Since Ancient Times, There Were Two Swords - 1
Every last incident at the Valdur Mine had finally come to an end.
Supported by Rene and by Lin, who had joined them late, I emerged from the mine to find a throng of dwarves waiting to welcome me.
The hero who had rescued countless of their kin, saved their king, and even eliminated the mastermind behind it all.
One after another they paid me their respects, elevating me as a hero.
Not a bad feeling, honestly.
[You achieved something few could ever hope to accomplish. This treatment is only natural.]
Six burly dwarves in black attire gathered around me, then hoisted me clean off the ground.
They settled me across their shoulders and marched forward with grand, ceremonial pomp.
For some reason I felt like I ought to be lying in a coffin.
The method of transport was a little strange, but the destination at least was the right one.
A tent pitched amid the ruined village. A medical tent, complete with a soft bed waiting inside.
"You got dragged off by that bastard and still managed to come back alive. Lucky you."
"Ah—Lord Bolmond. You were here as well."
"Can't you see this leg of mine?"
Bolmond lifted the leg that Chaos had torn away by nearly half.
What had once been a mangled ruin was now a clean amputation.
He had said he would cut it off completely and fit a prosthetic. Apparently he had meant every word.
"Are you all right?"
"Don't worry about it. I trimmed off the excess cleanly. Now I'll head back to my forge and make myself a proper prosthetic."
"Pardon? Can you still work the forge on one leg?"
"Even without eyes I have a nose that can pick out the scent of iron better than anyone. Even without arms I have a mouth that can swing a hammer. You think losing one leg is going to stop me from doing the work I've done for thousands of years?"
"I'm sorry, Lord Bolmond. I never meant to slight your skill. I only thought that after something so terrible, it might be better to entrust the prosthetic to another master smith."
"Bah! I'd rather have my pet mole make the damn thing than hand it off to some other fool. My skill is the finest in the world—why would I leave it to anyone else? I can forge a prosthetic that will last a lifetime. You want me to settle for one that gets tossed after a hundred years? That's a waste of ore!"
"R-right. Of course."
The pride of the Dwarf King soared high enough to pierce the heavens.
Then again, it would be absurd for the blacksmith who forged the first magic sword to have a modest ego.
"So you're heading off to make it right now?"
"Work's piled up to the rafters. Of course I'm going. And besides…"
Bolmond picked up the polymorph magic sword resting beside him.
He looked down at the blade with a gaze full of quiet pity.
"I've got to hurry and fix my broken child, too."
There had been a time when he wanted to smash it for not meeting his standards. Now he seemed to regard it as a child he couldn't bear to lose even if it cost him an eye.
Lucky sword. Having someone that fine for a father.
[Hmph! I may harbor a few petty grievances, but the fact remains that this body respects him more than any other father in the world.]
A dwarf and an ego sword as father and daughter.
An odd combination, sure—but family affection always warms the heart no matter how many times you see it.
I was smiling faintly at the thought when Bolmond stretched a hand toward me.
"Which brings me to this. Hand over that magic sword you're carrying."
"Excuse me?"
"In case you're getting the wrong idea—I'm not taking it back. While I'm repairing the broken one, I'll touch yours up here and there as well. You'll be staying here for a while anyway, won't you?"
"That's true enough. Then I'll leave it in your care."
"Good."
I drew the sword from my hip and passed it to Bolmond, scabbard and all.
To a swordsman a blade is a limb—you don't hand it over lightly. But if the man who forged it was asking, that was different.
Just before my beloved sword left my hands, Frach tossed a low murmur my way.
[Heh heh heh…! The moment this body returns to your embrace, the one-handed sword that I was shall be reborn as a greatsword. Prepare yourself, Contractor!]
For a split second, an image of Frach with a swollen, bulging blade flashed through my mind.
Apparently my brain had already gone to pieces.
Thud!
Only after cracking my head against the edge of the bed did my thoughts finally settle.
Bolmond was eyeing me with open suspicion, but never mind that.
"Please take good care of my sword."
"R-right…"
Becoming a greatsword just meant her volume would increase once she fused with the polymorph magic sword. That had to be it.
I decided to believe that.
…Please, God. Please.
The next day.
Reconstruction of the dwarf village began in earnest.
At the same time, a funeral was being held for the families and kin of the dwarves who had died in the Valdur Mine.
I had planned to spend a comfortable day in the medical tent.
