Chapter 28: Lawless Outskirts of the Celt Mountains
The outskirts of the Celt Mountains were a perilous lawless zone. Anyone bold enough to travel through here in small numbers had to be seriously skilled. Especially since the people blocking their path right now all looked like heavily armed knights decked out in expensive gear—it was impossible not to tense up.
With wars breaking out more frequently these days, deserters were everywhere, along with scavengers stripping gear off dead knights. Everyone gripped their weapons, and Rapilta, who had been blocking the road, rolled her shoulders with a grimace.
"Why are those guys acting like that?"
"They must think we're bandits."
"C-can't we just talk it out?"
Loki gave the caravan group a wry smile. From their previous exchange, he knew they'd pegged him as a bandit purely because of him.
What's their deal with Nords? Why the instant hostility? This is tricky... Should I ditch the crow mask so they don't mistake me for one?
Without the crow mask, few would peg him as a Nord. He wasn't one anyway, and he lacked their signature green hair and pale green eyes.
"It's probably because of me. They must think you're attacking since there's a Nord here."
"What? Even with knights right here? We don't look like knights to them?"
"Watch your words, Sir Alber. It's been ages since we ditched the knighthood."
"What do we do?"
As Pol asked worriedly, Rapilta pondered for a moment before snapping her fingers. She raised her hand high and approached them—a gesture signaling no resistance. The mercenaries exchanged glances and murmured, but soon Rapilta pulled a leather pouch from her bosom and held it out.
"We're not here to harm you. We just need your help."
"Help?"
Azar, the slave trader with the most suspicion, asked dubiously. Rapilta tossed the pouch to them. At his glance, one mercenary picked it up, checked the contents, and his eyes widened in shock.
"What is it? What's got you like that?"
Azar prodded, curiosity piqued, and the mercenary immediately showed him the pouch. Gleaming silver coins. It was full of silver.
Azar jolted in surprise, leaped from the driver's seat, and snatched the pouch. He shot Rapilta a wary glance, as if checking she wouldn't take it back.
"What's the job?"
"Could you escort us? That's your pay. What do you say?"
"Escort? Be specific."
"Water, food, and company to the territory."
Azar peered into the pouch again and grinned.
"Deal. But no other demands."
"Fine by us."
No sooner had the words left his mouth than Azar's shoulders slumped in relief, eyes glued to the pouch. His money-mad grin made him look possessed. Loki scratched his cheek at the sight.
Sure enough, they said even Holy Church priests could be bought with money. This world ran on it, just like any other.
Loki eyed Azar climbing back onto the driver's seat—or rather, the cart behind him. Pulled by two donkeys straining at the limits, faint breathing came from within.
People... in there?
The ragged breaths suggested they weren't in good shape. Some sounded on the verge of death without treatment. Hidden by the canopy, but most seemed female. Looking like a merchant caravan, the cargo was obvious: humans. Slave trader.
Loki recalled the frozen lands where Nords raided and kidnapped countless slaves. He knew how slaves were treated here: livestock or tools. Bound to their owners. That was a "slave."
Not my problem.
"Alright, let's move! Can't have the goods spoiling!"
Unlike the groans from the cart, Azar's voice brimmed with energy.
***
Creak...!
The donkeys pulling the cart, exhausted, foamed at the mouth and shook their heads. One collapsed outright, and a furious Azar kicked its flank.
"You bastard! What's wrong?! Keep going! We're almost there—just a few hours!"
But the pair just shook their heads miserably, refusing to budge. Pushing them further might kill them. Azar stopped kicking, sweat beading on his brow.
"Damn it! Don't die on me! Can't sell you if you're dead! Should've bought better horses..."
"What now?"
Azar rubbed his temples, glancing at the donkeys.
"We rest! Ugh, hope the goods don't croak meanwhile—that'd be a real loss!"
Loki shook his head at the man's view of humans as mere merchandise.
"Why the long face?"
Alber asked from beside him. Loki pointed at the cart.
"People dying in there."
"Hm, the slaves?"
Alber had noticed too, but showed no real reaction. Almost casual.
"What can we do? Not our place to help."
