The Crime of Killing a Superior
Killing a superior officer ranked among the gravest crimes the military recognized.
Under ordinary circumstances it would have meant a death sentence, yet the way such capital offenses were handled here on the northern front was a little different.
“Walk properly!”
Arteon wore nothing but a single thin layer of clothing. Blindfolded as well, he was being dragged along by the soldiers.
“Get in! Get in, you bastard!”
Thud! Thud! Thud!
The soldiers who had hauled him there swung the clubs in their hands, beating him as they shouted. Moments later they shoved Arteon into the punishment cell.
One might wonder what kind of punishment cell could exist in a place this backward, but that very backwardness made it simpler—and far more cruel. They forced him, still blindfolded, to crouch inside a tiny box barely a meter high and remain standing. The awkward height meant he had to keep his back bent the entire time, placing an enormous strain on his body. On top of that, they left him outdoors in the freezing northern wind, eyes covered, so that the cold and the howls of every beast in the night drove most men half-mad within three or four days.
Two days passed.
“How long has the bastard been in the punishment cell?”
“This is the second day, sir.”
Velkain, commander of the 1st Division and the man responsible for the northwestern front at Benhard, asked the question; his adjutant answered.
Yet…
“Still… he’s a stubborn one. Hasn’t screamed even once.”
“Is that so.”
“Just give the order and I’ll have him beheaded on the spot.”
This was a man who had killed his superior in full view of every soldier. Fail to enforce discipline properly and morale would suffer.
Velkain shook his head at the adjutant’s words.
“No. That doesn’t suit this place.”
The north was always short of men. Summary executions were therefore rare. Instead, true to the harshness of the north, they handed down punishments more agonizing than death itself.
The adjutant’s face stiffened at Velkain’s reply.
“Surely you don’t mean…”
“Dump him on Bareda Hill. Make it seven days.”
“B-Bareda Hill punishment?!”
The adjutant cried out. The Bareda Hill sentence meant driving a soldier naked onto the hill behind Benhard. In the extreme northern weather it was little different from freezing a man to death.
When the adjutant shouted, Velkain fixed him with a cold stare. The man flinched and barked,
“I-I’ll carry it out at once!”
Velkain was known as the Ogre of Benhard—or, by another name, the Tyrant of the North. He usually seemed quite gentlemanly, yet the moment anyone questioned his words twice or a situation displeased him, he made merciless decisions. That was how the nickname had stuck.
The adjutant fled the division commander’s office as if escaping. Alone, Velkain looked down at the documents on his desk. From among the pile he drew out a single sheet—the personal file on Arteon.
“Arteon, is it…”
Nothing special. In fact the contents were so sparse it was almost absurd. And yet this fellow had…
Killed Moldrek.
There were things Velkain wanted to confirm. Of course…
Only if he survives.
The crime of killing a superior was so heinous that at least a minimal pretext was required. If the man lived through this punishment, there would be a chance to talk.
Velkain flicked the papers aside and turned his head away.
Thud.
“He’s going to die anyway. Would’ve been easier on everyone if we’d just killed him right off. Tch!”
“Wonder if there’s even any point coming back in a week.”
“Hoo… day’s about to get dark, so let’s just finish the job and get out of here.”
The soldier who had thrown Arteon down frowned and approached the fallen man. He squatted and looked into Arteon’s eyes as he spoke.
“Spend seven nights, then bring back the unit marker from the top of Bareda Hill and your punishment ends. But if you show up before that, we won’t even leave bones to bury, so keep that in mind.”
“Heh heh. You can run off somewhere else if you want—that’s up to you. Just remember you can’t come back for seven days.”
“All right, let’s go.”
Once night fell, Bareda Hill revealed an entirely different face. Having finished their task, the two soldiers hurriedly rose. Arteon watched them hurry back toward the fortress as if fleeing.
…A week.
So they had sentenced him to the Bareda Hill punishment. It was a special method of discipline found only here at Benhard. Given nothing but a basic portable dagger, a man had to survive a full week on Bareda Hill. No food, no tent for shelter. And more than that…
“It’s also the habitat of the snowfield wolves.”
Snowfield wolves were distinguished by longer fur and a pure white coat. Roughly two meters in body length, they were larger than ordinary wolves. Their white pelts let them blend perfectly into the northern snowdrifts, and their razor-sharp fangs could sever an enemy’s windpipe in a single bite. They were classified more as monsters than mere beasts.
The one small mercy was that snowfield wolves formed only tiny packs, and only the males hunted.
If you don’t provoke them first, you’ll meet two at most at any one time.
Arteon had already survived ten years in the north. Among those who had come out of the punishment units, he alone had risen as high as platoon leader. Of course, he had been discarded in the end.
Crunch!
Arteon scooped up a handful of snow from the ground and ate it. Two days without proper water had left him severely weakened. After stuffing himself with snow, the thirst at least seemed to ease.
“Hah… hah…”
Breathing hard, Arteon quickly began searching for a place to hide. Night was almost upon them—the hour when the snowfield wolves became active. More importantly…
The temperature plummets. Before that happens I have to find somewhere that blocks the wind.
