I Heard the House Next Door Had Collapsed, So I Thought Nothing of It
Moving house was never a simple affair, no matter the place.
Setting aside the matter of adapting to a new environment, there was the packing of belongings, arranging a moving company to haul the furniture along with them, transferring everything into a space prepared in advance, rearranging the furniture, then unpacking and sorting it all again—it was an unbroken chain of major undertakings that could never be finished in a day or two.
And that was if the destination was close. When the distance was long, what if you ran into monsters or bandits along the way? Even so, there was no reducing the load. Even ordinary farmers, when they decided to move elsewhere, would tear up the floorboards to take with them if they could. Boards were well-seasoned planks, after all—and every last one of them was money.
Naturally, anyone of means did even more, and if you climbed as high as the nobility, it was only natural that the luggage and furniture would make a few wagonloads look trivial.
In that sense, the bargain-bin cost-effective mercenary Gordon—no, Gordon Stark, newly appointed Baron of Bolton—was relatively free of such concerns.
"Free? Captain—no, Baron. The problem is that you have too little, not too much. At least the reward money and gifts are plentiful, so that's a relief."
"What can you do? A wandering mercenary's entire fortune is his armor, his weapons, and a money pouch. That's plenty."
"Why in the world would a Sword Master go around living like a vagrant?"
"Robellio. A lot happened. A lot."
Gordon's eyes went unfocused for a moment, turning distant. More than a few dozen incidents and accidents—magical and physical assaults, personal attacks and close-quarters brawls alike—from the Europa mainland and the lands south of Iceland flashed through his mind. Every one of them had targeted the pure heart he had cherished and the precious dream he held dear, weak points that were dangerous even for a Sword Master. Mostly in the sense of chastity.
Gordon shook his head hard, driving out the sudden "hello there" black history that was also a nightmare.
The man watching him—called Robellio—let out a sigh. He had been the temporary captain and quartermaster of the Dayfly Mercenary Band, only to become the steward of a baronial house overnight. Even Gordon, still haunted by his dark past, could not ignore the heavy sigh that seemed ready to dig a hole in the ground.
"But is it really all right to do it this way?"
"Hm? Is there a problem?"
"Listen here, Captain—no, Baron. Ha, that title just won't stick to my tongue."
"What? What are you trying to say, testing the waters like that?"
"It feels weird for someone as rootless as me to be saying this..."
Driving the carriage, Robellio leaned over and whispered—loudly—to Gordon riding beside him.
"You're not the captain anymore. You're a noble lord now, Baron."
"Why are you bringing up what you already said earlier just to make your point?"
"Aish, just listen for a second, damn it. Is it really okay to fill your first retainers with a bunch of rootless types like us?"
"Why wouldn't it be?"
"Well... because you're a noble now?"
And a Sword Master, at that. Robellio's words were not wrong in some respects. If Gordon had been a penniless new noble starting from nothing, it might have been different. But with the guaranteed check of being a Sword Master, plus being a benefactor of a ducal house, Gordon's assets after the banquet had reached a scale no one would believe belonged to someone who had only just become a noble.
On top of that came the existing power holders approaching him to forge various connections. Whenever a new power was born, checks and attempts to kick away the ladder came as a matter of course; Iceland was no different in kind, only in degree. But when the other party was a ducal house's benefactor? And a Sword Master? In meritocratic Iceland, a new power like that was actually welcome.
Plenty of nobles had approached Gordon with genuine goodwill after the banquet—and even after it ended—recommending talent or requesting marriage interviews, always with gifts. Mostly they pushed portraits of troublesome third sons and assorted relatives, or of cherished eldest daughters, or of adopted daughters who had suddenly appeared one day.
"Eh, why worry about all that?"
Gordon waved a hand dismissively. Over his peacock-flashy thick silk quilted armor—like a peacock in heat—he wore chain mail and plate. He pointed at one of the former mercenaries riding beside the carriage Robellio drove, now a house soldier of House Stark.
"Bastard."
"Huh? Me?"
"Yeah, you."
He went on pointing in turn at the men who had gone from mercenaries to noble retainers and subordinates in the blink of an eye.
"Orphan, whore's son, descendant of rebels, deserter, vagrant, and so on. Funny—plenty of you have stolen, but not a single full-time bandit among you?"
