The Calm Before the Storm
Afterglow Fortress, which had been so quiet of late, was now loud enough to put that stillness to shame.
Of course it was.
No—if it hadn't been noisy, that would have been a problem in its own right.
The expeditionary force had returned, after all.
And not just any force—the Margrave's own main body, the true backbone of the campaign.
When an expedition comes home, there is only one thing that follows.
A banquet.
A place for the weary to shake off their exhaustion and honor the comrades who never came back.
Mountains of meat. Dishes pouring out without end. Wine casks stacked high enough to drown an entire city.
Praising the meritorious and celebrating the safe return of the living...
That would have been normal. But there was no time for any of it now.
There wasn't even time to rest first.
"Ballista! Where the hell did the ballista that was here go?!"
"The fortress is fine for the moment—send the garrison back to Present at once!"
"Oil! How many barrels do we have stockpiled in the fortress? You don't know? Then find out, now!"
Present, the city planted at the northernmost tip of Iceland.
A throng of undead was slowly massing toward it.
Not that the fortress itself had any leisure to spare.
"Damn it, a throng? No. An undead legion is marching on us from this side! Battle stations! Raise the alert to maximum!"
"Understood, my lord!"
Undead were pouring over the mountains as well.
Countless living things that had died under the law of survival of the fittest.
Things that had once been living.
If that had been all, the urgency would have been nothing special.
Daily life at Afterglow Fortress was an endless cycle of expeditions, battles, and rearming.
At best once a year or more; at worst, every few years it still happened.
There had been far more dangerous moments than this.
But this time was different.
They had confirmed the one who raised and led the legion.
A chain of command existed.
Comparing it to the undead throng approaching Present would have been an insult.
This truly deserved the word army.
A typical battle at Afterglow Fortress was a defensive fight against a great host of monsters that came on without the slightest thought of cooperation.
It ended when the endless wave's momentum was broken, when the host was satisfied with the corpses produced by its own charge and withdrew, or when every last one of them was put down.
The third case was undead.
And it was the easiest kind of defense.
Natural undead, even in throngs, could never truly threaten the fortress.
But undead raised and driven by someone else were another matter entirely.
Undead never tire.
Shatter them and they can rise again.
Worst of all was the knowledge that any casualty on the field might stand back up and turn on the very comrades they had fought beside.
An army that cared nothing for morale, rest, or supply—that felt no fear, no pain, no pity—and that obeyed a commander's orders without a single shred of doubt.
"Haa. Have all the urgent orders gone out?"
"Yes, my lord. I shall take command of the war room. Might I suggest you rest for a while? Once the undead arrive, you will not be able to rest even if you wish to."
"Right. Then I'll leave the rest to you. Call me if anything urgent comes up."
The walls and shelves of the Margrave's office, set in the middle levels of Afterglow Fortress, were almost entirely decorated with weapons of every kind, trophies of monsters and beasts, and hides.
Richard, master of all of it, sprawled across a private stone seat as massive as his own frame and reached toward a bucket heaped high with fried chicken.
"It's a little embarrassing in front of my son's subordinates, so I'll ask for your understanding. As Wallace said, getting even a little more rest is the priority right now."
"There's no need to be mindful of us."
"That so?"
Catherine answered half-buried in a guest sofa far too large for her.
No—aside from Gordon, Mary was in much the same state.
Karem, for his part, was essentially invisible except for hands, feet, and face.
Richard's eyes went round. He stroked his beard, then picked up a drumstick and left nothing but bone in a single bite.
Crunch. Crack. Chew, chew—gulp.
"Then let's get to the point."
"Judging by the fact you summoned my party, what you want is—"
"Right. I ask for your cooperation, just in case."
Richard flicked his fingers while still chewing; fried crumbs scattered through the air.
"I don't much like putting guests to work, but this is an unprecedented situation. On top of that, the fortress doesn't even have its full strength assembled right now."
"Speaking of which, what happened to the Highland expedition? Surely they weren't wiped out."
Gordon asked while reaching for the guest table piled with fried chicken and tiramisu.
"I believe the same. I only just sent the crows out a short while ago, so I still don't know their situation."
Having cleaned even the cartilage, Richard pointed the leg bone at Catherine and then at himself.
"An Archmage and a Sword Master—and both of considerable skill, I hear. I'll reward you handsomely, so when the moment comes, lend us that strength."
"We're cut off ourselves, so we have little choice. But..."
"Hm? Something odd about it?"
Catherine raised one eyebrow.
"The request is remarkably... loose, isn't it?"
"Loose?"
"From the atmosphere, I expected you to demand full and total cooperation. Was I wrong?"
"Ah, I see what you mean."
Richard looked up at her, tossed the bone toward the fireplace, and waved a hand.
"Of course the thought crossed my mind for a moment. Even so, I can't just work the guests my son sent me to the bone. And besides—a hidden iron spear meant for the enemy's gut is best kept concealed until the very end, then—"
Like a predator snatching prey, he seized a thigh.
"—stabbed home in a surprise attack."
"Wow. An Archmage with a grand spell fully prepared and ready to fire at any moment..."
At the Margrave's answer, Karem muttered without thinking.
Just imagining it was terrifying.
He already knew Catherine's true power well enough.
Casual gestures. Silent casting. Binding a mammoth with a wave of the hand, conjuring localized weather disasters with physical force, not only stopping a breath attack head-on but turning it back...
And they were supposed to give that humanoid strategic weapon all the time she needed to prepare, then let her loose the moment the chance came?
Goosebumps rose just from the thought. Gordon and Mary, listening beside him, shuddered the same way.