His nonchalant tone said it was commonplace.
"Reminds me of what you said when we met. Knights help the troubled, right?"
"Slaves aren't people."
Loki was speechless at Alber's smiling reply. On this continent, "slave = tool" was ingrained. They'd grown up with it as common sense.
"Is buying and selling slaves common?"
"Rare for commoners, everyday for nobles."
"..."
"Rest up. Everyone else is."
Alber headed toward where Rapilta and Pol sat. Loki glanced at the cart. Azar grumbled, pulling something from his travel bag: a hunk of bread, fist-sized and moldy.
He lifted the canopy slightly and tossed it in. The cart jolted noisily, like beasts fighting over food.
"Hey! No fighting! You'll ruin the merchandise!"
Azar prodded inside with a stick until it quieted. Satisfied, he grinned and moved to the next cart. Another bag yielded fresh bread—far better than before.
He peeked under that canopy, and Loki's eyes sharpened. Not human? Similar, but a subrace.
Dark elf?
Bronze skin, crimson eyes, long pointed ears. A girl shackled at arms, legs, and neck.
Loki had never seen a dark elf before. He'd heard of subraces. Curiosity had sparked when he first met dwarf Reran, but he never expected to spot one right away on the continent—elves, the forest fairies!
Subraces get treated worse than slaves, from what I heard...?
They couldn't convert like humans, so killing or enslaving them was legal. Hunted mercilessly, most hid away, becoming mythical. That explained Reran's home in the barren ice wastes.
"Hoon, stop staring and rest."
At Rapilta's words, Loki glanced at her and nodded. The canopy was already down. Curiosity piqued, but that was it. His focus now: intel gathering.
He joined Rapilta's group.
"Here, Hoon."
Rapilta handed him water and rations from Azar. Murky water, rock-hard bread. Loki had no need for it, so he waved it off and sat.
"Pardon, but as a first-time traveler here, I have questions."
"Yeah?"
They exchanged looks and turned to him.
"Any good places for info?"
"Info?"
They looked baffled.
"Knowledge is better learned through experience than words," Rapilta said. Loki eyed Pol. As a mage, he'd know reliable sources.
"What kind specifically? History? Magic? Or...?"
"Rumors."
"Rumors?"
"Yeah. Like the 'Angel of Death' in Ronia Kingdom."
"Angel of Death...? What's that?"
Pol tilted his head; Alber shook his. Unexpectedly, Rapilta spoke up.
"Oh! Heard it in a tavern once. The angel spreading plague?"
Loki's grip tightened.
"More details?"
"Huh? Into that stuff?"
"That stuff...?"
It irked him slightly, but her tone suggested something else—not a person, but a thing.
"Yeah. Rumor says it's a formless plague—that's the Angel of Death."
"Formless?"
Just a disease? Nords had chased traces of the "Angel of Death" per orders. The rumor reached Ronia, where plague indeed raged: Worm Pest. Worm-like parasites that killed, then revived as undead.
If Rapilta's right, it's just the plague?
False alarm, then...
"But someone said it takes the form of a stunningly beautiful woman."
"...A woman?"
"Another called it a grim reaper. Not sure, but it brings death—or banishes it. Hence 'angel.' Nothing confirmed."
"...How to get solid info?"
"Dunno. Just tavern talk. For real intel... the underworld?"
"Underworld?"
Alber crossed his arms, shaking his head at Loki's question.
"Their info's reliable, but they're dangerous."
"Who?"
"Assassins."
"..."
"They know everywhere, but tiny group—finding them's like stars in daylight. We tried... gave up."
"I see."
Intel gained, but thin. Solid bit: the "underworld" assassins had vast networks.
"Contact them, pay with info fees?"
"..."
Pol chuckled awkwardly.
"Money."
Loki eyed the group. They'd mentioned seeking the underworld too.
Wonder why they quit.
"You said you're after the underworld. Why?"
"Well..."
Rapilta and Pol hesitated, glancing at Alber. He shook his head meaningfully.
"Sorry, can't say details. Just rumors of a 'potion.'"
"Potion?"
"Yeah. The sage's universal cure-all. That's our goal."