"Well, the late captain had a real knack for collecting only those kinds of guys."
"And the most pedigreed one among us—the youngest of a fallen noble house—is the one saying that?"
"Heh. So how rootless is our Baron, then?"
Gordon turned his finger around and pointed at himself.
"Runaway serf."
"Oh."
Robellio shut his mouth, out of words. An orphan might at least have some faint secret of birth. Gordon was every bit as rootless as a vagrant or a whore's child.
"Whoa, pedigree talk? Our dear former noble lord is boasting about his roots again?"
"What's a poor orphan pup supposed to do listening to this? Makes me sad."
"This cock who was born a bastard against his will is so wronged he's about to cry."
"Ahem! How dare a rootless bastard pup shed tears before a precious fallen noble lord!"
"Huuuh! Young master! We dared, beyond our station, to—"
"All of you shut your damn mouths!!!!!"
Robellio roared in fury. Whether he did or not, the mercenaries only laughed harder, teasing their superior. Once a weakness was shown, you had to dig into it—that was the rule. The tone was snide, the voices intimate as could be.
Anyway, it wasn't our fault, right?
"Kakakakakaka!"
Gordon could tell at a glance there was no malice in it. They were simply friends who had spotted a weakness and were mischievously teasing him because things were boring and this was perfect. He had wondered at first if this was right, but he was used to it now. He snorted a laugh and declared firmly:
"Well, as long as the pay is solid, you mercenary lot aren't the type to turn your blades around. In that sense, I've always been confident in my eye for people."
"Heh. There's always the one-in-a-million chance. You're awfully sure of yourself."
"Of course. I'm the one making all their dreams and futures come true."
"Ah, well, yeah."
Robellio had no choice but to concede. Unlike adventurers who still had a scrap of romance, the dream of mercenaries who roamed the continent solely for money was, paradoxically, to retire, settle in one place, and build a stable family. If possible, to climb high. And for that you needed connections and money. Then even more money.
"I don't know about later, but right now those guys would lick my feet if I told them to."
"The Baron has ordered us to lick his feet!"
"What? Hey! Hey! That was just an example! Get back to your places!"
Before he knew it, Gordon was fighting a desperate battle against former mercenaries who had latched onto his legs to prove their loyalty. It was a dangerous situation—they could easily have been kicked by the horse—yet the mount Gordon rode, a fine breed granted by the duke, merely snorted lightly as if it had seen every absurdity under the sun, then turned its head back to the front.
Fortunately, no tragedy of Gordon losing the chastity of his feet occurred. When it dragged on, Gordon used force to drive off his overflowing-loyalty subordinates, then let out a short sigh. As if nothing had happened, he turned his horse.
"Anyway, seems like we've been on the road a solid two days. How much farther to the territory?"
"About a day, I'd say. If nothing special happens, that should be about right."
"And of course the season has to be autumn. Early autumn, at least."
"Well, with a procession this size, what kind of guts would it take to—"
Kwaaaaaaaargh!!!
Brown fur covering its entire body, though white patches were beginning to show here and there. A height half again that of a grown man, arms long enough to drag on the ground. A pig-like snout and protruding fangs.
"A monster, is it?"
"Ice troll. Looks like one just starting to prepare for hibernation. And that size—still a juvenile."
Gordon stroked his chin and muttered calmly. Robellio, by contrast, tensed and swallowed dryly. Trolls were never monsters you could take lightly. Their unique regeneration that regrew even severed arms. The tenacious vitality that came with it. Even if a subjugation party was formed, their brute strength was one thing—they were cunning enough to ambush without fail the moment the party showed an opening. Veterans could find themselves dead in an instant if they slipped up.
A monster you must never drop your guard around—and as an ice troll living in the cold, it was a full head larger than trolls from other regions.
Whiiiiish—!
"Whoa!?"
A sudden gust from the side made Robellio shut his eyes on reflex.
Seolkang— grrrrrrrrr... ku—!
A threatening shearing sound. The sound of boiling blood. A dull thud of something falling.
When Robellio opened his eyes again, the situation was already settled. The ice troll lay on the ground with its head severed. The body, separated from the head and still expanding the pool of blood, twitched as if it had not yet registered its own death, speeding up the rate at which the pool grew.
