The Wrong Choice (1)
This autumn was Karem’s second in Iceland.
And it was far harsher than the one he had endured the year before.
Wasn’t it still early autumn?
Yet as the procession pressed northward and the paved road gave out, exposing bare dirt tracks, they entered the Highland region that held the Hadrian Margraviate. The temperature plummeted so sharply he felt it in his bones—then snow began to fall from the sky.
Karem dug out the autumn clothes he had packed and pulled them on. In Coldon they would have been plenty. Here the cold slipped through as if to laugh at the notion.
“If you’re cold, why don’t you layer up more?”
“Ha, damn. My winter gear’s in the luggage. It’s not winter already, is it?”
“Still autumn. They say Iceland only grows colder the farther north you climb. I heard this place freezes water even in summer some days. By the way, there should be a heating enchantment…”
Catherine scanned the carriage interior, then stretched a hand toward the ceiling as if she had found what she sought.
Wooooong—
“There it is.”
A resonant hum filled the air for a moment; then, as if a card had been flipped, the whole cabin turned warm in an instant.
“…Ha? No—huuuu.”
Only then did he have room to think about anything else. That earlier remark, though…
Did it mean it got even colder higher up?
“So it snows from autumn onward here?”
“What autumn? The nearer you draw to the Hadrian Margraviate, the more often it snows even in summer.”
Catherine opened the carriage window wide, looking faintly disgusted. A cutting wind and fat snowflakes swirled straight inside.
“I’d heard as much, but I never imagined it would snow this hard.”
“Hieeeeeek! The cold’s coming in! The window! The window!”
“Oops. I don’t feel the chill myself.”
“Please spare a thought for your fragile exclusive chef!”
Honestly, Karem had always considered himself fairly tough against heat and cold. In his previous life he had lived through a climate so broken the yearly swing topped fifty degrees and worse extremes still. Yet the northern autumn made those memories feel like nothing; it was already colder than winter in Coldon. And true winter had not even arrived.
“Contractor. The interior is cooling.”
Sniff. Mary, whose clothes looked strangely no different from those she wore in Winterhome, dabbed at her nose.
“There are people feeling the cold, so please close the window at once.”
“You look like you need more layers yourself rather than fretting over a window.”
“No need for concern. This is merely dryness.”
“Wait—aren’t you cold?”
“A house spirit must faithfully attend her contractor under any environment or condition, and is furnished with every means to that end.”
“Huh? What, magic tools?”
Click—
Catherine shut the window and shook her head as if to say that was not it.
“Magic. Magic.”
“Not ordinary magic. House-spirit magic that keeps peak condition so the spirit may accompany her contractor through downpour, gale, blizzard, or cold snap.”
“Hard to grasp how one house-spirit magic covers all of that.”
“House-spirit magic is not something to be understood.”
Mary lifted her chin with unmistakable pride. Catherine chewed her lip at the sight.
“It is something to be felt with the heart.”
“Even the sages of the Mythic Age gave up trying to comprehend it.”
“Uh, I don’t know how grand that age was, but is it really that impressive?”
“Let’s see.”
Catherine tilted her head, stroked her chin in brief thought, then snapped her fingers.
“Shall I give an example? Among the countless spells, tools, and materials—known and unknown—there exist things that, used correctly, not only nullify magic but sever mana itself.”
“Oh, I’ve never heard of those.”
“You’re a commoner; of course you’ve never seen them.”
“Fair enough.”
“Anyway.”
She cleared her throat and continued.
“With barriers, potions, curses, surgical procedures, or even simple magic tools, one can neutralize a Sword Master who halts an army with a single gesture, or a sage.”
“Uh—that’s possible?”
“Of course it demands enormous preparation and the acceptance of catastrophic losses.”
A Sword Master was a strategic weapon able to hold back an army alone; a sage-class archmage, given enough time, could block and return the breath of a mighty monster head-on. Restraining such beings naturally came at a price.
“And there exist a bare handful of beings who cast magic without the least trouble even in those environments.”
Catherine flicked an index finger toward Mary beside her.
“This house spirit is a prime example.”
“Uh—Mary?”
“Yes.”
Karem stared at her, genuinely surprised. Come to think of it, Mary alone handled the entire crushing workload of the Mage’s Tower. Even before that, the casual pop-in, pop-out teleportation had never been ordinary.
“Hehehe. Karem Hubae. I am such a formidable being.”
“Well, I can tell just from the pop-pop I see every day.”
“Yes—eh? Pop-pop?”
“You know, the teleport.”
“You call a teleport ordinary mages cannot even attempt ‘pop-pop’?”
“It pops and vanishes right in front of me and pops back in—what else am I supposed to call it? Besides, you can’t even use it outside the Mage’s Tower, can you?”
“Ha! Hasty generalization. I can use it!”
“Huh?”
An answer he had never expected. Karem’s eyes went round. Catherine gave a light nod.
“Yes. She can.”
“Uh—really?”
“Limited strictly to accompanying and protecting her contractor, of course. I understand there are further restrictions as well.”
“Just being able to use it at all is broken.”
“In any case, both the pop-pop and that outfit are part of house-spirit magic.”
For a moment Karem shuddered at the sheer unfairness of race and talent. Catherine snorted a laugh, then tilted her head.
“So—feeling better now?”
“Yes. Hoo. I feel like I might live. Honestly I prefer cold to heat, but this is a bit much.”
“By the way, something’s odd.”