But before the funeral properly began, a dwarf in priestly robes came looking for me.
"Lord Bern, might I trouble you for a moment of your time?"
"Of course. What is it?"
"I came to ask whether you might be willing to attend the funeral, if it is not too much of an imposition."
"The funeral?"
"Yes. You are a hero to us dwarves. If someone like you were to show your face, it would mean a great deal to many people. That is what I believe."
"Would that really be all right? Some of them might resent me for not saving everyone sooner."
"There is not a single soul so foolish among us, so please set your mind at ease. More than that—your presence was a request from the bereaved families themselves. I am merely here to convey their wishes."
"I see."
Rene, Lin, and Rewen were nowhere to be found, and Frach—who usually kept me company—had left my side as well.
The only being near me was Chaos, and I could hardly parade the root cause of this entire disaster out in the open.
For those reasons I was currently very free, and very bored.
With nothing better to do, attending the funeral and offering what comfort I could didn't seem like a bad idea.
"All right. Lead the way."
"Yes! Please follow me."
I left the bed I had grown fond of and strolled at an easy pace through the streets.
The medical tent where I had been staying sat in the heart of the village, so on the way to the funeral grounds I had a chance to watch the reconstruction firsthand.
Dwarves hammered away atop half-finished buildings, moving with tireless energy as they raised new structures over the ruins.
"Every dwarf here has remarkable skill."
"Your words are kind, but architecture is simply a basic accomplishment among us. If you can't manage at least this much, you have no business calling yourself a dwarf."
In a fantasy world without heavy machinery, the dwarves were erecting buildings at a pace that put modern construction sites to shame.
Handiwork that would pass for a miracle back on Earth, and they called it the bare minimum. I was left speechless.
If they had at least used magic I might have understood—but they were knocking these things together on pure craft alone. How could anyone not be impressed?
If I ever went into hiding on some remote island, I would want to bring a dwarf along and put him in charge of building the house.
"Lord Bern?"
"Ah—sorry! I zoned out without realizing it."
"Ahaha! So you did. Shall I continue guiding you, then?"
"Please."
We followed the street onward until we finally reached our destination.
It was not a funeral hall as I knew them, but a graveyard near the Valdur Mine.
A communal cemetery, they explained, for those who died each year in the mine's inevitable accidents.
Since this disaster, too, had unfolded in the mine, the funeral would be held at the Valdur communal graveyard.
"Thank you so much for coming to the funeral…!"
"You don't need to thank me that much. I only came to show my face."
"Even so…"
"Please treat me as an ordinary attendee. I'd appreciate it."
I waved a hand at the dwarf bowing in gratitude and asked him to raise his head.
I had been able to do nothing for those whose mutations had progressed too far.
Being thanked when resentment would have been more reasonable left me feeling strange no matter how I looked at it.
"Understood. Priest, I will take charge of Lord Bern from here. Please see to the funeral proceedings."
"Yes."
The dwarf priest who had guided me departed, and a representative of the bereaved families took over in his place.
He explained the funeral's proceedings and traditions on the priest's behalf.
"We dwarves primarily practice cremation. In the old days many preferred burial, wishing to become one with the earth—but fashions have changed."
"Why is that?"
"If you're buried, all you get is a headstone and that's the end of it. Cremation leaves bone ash behind."
"Ah—so a custom developed of carefully storing the ashes in vessels."
"No. We use the bone ash to forge weapons!"
For a moment I doubted my own ears.
Weapons made from the bone ash left after cremation?
The idea went well past unique and straight into bizarre.
"Dwarves are a race that loves smelting and minerals. A weapon forged from a dead person's bone ash becomes that person's new form!"
"Th-then the dwarves who go around carrying weapons…?"
"High odds those weapons are family. Oh! Perfect timing—there's a fine example right over there."
The dwarf pointed a finger.
In that direction stood a dwarf woman with a pair of swords at her hip.
"That's Miss Glare, who lives next door to me. The red sword she carries is her husband before last. The blue one is her previous husband."
"Uh…"
"For reference, Miss Glare and her husbands are famous for how well they get along. See how worn the hilts are? That's proof she's been spending steamy nights with both of them."
Gender-flipped elves. Perverted orcs obsessed with panties. Streaming undead reduced to bare bones. Snow women who ride yetis like sleds. And now dwarves who thrust into—and get thrust into by—swords.
Fuck. Why isn't a single non-human race in this other world normal?