Robellio's mouth fell open. No—everyone who had craned their necks to look wore the same expression. They knew full well Gordon was a Sword Master. How could they not, after he had cut through that chaos in Iceland? But back then the opponent had been a grizzly beaver. What stood before them now was an ice troll—a powerful monster even a knight could not guarantee victory against alone. And Gordon had taken that ice troll down in... what, five seconds?
Even the horses and snow runners that had been about to startle at the roar only rolled their eyes in confusion at the sudden turn of events. While Gordon casually turned his head and sheathed his sword, the horse he rode shook its forehooves as if annoyed that blood had gotten on them.
"Why are you all just standing there staring? Surely you aren't waiting for this Baron to dismount and help you process the thing himself?"
Only after hearing the deliberate aristocratic phrasing from the man who had created the unbalanced spectacle did the mercenaries snap out of it, snatch up their tools, and rush forward in a scramble. What did it matter? All of that was money!
"Hey! Don't spill a single drop of blood! That's all money—money!"
"Scoop it into the barrels dirt and all! It'll settle to the bottom anyway!"
"Hehehe! How much is all this worth? Pockets are full—catch!"
"Watch the knife! You almost put a scratch in this precious hide! It's more expensive than you are!"
"Let's see—guts and meat get tossed. Head, hands, bones, muscle, blood, and hide are being saved. What other parts were worth money again..."
Even though the only people watching were themselves, the (entirely former-mercenary) retainers who had been strutting along for days with smug grins threw aristocratic dignity to the wind and focused entirely on the butchering. Gordon watched the scene from horseback with warm satisfaction.
"With that, I should be able to put a few pieces of furniture in the castle I'll be staying in."
Once the processing was finished, the procession resumed its march—but the attacks from monsters and beasts preparing for hibernation continued steadily. Each time, the column stopped. The wagons grew heavier with byproducts, and the pace slowed. The journey that had been four days remaining somehow stretched by another two.
And at last they arrived at the Bolton territory.
Aaaaaaaargh—! Kiiiiiiik!
Waaaaah— clangclang! Crash! Pssshk!
The moment they arrived, they found a group already locked in battle with a pack of grizzly beavers. Mercenaries and adventurers in mismatched gear. Not only them—soldiers and numerous knights gathered around family banners marking their affiliations were facing the oncoming grizzly beavers.
Though the distance was considerable, Gordon spotted a few familiar faces and muttered without thinking.
"That one's from the rescue party. No, a knight who took part in the last subjugation force, I think."
"Subjugation force? Captain. You mean the grizzly beaver subjugation from last time?"
"Yeah. Back then. Oh, and that guy over there—I smashed a tankard over his head."
"Has the front line been pushed back this far?"
"Looking at the scale, it's not the whole force. A detachment, by the looks of it."
Fortunately the battle ended with the grizzly beavers' retreat. While some of the subjugation force stayed to clean the field and others pursued the fleeing monsters, Gordon led his party over to the knight who appeared to be the commander. The commander eyed Gordon uncertainly until he saw the letter of appointment; then his attitude flipped like a palm and he explained the entire situation.
As the subjugation dragged on, grizzly beaver packs had spread elsewhere, and some territories had taken heavy damage. The entire population of those lands had been evacuated to the nearby Felwinter domain. In other words, the ruined Bolton territory was completely empty.
And winter was only one season away.
Gordon found it hard even to form a reply. The commander clapped him on the shoulder with a grim expression of understanding.
"Sorry about this. The one bright spot for you is that once you report to your lord, he'll take every measure and help with the restoration. There's no way he wouldn't help when a Sword Master arrives at his first post only to find this mess."
"Just one thing I need to ask first."
"Anything."
"What about the men who followed me here—the ones I planned to make my retainers?"
"They'll receive a little support until the restoration begins."
"Haaaaaaaah."
Gordon let out a long sigh of relief. At least he had something to tell the mercenaries who had followed him this far on nothing but faith. Some of them might even like it better this way.
After thanking the commander, Gordon returned to the column and looked up at the sky. As always, the sky over Iceland was leaden and gray.
"Fuck."
It was autumn.
"So you came to Lady Atanitas first, is that it?"
"Bingo."
"My head hurts."
Having heard the entire story, Karem clutched his head. It was exactly the same reaction Catherine had given when she heard Gordon's news not long ago.
A temporary houseguest had arrived at the Mage's Tower.
