Ambush (1)
After parting ways with Manrmursk Byeon Gyeongbaek, Suhwa boarded Lady Moribwe's carriage with her. By the time the ancient castle that had hosted the Round Table Meeting had shrunk to a mere speck beyond the horizon—or even vanished entirely—Lady Moribwe finally spoke.
"Did Suhwa Romanov, Junior Baron, wrap up all his estate duties just to attend the Round Table Meeting?"
"What do you mean by that, Lady?"
"I did set the condition of a personal visit to Moribwe for renting out the cold weapons, but honestly, I didn't imagine you'd come right away."
"Ah. I'm not a hereditary noble—I'm an imperial official. A civil servant, you could say."
Imperial noble titles were divided into hereditary and non-hereditary. Most hereditary nobles inherited family estates passed down through generations, becoming lords of those lands unless they were utterly incompetent. Non-hereditary nobles, on the other hand, had no limits above or below. Even Hans the farmer tilling his fields, or Duksun the sewing maid for a noble lady, or the village headman whose knees ached without his cane—they could all receive non-hereditary titles from baron to duke from the emperor himself, as long as they racked up enough achievements.
"Ah ha. No wonder you seemed too capable for a mere junior baron. Hmm... How about becoming a vassal of the Moribwe family while you're at it? I wouldn't be stingy like some people and give you a half-baked title like junior baron."
"Haha. I'll gratefully accept the offer in words alone, Lady."
"Oh my. Did I just get turned down?"
"The place I'm working at now isn't bad."
"Where's that, exactly?"
"Utopia."
A short sigh escaped softly. A tiny exclamation mark rippled over Lady Moribwe's mask.
"You're not about to arrest me, are you?"
"I wouldn't dare arrest a margrave-elect... but if it's furry handcuffs, I could manage that."
"Hahaha! Oh my goodness... Once we reach the castle, I'll consider that cheeky proposal. Suhwa. Ro-ma-nov. Junior. Baron."
"Please just call me Suhwa, Lady Moribwe."
The midday sun warmed the gentle breeze. Amid fresh green sprouts shyly dancing on tree branches, masked figures glared down at the carriage procession from a hill below.
"That the target, boss?"
The burly man who seemed to be the leader of the masked group unfolded a thin spyglass and scanned the procession. Noble carriages usually flew family crests—not just to display the owner's prestige, but to ward off flies like bandits.
"Yeah. The big one in the middle is priority target."
But no flag adorned the carriage caught in the spyglass.
"But boss, you sure this is okay? Sure, the Road Guards are making it hard to earn a living, but assassination gigs leave a bad aftertaste..."
"You wanna keep eating wild game and sleeping rough forever? No job pays like a hit. And look."
The boss tossed the spyglass to his subordinate beside him.
"No flag on the carriage. Not nobles, at least. The contract's for total wipeout. No loose ends possible. If you're still scared, stay here and boil some wild boar porridge."
"Nah, not saying I won't go. Fuck it, let's get this over with quick."
Whoever the poor saps had pissed off, traveling without a flag was their mistake. In that state, they'd get hit by some other bandits anyway.
"We're just cleaning up for 'em, right? Not like it's bad."
"Damn straight!"
"Sick of this watery slop!"
"Booze! Women! And better booze!"
With the group's morale nicely pumped, it was the perfect moment to strike.
"Don't need to ID the faces in the big carriage, so just cleanly take heads, whoever they are."
"What about the rest?"
A sinister grin pierced through the mask.
"You really that dumb? Kill 'em all."
The smile, ruthless against the weak, rippled contagiously through the group. The hill they vanished from held only a pot of bubbling mystery porridge.
"Still, mercenaries or not, 3,000 men—plus arms, horses, even griffins? That's a massive army for a junior baron."
"Still short, but it'll look the part for now."
Unless it was a special border region like Manrmursk sharing frontiers with foreign nations, no noble maintained a standing army of 3,000 in peacetime.
Suhwa could bulldoze some minor estate if he wanted.
"At this point, I have to ask, right?"
"You'll let it slide if I play dumb?"
"No chance."
Nyaong!
A shadow cat appeared out of nowhere and hopped onto Suhwa's lap.
"Then let's call it a secret."
"What if I don't lend you the cold weapons?"
"Surely not from the great sorceress who creates something from nothing, the miracle-worker, head of mighty Moribwe—Lady Moribwe wouldn't go back on her word."
Hiss! Its pupils... anyway, the shadow of that tongue grew, and the cat's ears folded back as it hissed at Suhwa.
"Hahaha. I'll give you credit for that silver tongue."
Suhwa turned his gaze out the window with a measured smile—just then.
Squeee!
"Gahk!"
Clunk!
"What in the...?"
"Oh my."
Something heavy slammed into the carriage wall, and the vehicle halted.
"Attack! Attack! Protect the Lady!"