"That said, when you actually step in is up to all of you. No one can say how things will turn. Still..."
Brushing fried crumbs from his beard, Richard arched one brow.
"He's so small and young, and hidden behind Sir Stark's bulk, I didn't notice. Is that one over there Lady Atanitas's attendant?"
"He is my exclusive chef. Officially he also serves as my attendant."
"Hmm? Is that so. Wait. Exclusive chef?"
Richard, who had been casually stripping the meat from a rib with his lips, froze.
He spat the bone into the bucket and rose to his feet.
"A young exclusive chef... Then that would make you Lord Karem?"
"...Yes. Karem, exclusive chef to Lady Atanitas. To the Margrave—"
"Ah, no need to rise. You're a guest and an honored one at that. Sit easy, sit easy."
Richard pushed the half-risen Karem back down into his seat.
...She just calls her by name, but he sticks honorifics on me?
Karem's body trembled of its own accord from the sudden weight of it.
"Ah, right. This isn't it."
He shot up, rummaged through the bookshelf behind his chair, pulled out a rather thick hardcover, and strode straight toward the guest table.
More precisely, straight toward Karem.
"Sign the inside for me, would you?"
"Hic. Excuse me?"
A request he had never imagined, the honorifics still attached, and the unmistakable pressure behind it—Karem hiccuped without meaning to.
"A s-sign. Um, so... you mean an autograph?"
"That's right. A sign. If you don't have one, just write your name. Ah, no quill?"
"Uh, quill. Quill. Ah."
Karem took the quill Mary casually offered, dipped it in the ink bottle she likewise held out, and while scrawling his signature on the inside cover Richard spread open for him, he managed to read the title printed there.
"Little Genius Chef Karem's Amazing Recipe Collection...?"
"Indeed. A book compiling the recipes you developed."
"I don't remember making any such thing."
"Well of course you don't."
Richard blew on the ink until it dried at once, closed the book, and nodded in satisfaction.
"This is something I specially commissioned."
"Ha? A custom order?"
This time it wasn't Karem.
Catherine, mid-bite of the tiramisu Mary was feeding her, looked utterly stunned.
Mary and Gordon wore the same expression of people who had no idea what they had just heard.
Whether he failed to notice his guests' looks of pure shock, ignored them, or simply didn't care, Richard laughed like a boiling pot and grinned wickedly.
"Heh heh heh. One more thing to brag about when my vassals arrive. At the very least, no one else will have Lord Karem's signature but me."
Okay, now it's actually heavy.
Karem could not hide his astonishment.
Thanks to Wallace, steward of Afterglow Fortress, Head Chef Borgo, and a good number of the fortress servants and maids, he had already realized he enjoyed something like the popularity of a star chef from his previous life back in Highland.
He even understood the reasons, more or less.
But the Margrave and his vassals on top of that? Vassals meant chieftains and barons and other powers of note were included, right? Ha?
"Ah, that's right. I almost forgot."
"...Contractor. You mean the provisional contract matter?"
"That can wait until this whole situation is over. This is far more personal."
Mary's question was answered at once. Catherine slipped a hand into her coat and drew out a bundle of letters tied with a small knot.
"Margrave. Letters from your family."
"What. Alicia sent a letter!!!"
Richard hurled the precious hardcover toward the bookshelf so hard it slammed into place, then thundered across the floor as if to smash it and slammed to a halt, carefully accepting the bundle so as not to damage the letters.
Ignoring every gaze in the room, he tore the knot open in one motion and flipped through them, reading the names of the authors.
"Alfred. Skip. Godwin. Next. William? Robin? My daughter-in-law? Why are there so many letters?!"
He vented some incomprehensible irritation, and only when he lifted the very last letter in the bundle did color flood his face. Like a bear that had just found honey.
"Yes, it was at the bottom. My precious Alicia!"
This is completely different from the first impression. Karem reached for more fried chicken and cast a lukewarm look at Richard.
Richard, who stood a full head taller than the pack of barbarian warriors already showing off their lethal presence in checkered knee-skirts, was truly a sight to behold.
Even Sir Giant Churchill at least looked somewhat human.
If the legendary divine generals, the Einherjar, actually existed, would they look like this?
Even his main weapon—a hammer shaped like a dragon's head—looked doubtful for any ordinary man to lift. The head alone was larger than Karem curled into a ball.
And that existence was right now blowing kisses at a letter.
Well, every grandfather wanted to be the favorite of his youngest grandchild. Karem knew that much.
But still.
How to put it...
"He's kind of goofy."
"Shh. You've got guts."
"Hup."
Gordon clamped a finger over Karem's mouth in warning, and Karem shut it at once.
Fortunately, Richard seemed too absorbed in the letter to have heard.
"...I can't watch this any longer."
Catherine seemed to agree, giving a small nod.
"He appears thoroughly distracted. We'll have to find another chance later for the provisional contract. Let's go."
"Uh, is it really all right to just leave like this?"
"Does it look like that man has attention to spare for anything else right now?"
Catherine pointed at Richard, who was still raining kisses on the letter.
Karem, Mary, and Gordon understood at once and scooped up the chicken basket and tiramisu from the table.
Bang!
The office door flew open as if it might shatter.
"Richard! You lordling bastard! Lord Karem is here?! Oh, other guests as well. Pardon the intrusion."
A bald old man smaller than Richard but solid rather than fat came striding in, his checkered knee-skirt flaring lethally like a beard.
So this one's a fan too. But that skirt. Please, Tutatis have mercy.
An appearance he could never get used to, and that precarious absolute territory that somehow never quite showed—
and the thick forest of leg hair right under his nose—
Karem felt his mind going hazy.