Duel (1)
The shadow of a massive beast seemed to sweep across the ground, taking on form. Its pitch-black, dense fur absorbed all light. From a distance, it looked like nothing more than an ordinary wolf, but when it charged right up to them, its sheer size was overwhelming. Standing on all fours, it towered over an adult man, its body as long as a carriage. The only part of it that caught the light and gleamed was its red eyes.
“Hell wolves! Form ranks!”
The vanguard captain of the supply train bellowed. Reactions split down the middle—soldiers panicking in terror, and those with experience scrambling into position. The hell wolves circled the carriage train like they were dancing, growling low. There were only five or six of them, but their snarls and the heavy thud of their paws on the ground were enough to inspire dread.
“P-please, spare me!”
The laborers conscripted for unloading screamed or begged for their lives over and over.
“D-don’t come out of the carriages!” Hans stammered, his voice shaking.
“You’re the one who should get inside! What do you think you’re gonna do like that?”
“I-I’ll pr-protect you, young master…”
In that instant, a black shadow flashed by.
A soldier in the front rank was bitten and dragged off by a hell wolf.
“Aaaagh! Help meee!”
Crunch. Crunch. The dragged soldier didn’t go gently. Several hell wolves piled on, ripping his arms and legs to shreds. It was as good as a public dismemberment right before their eyes. Blood and chunks of flesh dripped from the wolves’ muzzles.
Just as the books said—intelligent beasts. Isaac fought back a creeping drowsiness and recalled what he’d read. There was nothing he could do in this situation. He couldn’t swing a sword competently against such tricky magic beasts. Magic was out of the question too—even if he could use it, casting in the middle of swarming beasts would be suicide. Magic beasts craved mana. Raising the density with spells would only tempt them like chumming the water for sharks.
“It’s psychological warfare! Don’t take the bait! Hold formation!”
Carlson rode up, roaring at the top of his lungs.
“Everyone, hold formation! Hold formation!”
The vanguard captain screamed himself hoarse.
“Incoming!”
“Here they come!”
“Spears up!”
This time, not one but five or six hell wolves charged at once.
They target the weakest or most frightened first. So then…
Before the thought could fully form, a hell wolf barreling toward Carlson suddenly veered toward the carriage. Not the carriage itself—but precisely—
“Hans! Hans!”
“Y-young m-master, m-my legs…”
In a split second, Hans—eyes locked on the oncoming hell wolf—turned his head toward Isaac. His face was that of a man who’d accepted death, resigned to it all.
Isaac and Schrader moved first on instinct. They flung open the carriage door, yanking Hans inside. But the hell wolf looked far faster. It was already nearly upon them.
Boom! Neighhh!
A heavy impact rocked them, and the horses screamed. The carriage toppled sideways. Isaac and Schrader tumbled inside.
“Hans!”
Isaac’s heart plummeted. When had he sworn never to repeat that regret? When had he witnessed Randolf’s death? Was he foolishly making the same mistake again?
“Ugh… Young master…”
Inside the overturned carriage with Isaac and Schrader was one more—Hans.
“I-I’m here.”
“Ha.”
Isaac let out a shaky breath. Hans’s head was bleeding, but he didn’t seem bitten by the black wolf.
“Young master, thanks to you and Master Schrader, I…”
Before Hans could finish, his head snapped sideways. Isaac had punched him square in the face.
“Haha, your punch packs more wallop than I thought.”
“You…”
“Sorry.”
Hans grinned vacantly, but his expression soon darkened. He’d been nothing but dead weight.
Isaac crawled out of the carriage, face twisted in fury.
“…At least you’re alive.”
Schrader patted Hans’s slumped shoulder. His usually neat hair was a mess.
“You alright?”
Carlson asked Isaac, flicking blood from his sword. Just as the hell wolf’s jaws were about to clamp on Hans, Carlson had leaped from his saddle, driving his longsword into the beast’s nape. Pierced through a vital spot, the wolf slammed the carriage over and died on the spot.
“Thanks to you.”
Isaac replied curtly.
“Looks like it’s over.”
Three hell wolves fled the supply train. Nearby lay soldiers’ corpses and two hell wolf bodies skewered like pincushions on spears.
“Over there…”
Isaac glanced toward the camp.
“Some lunatic’s got it handled, from the looks of it.”
Carlson was right. At the camp entrance, ringed by a wooden palisade, a hulking brute swung axes—one in each hand. While the soldiers stayed back at the barricade, thrusting spears, this giant faced the hell wolves head-on, utterly exposed.
“But that guy…”
“Yeah.”
“He’s buck naked.”
“Naked as the day he was born.”
“And grinning.”
“Gonna split his face in half.”
“Total madman.”
“Madman through and through.”
The camp wasn’t far from the hill where the supply train had stopped—close enough to make out with the naked eye. But not close enough to shout and be heard.
And yet.
Krahahaha!
The maniacal laughter echoed across the distant plain.
“How long’s he been at it?”
“No idea. Saw him like that once we got our mess sorted. Eased the tension, at least.”
“Bessimer, huh.”
Schrader cut into Isaac and Carlson’s exchange.
“You know him?”
“From the warrior tribes. Basically the camp commander here. Most of Binvelt’s troops are tribal stock anyway.”
“Warrior tribes?”
“Fierce folk, better at raiding than self-sufficiency. Ancient history now that most tribes are shattered.”
“Still loves a scrap, that one.”
“Wouldn’t survive here otherwise.”
