out from the travelers like steam from a cracked lid.
The only one who seemed at ease was the mercenary.
“I’ve never been north either. What kind of place is it?”
“Giel! He’s asking what the north is like!”
“The north? Cold, I guess. Why the hell are you asking me?”
“Huh? Why, you ask… Well, because, right?”
“If Giel says it’s cold, then it must be freezing.”
“If it isn’t cold, Giel’s dead meat.”
“No. I’ve only heard stories….”
Their pointless banter drew dry chuckles from the others.
In the end, a mercenary’s job was fixed.
Nothing changed, whether it was before departure or after.
The third night after leaving Mistra, the group set up camp in an open patch of ground off the roadside.
There was a forest nearby, so finding firewood to replace what they’d burned wasn’t difficult.
“It really is damn cold. We’re still nowhere near the north, and it’s already like this. This is really supposed to be okay?”
Sidra grumbled as he came back with a bundle of dry branches.
…
Sing didn’t even bother replying.
Sidra had been saying the same thing several times a day, and by now Sing knew from experience that engaging him only lost you sleep, time, and patience.
Still, he could sympathize with the man’s mood to a degree.
It wasn’t an exaggeration to say that you could see your breath even in daylight.
Once the sun went down, the cold came for real.
Even Lawrence found himself shivering when the effect of his Warm spell wore off.
It wasn’t hard to imagine how miserable it must be for the others, trying to endure the weather in nothing but robes.
“Fire.”
The firewood burst into flame.
As the blaze gave off its comforting warmth, all three men’s expressions eased.
“That’s more like it. Must be nice being a mage. No matter how cold it gets, one little fire and everything’s solved, huh?”
“I’m not sure that’s a very good idea.”
Lawrence wasn’t the old Lawrence anymore.
If the question was whether he could do it, the answer was obviously yes.
He wasn’t shaping Fire into any elaborate form; if all he did was keep it hovering in place, it could easily last for hours.
But there was no reason to do that.
For dealing with the cold, he already had an excellent spell called Warm.
There was no need to waste mana on a less efficient spell like Fire.
“If you use magic too freely, you might not have it when you really need it.”
“Yeah, come to think of it, even the Magic Tower mages hardly ever used their magic.”
He knew exactly why Sidra was saying this.
In weather this cold, there were only so many ways to get warm.
And among them, Lawrence’s magic was the only one that could readily produce fire out here on the road.
In other words, Sidra was indirectly asking him to keep making fires whenever the mood struck.
Not a chance.
Who knew what kind of laborer he thought a mage was.
That was also why Lawrence hadn’t told Oswin or the other mercenaries about Warm.
The moment they learned it existed, he knew they’d all start asking for it without fail.
He’d learned enough from the Ulbazar Swamp to be certain of that.
Even then, there had been plenty of travelers begging him to use Shadow Light.
At dinner, he’d been summoned more than once just to set it up.
Back then, too, he’d done an absurd amount of running around for people.
And Warm was nothing like Shadow Light.
Shadow Light was easy to sustain, and the mana it consumed was modest enough that even as its duration steadily increased, it never felt like much of a burden.
By contrast, Warm cost significantly more mana than Shadow Light, and the effort it demanded wasn’t light either.
He absolutely couldn’t show it off carelessly.
Once he used it, he’d be expected to keep it going until the request was over.
For now, it was fine because no one even knew such a spell existed.
But if he offered his kindness too readily, it would soon return to him as a burden he couldn’t carry.
That was not happening.
This request was taking them toward the north, an unknown region, and he wanted to avoid trouble on the road as much as possible.
Dinner was stew with potatoes and carrots.
It was a little disappointing that there was no meat, but with the sausages and fruit they’d been given separately, he didn’t feel as if there was too little to eat.
After the meal, he sat down and took a cup of warm water in his hands.
Feeling the heat seep into his palms, he lifted his head and looked up at the night sky.
The moon shone bright overhead.
Not a single cloud marred the heavens, and countless stars glittered in the dark.
Along with the clatter of dishes, the voices of the travelers—now quite familiar with one another—rose into the night.
“There were that many horn boars? That’s ridiculous! Even a goblin passing by would laugh at that.”
