Kneeling Demonkin (3)
After passing through the farmlands and traveling much farther into a remote wasteland, we stopped. A few suitable trees clustered together, casting a nice shade that looked perfect for escaping the midday sun. We set up camp there and got ready to cook. Pelle gathered some usable firewood while I pulled out my flint and struck a spark to light it.
I set the pot on the flames, tossed in a lump of butter to melt, then added the potatoes and mushrooms I'd roughly sliced with my knife, along with a chunk of red meat. I stir-fried them until the buttery aroma wafted up thickly, then poured in a good amount of water from my canteen and dumped in the entire jar of tomato paste. After that, it was just a matter of stirring until the ingredients softened and the broth reduced nicely. When you're short on cookware or ingredients, stews like this are perfect. Easy to make, easy to eat, easy to clean up.
"Hey, stir this."
I handed Pelle the wooden spoon and tore some bread from the bundle. Out of curiosity, I offered a piece to the Hell Horse, but it stood stock-still as if it couldn't see a thing. Now that I looked closely, this thing didn't have eyes. What kind of creature was built like that? What sort of world had this beast come from...
Come to think of it.
"Pelle. This Hell Horse's homeland—isn't it the same as yours?"
Pelle, squatting by the pot with sweat beading on her forehead as she stirred, replied indifferently.
"No."
"Oh, yeah? Then where are you from? The demon realm or something?"
"Dunno."
Right... My bad for asking...
Once the pot's contents looked about done, I lifted it off the fire and set it on the ground. I plunged two spoons into the makeshift tomato stew and handed Pelle some of the torn bread.
"Let's just eat off the ground."
Pelle didn't touch the stew, only nibbling a tiny corner of the bread before handing the rest back to me. Was she seriously planning to eat just that...?
"Do demons normally eat so little?"
"Gotta watch my figure."
For someone saying that, Pelle looked like she had no fat left to lose. Tall and slender... The only place with any padding was her chest, and that was not a spot you wanted to trim. She really did finish with that scrap of bread and brushed off her hands, leaving me to eat the stew and bread alone. Still, for a rough job, it tasted pretty good.
After lunch, we cleaned up the cooking traces and mounted the Hell Horse again. Our next stop was Lithelm, the northern gateway city.
"We'll hit Lithelm, buy some cold-weather gear, and crash at an inn. If we push hard the next day, we might even reach Apenzel."
I gave Pelle a rough outline of the plan, mostly talking to myself. As expected, no reply.
As the tree species changed and the air grew steadily colder around sunset, we arrived in Lithelm. Though located in the kingdom's relatively underdeveloped north, Lithelm still qualified as a proper "city" by size. Minerals from the northern mountain mines flowed south here, along with daily necessities heading to the pioneer towns, so foot traffic was brisk. Seeing the lines of supply wagons on the roads, it seemed more commercially vibrant than Bue, with its stronger residential vibe.
Lithelm bore the nickname "Gateway to the North." Beyond here lay the northern wilds—nothing but snow, ice, and trolls as far as anyone knew. Even in summer, the air carried the chill of an autumn night, and everyone wore thick garments. We were the only ones in thin summer clothes, so we hurried to buy cold-weather gear first.
I'd once advised adventurers heading to Apenzel—who'd gotten scammed with fake holy healing from Celereja at my inn—that they should at least stock up here in Lithelm. The towns up north gouged unprepared travelers with insane markups, especially when a blizzard hit and you had no choice but to pay extra.
Lithelm's streets were lined with shops selling winter gear. I ducked into one at random and bought gloves, a fur hat to cover the ears, a thick fur cloak, underlayers, boots, and even a large saddle for the Hell Horse. Being a hub for adventurers, they stocked travel essentials too.
"Fifty silver coins."
A bit pricey, but skip it here and the next town would charge triple. Or we might freeze first. After paying, I counted the remainder—about seventy silver left. Enough if I didn't splurge.
Della, you could've slipped in one more gold...
Out of the shop, I handed Pelle the hat.
"Put this on first. Avoid any trouble."
Pelle obediently donned the fur hat. It looked a bit odd with her horns, but from a distance, she passed for human. No one would clock her as a demon.
Unlike the summery central regions, this was real north country now. Down south, you could always camp, but up here, no bed meant risking death by freeze. With fewer options, hiding her demon traits was key.
She took the clothes, draped on the cloak, and stuffed the rest in her bag.
Luckily, the inn took us without question, so we grabbed two single rooms and unpacked. They said to come down for dinner, but Pelle wasn't hungry and hated keeping the hat on indoors, so she stayed put. Sitting alone at a table, the server plunked down a plate and cup without asking—then left.
The plate held stew boiled so long the ingredients had mashed into mush. Scooping it, thick globs plopped down. What was this...? No clue what went in it...
Glancing around, a massive cauldron bubbled in the corner. A deadpan server dumped in heaps of ingredients, tasted it with a small ladle, sprinkled pepper, then dunked the same ladle back in his mouth and stirred.
Oh no... 'Eternal Stew'...
