Kneeling Demonkin (7)
A figure slumped to the floor between the door and the wall, stretching out limply. As he stepped out with heavy footfalls, the men blocking the first-floor stairs and hallway hesitated and backed away.
"You got business with me?"
"Don't pull any tricks—just get out of the way. We don't want anything with you."
"Then who do you want?"
"That demon bitch!"
I put on a completely baffled expression, and the men thrust their fierce weapons forward in threat.
"Hand her over right now, or you won't get out of this unscathed!"
"Since when do Grayhands fight with words? If you're gonna charge, do it quick."
At the insulting nickname, the men's faces flushed red and purple with rage. Finally, one couldn't hold back and charged with a yell.
"How dare you say that... guk...!"
I grabbed his face with my palm and shoved him forward. Unable to overcome the momentum, the man's lower body lifted into the air before he crashed loudly to the floor. Stepping on his chest, I advanced, and the men filling the hallway retreated just as much.
"I hate bickering like some girl too. They say northern men are rough and belligerent—guess I'll find out today."
The retreating men tangled with those waiting at the stairs and could back up no further. As I kept closing in, they had no choice but to charge forward.
Several armed men waited on the first floor. To them right now, capturing and beating the demon who'd infiltrated the city was the top priority.
Demons had long used monsters to torment humans, and they figured the trolls attacking Apenzel lately were the work of the demon staying at this inn. Sure, trolls had plagued the city steadily for decades before she arrived—but logic like that didn't fly with the thick-headed Grayhands. Hell, they weren't even sure she was a demon, but that didn't matter either. Just catch her and check.
There were witnesses who'd seen her body change, and trolls bursting from the shaft she'd entered? Too coincidental. And the shaft connecting straight to a troll den? Not important to the Grayhands. A non-human—worse, a demon—in the city, with trolls stirring? That was all that mattered to the ignorant, xenophobic lot.
When the door downstairs splintered, they thought the vanguard had smashed in. Demons were no big deal if you overwhelmed them with numbers. Tie her up, interrogate her crimes...
But seeing the vanguard tumbling down the stairs, they realized they'd been wrong. A man strolled casually down after the collapsing group. Bertrand, hand on the hilt at his waist, stepped over the fallen men and stood in the hall.
"Dumbasses. Frontier town folk are criminals from the ground up—figures they'd act the part."
Even with the worst insult right to their faces, no one rushed forward. The vanguard groaning behind him, unable to rise, held them back.
Northern miners had immense pride. In things feeble men elsewhere wouldn't dream of—like cracking frozen earth and fighting trolls. And it was true. Northern men were known as sturdy and manly compared to any in the kingdom.
One guy turning them into that? They couldn't charge easily, even humiliated.
"Why're you here?"
"H-hand over... the woman with you...!"
"Why?"
"We know she's a demon!"
"Bullshit. Talking troll-knitting crap."
With everyone just eyeing each other silently, Bertrand continued.
"She's my employee. Touch a hair on her head, you all die."
His words carried massive pressure—everyone in the hall flinched.
"Show proof...! I saw her arm covered in scales!"
A miner who'd witnessed Pelle's Bongma yelled, spittle flying. Bertrand fixed him with a stare.
"You sure you saw that?"
"Yes! She grabbed that troll like an owl snatching a mouse... h-hek...!"
Under Bertrand's gaze, the miner trailed off, face paling.
"Her arm really changed?"
"W-well..."
All eyes in the room turned to the miner. Sweating coldly under Bertrand's stare, he finally dropped his gaze.
"I... I must've seen wrong..."
A heavy air swept the hall. They all exchanged shocked looks. They'd caused this midnight ruckus on his testimony, and now no...?
"No! I saw it too!"
Another miner—one also saved by Pelle—shrieked. With some saying yes, some no, no one knew what to do.
Then the innkeeper chimed in with a "convincing" answer.
"He's a demon too! Using some weird trick! Otherwise, testimonies wouldn't clash like this!"
Totally illogical—but to the reason-lost Apenzel men, it rang true. Give direction to a confused mob—even wrong—and they'll charge blindly. That's ignorant herd mentality. Who cares if Bertrand had no horns?
The men swarmed him like moths to flame.
The belligerent temperament forged fighting the world's fiercest trolls sometimes blinded them to reason. For fools trapped in dim mines and snowbound cities, their common sense and justice were absolute yardsticks.