“Believe it or not, it’s true. Those peddlers who came through Fran made a killing, that much is for sure.”
People like the caravan workers swapping useful information.
“Giel. Come over here and make some fire.”
“Why don’t you make it yourself? What the hell do you keep ordering me around for?”
“Because… you know. Right?”
“Yeah. That’s Giel for you.”
“…Lately I’ve been wondering why I’m even traveling with you idiots.”
Mercenaries with nothing better to do than tease each other.
“Honestly, Mistra’s the best place for women.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. If you’re counting money too, Rombamel wins.”
And the kind of low-grade filthy talk that lowered the quality of the whole camp.
Everyone had their own way of resting.
After watching them for a while, Lawrence cast Fire.
A single tongue of flame rose up.
This time he wasn’t practicing shape manipulation.
He guided Fire toward a twig he’d prepared in advance.
The moment the flame touched it, smoke curled upward.
He pulled Fire away.
Then, more carefully this time, he let it rest against the twig again.
Francois had said it once before.
That he’d touched the flames conjured by a mage with his bare hand.
If that was true, there was no reason Lawrence couldn’t do the same.
And yet, no matter how precisely he controlled Fire, the twig still caught.
He could ignite it in an instant.
He could bring the flame on slowly.
He could even repeat to himself that it shouldn’t burn.
It made no difference.
What was the problem?
Was he practicing the wrong way?
He didn’t know.
He couldn’t be sure this was the right approach.
All he had to go on was the testimony of the Valentina sisters.
If only he had a spellbook, maybe there’d be something to dig into.
But in Fire’s case, it was a New Age spell he’d learned by watching the fairy queen use it while playing among the fairies.
There was no way a spellbook had ever been in his hands.
If only he’d bought a Fire spellbook before leaving Mistra.
But regret always came too late, no matter how early it arrived.
In the end, he couldn’t use it on people anyway, so practicing like this was probably the best he could do.
How long had he been concentrating on Fire?
Before he realized it, Lawrence noticed the area around him had grown noisy.
The mercenaries, who had been sitting around in place, were now gathering in one spot.
At first he thought a monster had attacked.
There was the clash of weapons and a volley of curses, so it could only mean a serious fight had broken out.
“Five coppers on Red Fist!”
“Three coppers on White Hunter!”
But the sound of gambling soon reached his ears, and his tension eased.
Inside the circle formed by the mercenaries, he could see Sidra and Sing.
“Why don’t you stop now? Seems like neither you nor I are going to be satisfied until one of us draws blood.”
“We’re not using practice weapons. If you don’t want to get hurt, move out of the way.”
Sing lowered his stance with his spear in hand.
His feet were spread wider than shoulder-width apart, one leg drawn back.
With his legs so long, his center of gravity naturally shifted to the rear.
It was a stance Lawrence had never seen before.
He had never seen anyone handle a spear quite like that.
“Looks like tomorrow’s going to be a rough one.”
Watching him, Sidra slid his knuckles on.
Sing moved first.
The ground beneath his trailing foot caved in with a heavy crunch.
In a single breath he closed the distance to Sidra and thrust.
Clang!
Metal rang out.
The crossed knuckles caught the spear’s point.
“Ooooh!”
“As expected of Red Fist!”
Even though the attack had been blocked, the spearhead didn’t waver.
As if he’d anticipated that, the spear’s motion continued.
It struck, then chased after him.
The spear’s successive attacks poured out like a living snake.
Sidra was no less impressive in receiving them.
He parried and redirected with his knuckles, slipping the spear’s point off course each time.
Then he lunged.
The spear, unable to avoid him completely, stole a drop of blood from its prey.
“He can’t even counter once!”
“Shouldn’t someone stop this? Red Fist’s losing.”
No. That wasn’t it.
Lawrence focused on Sidra’s movement.
The blood that had been drawn had only grazed the skin.
The spearhead, blocked by armor and knuckles alike, hadn’t landed a single mortal blow.
That wasn’t all.
The number of clashes between knuckles and spearhead continued to increase.
Sidra was adapting to the spear’s irregular motions.
He wasn’t simply dodging and calling it done.