They kept topping it with water and scraps whenever it reduced, hence the name. No fixed recipe—just whatever came in that day, chopped rough. Shoddy inns served only this, sometimes simmering it a month straight. Hence the pig slop look. A skilled place might make it tasty, so I gave it a shot.
One spoonful nearly made me spit it on the floor. Incredibly salty...! I knew northern food ran salty, but this was inedible. Like they'd dumped in salt rocks... The beer was watery, bread rock-hard... It'd been ages since such garbage food; I couldn't adjust. Wanted a real place, but low funds meant skimping. Fine, choke it down...
While eating, I called the server to ask about northern news.
The sour-faced guy approached and stared silently.
"Heading to Apenzel. Anything special going on there lately?"
"Snow, trolls, mines. That's it."
Stating the obvious, he turned and left like business was done. That was the typical northerner I'd meet: gruff, cold to outsiders, clannish. Kinda like Pelle.
Next morning, sun barely cresting the horizon. Sleet swirled in Lithelm. We layered up: underclothes, thick garb, fur cloaks, gloves, fur boots, hats. Full ride to Apenzel on the Hell Horse.
Sleet here could turn blizzard anytime.
"Bet Apenzel's in a full gale by now..."
The gruff server muttered as we shouldered bags and headed out.
"Weather looks nasty... Better hitch with a supply caravan..."
Not direct, but he seemed worried.
"When's the next caravan?"
"Three days, maybe..."
Too long—and we couldn't linger with low funds. Normals got snowed in, but the Hell Horse ignored weather. We'd make it.
"Thanks for the concern."
"Hmph."
He clammed up. We left the inn, looped to the city edge, saddled the hidden Hell Horse, and slung our bags on either side. Lighter hands made mounting easy.
Should've bought the saddle sooner.
"Ready?"
Pelle, eyes peeking from hat and mask, nodded. We swung wide around the city and bolted north.
We passed villages and hamlets mid-ride. Lunchtime, but no stops—saving coin, and in lawless spots, demons drew trouble. We chewed jerky and bread chunks atop the galloping Hell Horse.
"Rough it now. Once in Apenzel, I'll buy hot troll kasulle."
Kasulle was beans and meat stewed long for northern stamina. Usually duck, but Apenzel used horse. No "troll kasulle"—trolls were carnivorous muscleheads, inedible. Just teasing Pelle, who didn't even snort.
Midway, bladder screaming, I halted the Hell Horse. Jumping off, snow buried my ankles. The beast stood pristine atop it, no tracks. I waddled behind some conifers and pissed freely. Steam rose, yellowing and melting snow before refreezing.
"You don't need to go?"
Back at the Hell Horse, Pelle glared coldly down.
She dismounted and snapped, "Turn around. Other side."
"Won't look. Not curious."
She shot me a fierce glare and headed off. Didn't tell her, but my hearing was sharper than most. Had to hear her business. Much later, her footsteps crunched back.
"Let's go."
"Ahem. Right."
We remounted and sped north.
Higher we climbed, the emptier it got—no homes, just snow-swept desolation. The north was unlivable by default. The capital forced vagrants, misfits, criminals here to pioneer. Many died. Without massive veins in the northern range, the outposts would've folded.
Brows and mask icing over, boredom from endless riding—I shared these tales with Pelle. She gave zero reaction, stone silent.
Endless snow, conifers, distant crags. Lonely north. Thought even she'd chat alone together... Guess she really hated me.
Lithelm's light sleet had raged into a blizzard. Cold was bearable before, but now knife-winds pierced cloaks, sapping heat. Pelle hunched tight.
"Lean on my back. I'll cover you with my cloak."
But she'd freeze solid first—hunched forward more.
Time passed; the northern sun dipped low, blurred hazy by storm. Short days here—night soon. Had to reach Apenzel before dark, so I spurred the Hell Horse harder.
"Gonna speed up. Night falls fast—too late, we freeze mid-ride."
Pelle: silence.
How long? Gray vista darkened fast—sundown. Clouds turned inky; visibility shrank. Apenzel due soon... Hope we didn't miss it in the whiteout?
As dark swallowed all, welcome lights flickered ahead. Apenzel...!
Snow-and-troll city Apenzel. Sole outpost with an administrator amid pioneer towns, steeped in bloody troll wars.
I raised my gloved hand from cloak—stiff as ice, it shoved aside frozen.
"That's Apenzel. Ugh, hands numb."
Pelle just nodded. Ice cracked on her hat and mask.
Normally hide the Hell Horse before town, but no way now. Pitch black around; beast skimmed snow flawlessly, but drifts knee-deep. Blizzard unrelenting. Dismounting with bags to trudge in? Suicide.
Rode straight in.
"Wh-what about... the Hell Horse...?"
Pelle stuttered, lips frozen.
"Don't worry... huff... talk smooth, we're good."
I shivered, breath puffing. Briefed her on gate protocol. Smart Pelle nodded quick.
Approaching, tall log palisade loomed—troll barrier, standard for outposts. Small hut at gate, sentry post. Massive horn on roof snaked inside—blare for troll alerts.
We neared; two bundled guards emerged, lanterns in hand, breath steaming, halting us.