In Apenzel, divided sharp by palisades, Grayhands lived by "us or them, friend or foe." And right now, we were foes. Knowing that, Bertrand gave up on persuasion or threats.
Words fail? Fists it is.
He shattered the first brave fool's teeth and advanced. Before the guy spat them out and fell, two more rolled across the floor. Dodging an axe that embedded in a table, he slashed down on the arm holding it. The forearm snapped grotesquely; the man collapsed without a scream.
He blocked a flurry of blades with a table, shoving forward. Those too slow to retreat tumbled; he dropped the table on the fallen and stepped over, pressing on.
"Wha—shit! He's coming!"
"Fall back! Out! Everyone out!"
Shoving and tripping, the attackers fled the inn like an ebbing tide.
Outside, snowflakes melted on his face in the cold. A blizzard raged; guards and fleeing citizens faced off amid it.
The guards were geared heavy—shields and crossbows. Anyone'd think trolls were holed up inside.
"Captain's here too?"
A man in ornate breastplate stepped forward from the guards.
"I'm Apenzel's guard captain. Drop your weapon and surrender."
"Weapon? You mean my fists?"
"You've already injured good citizens and damaged inn property. Surrender peacefully, and we won't pursue other crimes."
"Fuckin' dogshit. Who tried jumping sleeping travelers? And what were you doing, surrounding the inn beforehand? Huh?"
Bertrand's vicious curses made the captain's eyebrow twitch.
"We were waiting to prevent trouble."
"How'd you know to wait before they went apeshit with swords?"
The captain stared silently. Too long in one place—guards were in on it. No need to check the administrator.
"Here's the deal: leave us alone, I stop here. If not, I'll make you want to."
A threat no soldier ever heard twisted the captain's face entertainingly. To save face before his men, he'd charge now.
"This is a frontier town—no supplies but wagons. Retract that."
"Meaning no one'd know if bodies dropped? Wanna see whose?"
"Seize him!"
At the captain's order, guards charged through the snow, weapons raised. Snow intensified; without fur hats, ears stung freezing. Better wrap this and warm by the fire.
As guards encircled him, he drew the Holy Sword. A semicircle of translucent sphere flashed around him, glowing. Guards hitting it bounced off by the shockwave. It even blew snow from the ground, whipping a mini blizzard around him.
Kuuuooooh—
"Gah! He's a mage!!"
Citizens fled in terror at the guards felled in one blow. Tossed into snowdrifts, guards groaned, unable to rise—probably felt like a bull charge.
Sheathing the Holy Sword, Bertrand walked slowly toward the captain. The man had dropped shield and sword, trembling.
"Changed your mind yet?"
"Wh-what do you want...?"
"A comfy bed. Free, preferably."
The captain nodded frantically in agreement. Grabbing his pauldron as he bolted for the inn, Bertrand added,
"Act your station, eating kingdom coin. No gutter thug bullshit."
"Y-yes...!"
Back at the inn, Pelle stood alone in a corner of the first floor. Bags packed, she looked troubled, surveying the wrecked hall.
"You okay?"
"Y... yeah."
She hesitated, then approached. The captain huddled behind the bar with the innkeeper, pleading. The owner refused flat-out—not stingy, but wouldn't house wreckers like us. Especially demons.
Understandable. Bertrand'd boot anyone causing this in his inn too.
After arguing, the captain approached sheepishly.
"Uh... sir...?"
"Heard it all."
"A-ah... If it's okay... maybe move elsewhere...?"
The temple was unused, he'd prep rooms. Priests fled last year, couldn't hack it.
"Only one inn in town?"
"No, but... well..."
He refunded the night's fee. Guard captain dragging strangers at midnight? Suspicious as hell. Fine, whatever.
Agreeing to the temple, the captain rushed out, barking at guards to clean the priest's quarters pronto.
"Pelle. Temple okay?"
"Doesn't matter."
"Alright. Let's go."
At the temple, they hit a snag. Guards hastily tidied the priest's office, lit the fireplace. Like Rosens, it had a comfy sofa, desk, big bed—better than most inns.
Problem: frontier temple had one room only. Meant sharing, or one on the cold chapel floor.
As they pondered, Pelle muttered,
"Bed and sofa separately, I guess."
Bertrand wondered if the night's chaos had broken her.