Many believed the snowfield wolves were the greatest danger of the Bareda Hill punishment. In truth, the real killer was the cold. Spend a night on Bareda Hill in rags like these, completely exposed, and by morning you would be a frozen corpse.
Yet Arteon’s movements carried a certain ease. This place, Bareda Hill…
“Might as well be my playground.”
He knew every inch of it. As he climbed the slope, a murderous light kindled in Arteon’s eyes.
Two days later.
“He’s dead by now, right?”
“Who? Ah, that guy?”
The soldier who remembered Arteon curled his lip in a smirk.
“Obviously dead! How’s some bastard who wasn’t even dressed properly supposed to last? Forget two days—he probably froze the first night.”
“Still… that one seemed to have one hell of a vicious streak.”
“True. Watching him hold out in that punishment cell… damn, he was tough. Never seen anyone like him.”
Another soldier nearby nodded in agreement. The way the man had endured that hellish cell without so much as a groan had been impressive just to witness.
Their conversation drew other soldiers over.
“But what happens if he actually comes back alive?”
“Has anyone ever lasted a full week on Bareda Hill?”
“Nope. First of all, the Bareda Hill sentence is rare. And usually three days is the limit.”
Because the punishment was so terrifying, they rarely set it that long. Men who returned on the third day did appear from time to time.
“Shit, a whole week… ah, damn it. If it’d been about four days I could’ve run a proper betting pool.”
“Heh heh, you even got money to bet with?”
“What’re you talking about? I’ve got a little stash put away, you know.”
The soldiers snickered and kept talking. Just then—
“What’s got you all so entertained?”
“Huk! I-Iron Heart! Platoon Leader, sir!”
“What are you all clustered around for?”
Platoon Leader Hans looked over the soldiers and asked. One of them answered at once.
“You know the guy they sent to Bareda Hill this time? We were talking about him.”
“The Bareda Hill punishment?”
Hans recalled Arteon. He had been nearby when the man killed Company Commander Moldrek, so he had seen it clearly.
That movement back then…
It had been so clean and precise that even Hans himself would have struggled to react. When it came to killing a man…
Not a shred of hesitation. He struck the vital points with perfect accuracy.
And even in the punishment cell he hadn’t screamed once. The fellow was definitely no ordinary soldier.
While Hans was lost in thought for a moment, the subordinate in front of him scratched his head and said,
“So… we were thinking of maybe running a little bet, but it doesn’t seem worth it. Three or four days and there’d be something to wager on, but a week’s just meaningless.”
“You mean betting on whether he comes back alive?”
“Yes, sir. No one’s ever lasted a full week under the Bareda Hill sentence, have they?”
“That’s true enough.”
They had substituted the Bareda Hill punishment for an execution on a charge of killing a superior. The severity therefore had to match. Otherwise northern discipline would crack.
“…Interesting.”
Hans seemed to consider something, then pulled a gold coin from his pocket.
“I’ll put one gold on him coming back alive. Anyone want to take the other side?”
“O-One gold?!”
A month’s pay up here in the north was only twenty-five silver. One gold was worth a hundred silver.
The subordinates scrambled to put money down.
“I’ll bet fifteen silver.”
“My entire fortune! Twenty silver!”
“I’ll put twelve silver.”
“What the hell, you? Didn’t you say you were broke? If you’ve got betting money, pay back what you borrowed first!”
“Aigoo! I’ll win it and pay you back, so quit worrying.”
Everyone got excited and joined the pool Hans had opened. The soldier collecting the money looked at Hans.
“Are you sure about this, sir? A whole gold…”
“Eh… it’s fine. If he dies, nothing I can do. Still…”
Hans gazed outside the fortress with a knowing, peculiar look in his eyes. If the man never returned… well, that would simply mean Arteon had repaid whatever debt he owed Hans.
Still, I get the feeling he’s going to pull something off.
They would just have to wait and see.
Having heated the atmosphere with the betting pool, Hans turned without a second thought and headed for his quarters.
Crunch.
Footprints marked the untouched snow. White frost formed with every breath. The area around his mouth had turned white, and the sweat-dampened hair had frozen solid.
One dagger. Arteon had lashed it to the end of a shabby branch to make a spear, then wrapped the hide around his body.
“Fuck, it’s filthy cold.”
He had already encountered snowfield wolves once, killed them, and taken their hides and meat. Even though the punishment cell had left Arteon half-dead…
I’m not so far gone that a few snowfield wolves can take me.
By turning the dagger into a spear he had managed to bring down one of them. Finding a lone wolf had been lucky as well. There had been no time to properly tan the hide, so he had simply wiped off the blood and draped it over himself. Even that was enough to blunt the insane northern cold just a little.
It was definitely around here…
One of the reasons Arteon had killed Moldrek was precisely this. He had been certain that, given the nature of the north, there would be no summary execution. And…
The most fitting punishment for killing a superior is the Bareda Hill sentence.
Only someone who thoroughly understood the ways of the north could have taken such a bold gamble.
“Found it.”
This was the starting point of the man who would one day annihilate the Kar Tribe of the northwest and become a hero of the north. The place where “that” lay.
“This time, I’m taking it for myself.”
Having discovered the cave entrance, Arteon’s eyes flashed with sharp light.