After narrowly avoiding the spear by a hair’s breadth, Sidra finally advanced.
His red hair flew behind him.
The fist he clenched hard drove into Sing’s guard.
The outcome had been decided.
But that was a hasty conclusion.
Thunk!
The spear shaft and the knuckles collided.
There was no need to kill the force outright.
Using Sidra’s own strength, Sing was thrown sharply backward.
He corrected the spear that had slipped off line and reset his grip.
Pulling his feet back once more, he returned to his original stance.
His gaze was cold and fixed on his opponent, as though telling him to come if he dared.
“Ooooh!”
“What did he just do?”
“Whoo! Yeah, no wonder he’s Silver Plate!”
Gasps swept through the crowd.
That was how much better the two mercenaries’ fight had been.
Whether it was Sidra reading the spear’s movement and catching it on his knuckles, or Sing predicting the rush inside and using the spear like a shield—both were feats bordering on the miraculous.
“Anybody else want to bet? I’ll put another fifty coppers on Red Fist!”
“White Hunter for me! Another twenty on White Hunter!”
With the cheering, the pot only grew larger.
As if this were the highest praise they could offer the two mercenaries for such an excellent fight, the crowd’s voices only rose louder.
“This is enough.”
“I agree.”
But as though they had no intention of going further, Sing and Sidra lowered their hands.
“What? All of a sudden?”
“The winner still hasn’t been decided!”
“Keep going! You can still win, Red Fist!”
The onlookers, thrown into confusion, began to buzz among themselves.
At their reaction, Sidra scratched his head.
“We just started the request. If one of us gets hurt, it’ll cause problems. You lot gonna take responsibility for that?”
Sing nodded as well.
“If this goes any further, it’s no longer practice. It’ll be a duel. Wasting strength before the request is even over would be foolish.”
The sparring was over.
The surrounding mercenaries still looked unconvinced.
Watching them glance around at one another for cues, Lawrence brought his hands together in applause.
“Good work.”
“What, mage? You were watching?”
“Didn’t you know? We’ve been here since they took their stances.”
“At least nobody got badly hurt.”
It was no longer the sort of atmosphere where they could keep fighting.
Starting with Lawrence’s applause, the other mercenaries followed reluctantly.
“That was fun.”
“So who was stronger?”
“How would they even know?”
“Then what about the bets? We get our money back?”
“Who cares about the bets? The whole table got overturned. Nothing we can do about it.”
In the end, the mercenaries dispersed in disappointment and amusement alike.
Some clicked their tongues as if dissatisfied.
But there were even more who looked thoroughly satisfied.
Their faces said plainly that this was as good a way to kill time as any.
“Why’d you suddenly start sparring?”
“Hmm. Just to pass the time?”
Sidra flashed a mischievous grin.
“They’re comrades we’ll be working with during the request. Better to know each other’s skills in advance.”
“No, seriously, what am I supposed to make of that?”
“Keep work and personal matters separate.”
For better or worse, they were comrades for this request.
They were simply talking through what kind of weapon the other used and what their specialty was; instead, they’d figured it out through a spar.
Strange, or perhaps just another way of doing things.
Lawrence couldn’t quite hide his bewilderment.
“So do I need to show my skills too?”
“If the mage wants to show us, sure. That’d be nice.”
“I can’t imagine why I’d refuse if you’re offering to show me magic.”
Seeing an opening, both mercenaries looked over at Lawrence.
Honestly, they were ridiculous.
“Shadow Light.”
Darkness gathered into a single point and became light.
A sphere of brightness illuminated the whole area.
It didn’t take long for the hopeful looks to turn to disappointment.
“That’s it?”
“Don’t you have an attack spell? Something like the spear spell you used when you fought the Forest Spiders in Spider Forest.”
Apparently remembering Shadow Spear, Sidra pointed at Sing’s spear as he spoke.
“Magic isn’t a performance. I’ve already put Shadow Light up, so let’s clean up the area quickly.”
The three of them here were, after all, the responsible ones.
They’d gathered the others who should have been keeping watch and made all this noise, so if the client gave them an earful in the morning, they’d have no excuse.
“Well, damn. Didn’t think you were the petty type.”
“...I can hear you, Sidra.”