Nearly fifty soldiers in the supply train: eight dead, twelve wounded. Unlucky—the vanguard captain was among the dead. Schrader led the remnants to camp. Bessimer was still wandering outside the palisade, stark naked and slathered in beast blood, not a stitch on him. His bald scalp bulged with veins caked in dark blood, his bushy beard matted and filthy.
“Bessimer!”
“Ooh, who’s this now? Big boss himself, eh?”
“Not big boss—steward.”
“Whatever ya say. Hang on a sec.”
Bessimer was butchering a hell wolf with a dagger. Its thick black hide peeled away like parchment.
“Ra tu ballaka sanktum. Ra tu ballaka sanktum.”
His hands never stopped as he muttered unintelligible tribal chants.
“These hides are heavy as sin, don’t fetch much, but damn warm to wear, y’know.”
“Bessimer. Did you get the letter?”
“Hold up—one sec, this is the good part.”
Bessimer waved off Schrader with gore-slick hands. No one in the territory treated the steward like this except the count, but Schrader just sighed, used to it.
“Well now, look at the meat on this bastard. Nice and clean.”
Bessimer slit the skinned belly, rummaged inside, and pulled out steaming red organs—freshly dead.
“This here’s wolf liver. Eat it, and ya get their strength and grit. Best thing for a man, bar none.”
“Bessimer.”
“Want some, lil’ boss? Figure a guy showin’ off like big boss must still got plenty o’ night in him.”
“Bessimer.”
Ignoring Schrader, Bessimer buried his face in the liver and tore off a chunk. Blood poured down his face.
“Mmm, good stuff. Dig in, lads—nice and hot.”
He passed the rest to the soldiers.
“Bessimer, the young master’s here.”
“Young master? Oh, big boss’s kid, ya mean.”
“Not big boss—Your Excellency.”
“Sure, long as ya know he’s top dog here.”
Bessimer chewed noisily.
“You… haa. Never mind.”
Schrader shook his aching head.
“That must be Bessimer.”
“Hm?”
Bessimer scratched his itchy, blood-crusted scalp and looked toward the voice.
“Who’s the little squirt?”
He asked Schrader, pointing at Isaac.
“Did you even read what I said? He’s the young master.”
“Huh? Young master? That scrawny crybaby from before—he’s the one?”
“Mind your manners.”
“Pfft, whatcha gonna do, big boss’s brat?”
Bessimer brushed past scowling Schrader and approached Isaac.
“Well damn, time flies. When’d ya grow up like this? Eyes got that manly edge now, taller too. Hair’s different—used to look just like lil’ boss, now ya take after the missus.”
He circled Isaac, appraising him. Something dangled and swung into view with each step. It grated on Isaac.
“Hey.”
Isaac pointed between Bessimer’s legs.
“Oh, this? Impressed, eh? Family heirloom, this beast. My pride and joy.”
Bessimer slapped his hip proudly, displaying it.
“Wasn’t asking that. Cover it up.”
“Ah, right—big boss’s folk are all prim and proper.”
Bessimer grinned and wrapped himself in the fresh wolf pelt.
“Where’s my bro at, anyway?”
“Bro?”
“Pfeil, y’know.”
“Pfeil?”
Isaac tilted his head. Schrader piped up.
“You mean Pfeil?”
“Yeah, that’s him. Always hated bein’ called Pfeil.”
“Did you seriously not read the letter?”
“Letter, letter, letter. Was there one?”
Bessimer asked the nearby soldiers.
“Anyone seen it?”
“Uh… you were drunk, boss, used it for kindlin’ at dawn. Said it was cold.”
One soldier ventured carefully.
“Fuck me. Why didn’t ya stop me!?”
“We tried. Three of us jumped ya—next day, we’re all bedridden.”
“Ah… yeah, that tracks.”
Bessimer scratched his cheek sheepishly.
“Haa. Fine. Wasn’t expecting much anyway. Listen up from now on.”
Schrader sighed deeply and explained everything: Pfeil’s human trafficking, his attempt on Isaac’s life, his execution. Then Isaac’s merits to the house and his grant of Binvelt.
“Heh, went out like a true bro, huh.”
Bessimer didn’t seem too torn up over Pfeil’s death—just a few tongue clicks and a hollow chuckle.
“So now the young master’s lord of these lands.”
“Do what ya want. Ink on parchment’s lil’ boss’s call. But bein’ real lord o’ Binvelt? That’s different. Even bro couldn’t manage it.”
“Don’t worry. He’ll head back to the manor soon.”
Schrader lowered his voice.
“Just make his stay comfortable while he’s here.”
“Wait, hold up—Isaac?”
“Yes.”
“I’m confused. Thought big boss had two boys. One cursed, turned cripple. Which one’s that?”
“Bessimer.”
“Answer me.”
Bessimer’s face hardened.
“Cripple? Or not?”
“Bessimer, this is—”
“He’s right. I’m the cripple.”
Isaac cut in for hesitant Schrader.
“Haha, guess big boss lost his marbles.”
Bessimer laughed, but his eyes burned with raw contempt. Isaac barely reached his waist, but he met the gaze steadily.
“Listen up, kid—’cause I like big boss’s face. While it’s nice, go home. This ain’t no playground for cursed cripples—no time to babysit.”
Bessimer growled, and the soldiers’ mood turned ugly, weapons itching to swing.
But Isaac just smirked in the tension.
“Chase out that cursed cripple, and every man in this camp’ll be wiped out soon enough.”
“Boss, what’s this shithead sayin’? Thinks he can mouth off ’cause we respect ya…”
“Not my father who’ll wipe you out. The hell wolves will.”
The words froze the air solid.