The attendants from the front and rear carriages leaped out in perfect unison, weapons—swords, spears—drawn. They formed a circular formation around Lady Moribwe and Suhwa's central carriage.
"What's happening?"
"The lead coachman took an arrow. Danger ahead—please stay away from the windows, Lady!"
People naturally valued their lives. Why else would nobles splurge on expensive protective artifacts and hired guards?
Yet even in this dire ambush by unknown foes, Lady Moribwe's voice remained utterly calm.
"Oh, really?"
Her mask—if it could show expression—seemed almost thrilled.
Squeee! Thunk.
"Urk!"
The same arrow sound that pierced the coachman repeated about ten times. All ten attendants—who'd charged out to guard Lady Moribwe's carriage, their geometric masks just like those at the banquet—crumpled to the ground.
"Oh dear, oh dear."
"This is starting to look serious, Lady."
"Isn't it? Sword? Spear? Or shortsword and shield for you, Suhwa?"
"Pardon? What do you...?"
Between her two hands in pristine silk gloves, weapons formed and dissipated repeatedly.
"Don't you think a gentleman should protect a lady at a time like this?"
What the hell is she on about?
He desperately wanted to yell that men died from arrows too, but he held it back. After all, Suhwa needed those Moribwe cold weapons.
"Sword... no, hand axe. And a dagger, please."
"At this point, I'm wondering if you're really not buddies with Fraia Duke."
The shadow dancing before Suhwa shaped into a hand axe and dagger. He gripped and released them lightly a few times, then knelt on one knee before stepping out.
"I'll clean this up and be right back, Lady."
"Good luck, monsieur."
"Looks like that's all of 'em who can hold a weapon, boss."
A man wielding a longbow as tall as himself fiddled with his quiver.
"Just in case, slit the throats of the downed ones the second we close in."
"Got it! Alright, lads, let's—"
As the masked attackers prepared to charge on command, the central carriage door swung open.
"Huh? Boss, what now?"
"At this range, I can pick him off with my bow—"
"No."
The situation favored them clearly. The attendants who'd rushed out on ambush were guards; this new guy was surely some clueless young master.
The boss licked his lips and pulled off his mask.
"I'll handle him."
All the fallen have arrows in both front and back. Archers positioned fore and aft?
He didn't know how long they'd waited, but they'd timed it perfectly before loosing.
Not amateurs.
If it were for money, they wouldn't have killed from the start. Better to assume it was an assassination contract for total elimination.
"Whew... Real combat after so long."
Days fleeing with his house in flames, arriving in the Free Cities—memories flashed.
No reward without labor. The Free City lord his father knew was ice-cold, helping only when young Suhwa nearly died, otherwise ignoring him.
Even now, those were dogshit days.
To survive, he stole and took. Once he could fend for himself, he left the Free Cities, joined a mercenary band, took jobs big and small. Naturally, young Suhwa's hands grew stained with unknown blood.
"Compared to then, this is paradise."
Rustle! Rustle!
As Suhwa finished warming body and mind, footsteps approached from the side of the procession.
One? Two? At least five.
Clap clap clap!
"...?"
"You could've pissed yourself and run—no one would've said shit. Pretty boy with some guts."
"We'd have chased and killed you anyway, right?"
"True that."
Roaring laughter! Among the masked men, only the largest had bared his face.
He's the boss.
The unmasked giant strode boldly toward the carriage. Barely five steps from Suhwa. Arrogance and sadism twisted his face as he spread his legs, pointing to his crotch.
"Crawl."
"What?"
"Deaf, young master? Crawl between my legs... and I'll chop your head clean off. Hey, this is me saying it 'cause I'm in a good mood."
"Whoa, boss, what's with that mercy?"
"Our boss a saint now?"
Lame jeers echoed among the masks. Even the previously hidden archers showed themselves—they seemed fully confident.
"Shut it, assholes, I'm on a roll! What're you waiting for, young master? One chance only. I draw steel, you don't die pretty."
Whew...
Suhwa drew a deep breath. Sorry to the fallen attendants, but he filled his lungs deep with their blood scent...
Huh?
Over thirty arrows loosed, by rough count. Some grazed the carriage or stuck in dirt, but most hit. And what happens when people get shot?
They bleed.
No blood smell... at all?
Thoughts whirled like a storm. No blood from Lady Moribwe's attendants? Moribwe's attendants? Moribwe...?
As his mind grasped the end of the thread, a sticky smile bloomed on Suhwa's face.
"What? You nuts? Why the creepy grin! Crawl already!"
The bandit boss dangled embarrassingly in position.
Suhwa tossed his hand axe aside and shouted with a good-natured grin.
"Aigoo! Big bro, please spare me! This little bro will crawl between your legs like a dog!"
With that, Suhwa flung himself flat to the ground with ferocious momentum.