A crease formed between Catherine’s brows.
“The more I think about it, the stranger it gets.”
“If you keep saying ‘strange,’ the listener starts feeling strange—”
“No. What’s strange is that you’re cold even while carrying that holy relic. Didn’t it block the cold last time?”
“Ah.”
Karem glanced down at his chest without thinking. Only the puffy bulk of the fur coat met his eye, yet beneath it he clearly felt the round shape of the relic.
“That’s right. When everything froze because of Young Master Robin, I was fine. Now it’s different? Maybe it can’t stop natural weather?”
“Hmm. We’ll have to test it later.”
“Um—I’ll just stay ignorant, thanks.”
“Hm? Why on earth?”
“I’ll stay that way!”
Catherine looked bewildered; Karem was adamant. She said “test,” but he already knew exactly how it would go. He would stand there like a scarecrow and take hits, same as last time. Worse—because this was a holy relic, not a mere magic tool, she would not simply fire mana; she would unleash real spells. No, she absolutely would. He was certain of it. Then she would raise the intensity step by step, saying, “Let’s see how far it defends.”
“Well, if it gets too hot, say so. I have cold-resistance potions instead of the heating spell.”
“Ah, right—those exist too. What do they taste like?”
“The base flavor isn’t much different from that hot sauce you—”
Clunk! Neighhh! Kuuuuuk!!!
The carriage slammed to a halt.
“Whoops!”
“Steady yourself.”
“I almost went over.”
Thud! Mary shot out a hand and caught Karem before he toppled. While he nodded his thanks, Catherine braced herself against the wall and rapped the carriage side in irritation.
“Mercenary bastard! Drive properly!”
“Mage-nim! I think you need to come out and look.”
“What?”
“No—seriously.”
Gordon’s voice from the driver’s bench, where he rode escort, carried a clear thread of laughter. Still puzzled, they opened the door; fierce cold rushed in.
Beneath a hazy sky, snow was already gathering on the twin slopes. A sudden gust made Karem squint; when it eased he looked again.
The party was surrounded.
Figures swathed in thick furs against the cold, armed with spears, rusty blades, clubs—every sort of weapon—and bows leveled at the carriage.
“Whoa—bandits!”
“Iceland is a place where people live. Of course there are bandits.”
“This is my first time seeing any.”
“What? First time? What backwater—ah. Ah.”
Catherine nodded as if that explained everything. He had said his hometown was a village so remote you never even saw monsters, let alone bandits—though it had been raided in the end.
Meanwhile more bandits kept emerging from rock crevices, gravel, and snowdrifts on the slopes, thickening the ring.
And at the head of the column—
Clap clap clap clap!
A bandit wearing a shabby yet sharp-edged wolf-head helm stepped forward, clapped lightly, then flung his arms wide in open mockery.
“Noble lords of Iceland journeying through the Highlands! You’ve endured much in this cold. I am Lambert, leader of these beggars.”
He folded one arm and bowed with a clown’s flourish, then straightened.
“In that spirit, won’t you quietly pay a toll to us poor folk? Do so and we’ll send you on your way in peace.”
Of course it was a lie. The bandit chief, Lambert, spoke words he did not mean as easily as breathing.
The targets looked to be heavily armed escorts, a girl with a staff who was clearly a mage, and one knight. Snow runners and horses pulled the carriages and carts; beyond that only attendants and maids. Every carriage looked expensive, every garment fine. Obviously people of consequence—and people of consequence always meant money.
Until recently he would never have risked the madness of touching nobles. A subordinate behind him whispered.
“Boss. Is this really okay?”
“Shut it. I’m putting them at ease.”
“But they look way too calm.”
“Must be sheltered nobles and their hangers-on. Besides—look at our numbers.”
Not long ago the band had swollen past a hundred.
A real man has to carry ambition!
More than a hundred able-bodied men who could grip a weapon was enough force to overrun a knight’s manor or a small holding. Deserters, former adventurers, and ex-mercenaries filled the ranks; unless a proper subjugation force came ready for war, there was nothing to fear.
Still, with so many gathered they needed practice. And right in front of them stood the perfect practice targets.
He had stalled long enough. Lambert lifted his head and confirmed the entire procession was sealed in.
“Keuk… kuuuuh…”
“Kid. You can laugh.”
“Kek—cough! Hahahahahahaha!”
Huh? Lambert blinked. Laughing out of nowhere? Had fear driven them mad?
Puh—puhuhuhuhu—
Hahahahahahaha!!
No. They had not gone mad.
Beginning with Karem, then the mages who had come with Gordon and Catherine, the attendants, the maids, the coachmen, the escorts—everyone was either stifling laughter or exploding with it, clutching bellies that looked ready to split or hanging onto the carriage walls while they gasped for air.
Catherine herself smirked and shook her head, though more moderately.
“Stop laughing and get a grip.”
“Hahaah. Please, Mage-nim—I’m dying. Wait—breath—breath. Hoo.”
“How much time do you need?”
“Time?”
Haa. Barely recovering, Gordon rubbed his aching gut, rested his free hand on the pommel and tapped it, chewing his lip a moment.
“Won’t take long.”
“But Gordon—what about the arrows?”
“What arrows?”
Gordon blew out a light breath.
“Hey. Who’s your employer that you’re fretting over arrows?”
“Yeah… fair point.”
“Go inside and take a nap or something.”
Gordon waved a careless hand behind him and turned.
And the Sword Master drew his blade.