Port City Baerund (1)
A massive city stretched out along the coast came into view beyond the hills. The port city of Baerund.
Enormous ships came and went in the harbor formed along the long shoreline, loading and unloading cargo, while on the opposite pier, workers unloaded seafood caught at dawn.
For days the weather had been overcast with snow falling day and night, but as soon as we neared the city, the skies cleared. It was nice to see the blue sky after so long, but if it was going to clear anyway, it could have stayed that way a few days earlier.
The one saving grace was that, thanks to the snow piling up, there was no line waiting to enter the city.
Nothing's more boring and irritating than waiting in the cold in front of the gates and ending up camping out.
Passing through the gates was simple. All we needed was a pass issued by the church and a bit of a bribe.
A pass guaranteed by the church meant it was backed by the real, living main deity, so it worked in pretty much any city. The problem was how much it cost.
The extra bribe was to get them to skim over the luggage inspection and turn a blind eye to the weapons.
I didn't really want to admit it, but this childlike appearance of mine was pretty helpful in situations like this. The guards unconsciously lowered their defenses.
If it had been me or Kasian looking burly with muscles and a thick beard, we'd have had to pay several times more.
Once we passed the gates and entered the city, the vibe was the polar opposite of the chilly weather—lively and noisy.
People bustled about, steam rose from the occasional street stalls, and the clang of hammers from the smithy near the gates rang out, injecting some heat into the winter air.
The merchants' shouts overlapping in the market square near the gates created total pandemonium.
"Whoa, there's so much stuff."
"It's the biggest city around here."
We had plenty to restock, so we found an inn in an alley near the main street, unpacked, and headed to the market. Being a port city, the market was noticeably larger than in other towns.
Fabric shops, general stores, food stalls, and vendors hawking unidentifiable seafood lined every alley, and on closer inspection, there were all sorts of bizarre things.
First, I bought a decent leather coat. It was a bit pricey, but Kasian's was torn up from all the tumbling down the mountain paths, so no choice.
Next came preserved rations. In warmer weather, we could hunt wild game and roast it, but not in winter, so we needed plenty of those.
Kasian grimaced at the jerky that barely went down even after chewing it to bits, but oh well.
We also picked up herbs, leather waterskins, and various sundries. Funds weren't overflowing, but we had enough to buy what we needed.
Markets weren't just for buying and selling—they were prime spots for intel. We heard all sorts from passing folks and merchants.
Like how the lord was about to marry a new wife soon, or that war had broken out in some southern country, or bandits were rampant around such-and-such area.
Most of it was useless, but news of bandits or wars was crucial for planning routes. Alone, I'd be fine, but I had this kid in tow now.
"What's this fruit?"
Kasian stopped and pointed at a stall stacked with red fruits about the size of a fist, smooth-skinned.
"Glonds. Seeds are a bit much, but they're tasty. Wanna try one?"
The stall lady chimed in enthusiastically at my words.
"Oh my, this little miss knows her stuff! How about it? Three for one crit."
"Whoa, three for one crit! Master, let's get some!"
I pondered for a split second—sweet stuff was useful anyway—and decided to buy. One crit wasn't a big deal.
I handed over two half-silver pieces from my leather pouch and got three glonds. One to Kasian, two in the backpack.
As I went to tuck the coin pouch back inside my clothes—
A grubby kid from the alley corner barreled into me and bolted. He looked two or three years younger than Kasian, scrawny from malnutrition, but quick on his feet—probably couldn't catch him even if I tried.
Not that I needed to.
"H-Hey, that little thief! You okay?"
I showed the fruit lady the untouched pouch. I'd smacked his hand away with the hand holding it the moment he reached.
"Phew, glad you're alright. You kids watch out. Lately, there've been more of these pickpocket brats..."
Hm, pickpockets, huh.
To be honest, that brought back more good memories than bad.
We waved goodbye to the fruit lady calling "Take care!" and kept moving. This time, away from the market toward a quieter spot.
"Huh? Market center's that way. Where we going?"
"Where else? Gotta fix your busted staff."
We left the market streets entirely and walked a good ways toward the city outskirts. As we neared the slums, the lively noises faded, and the atmosphere grew somewhat gloomy.
Alleys narrowed, walls crumbled, paths turned to muddy slush of dirt and snow. Totally different from the market. That place had rundown buildings too, but here, the energy was gone.
Faces showed exhaustion over hope, listlessness over vigor.
We weren't fully in the slums yet, but since I rarely came to places like this, Kasian gawked around, unfamiliar with it all.
"A smithy out here?"
"Probably."
"Probably what?"
"It was here last time."
About 100 years ago.
Still, with the owner being who he was, odds were good he was still around.
Back then, this wasn't quite so close to the slums. Guess time changes everything, even memories.
Twisting through narrow alleys from memory, we spotted a weathered sign with half-peeled markings.
Comparing to when it was new, I half-thought it was abandoned, but faint hammer strikes and the telltale heat inside said otherwise.
"Here. Still open, good."
Pushing the creaky old door—it squeaked even louder than expected. Scratches on it matched what I remembered; hadn't been replaced.
Heat from the forge hit us all at once. A different world from the outer cold.
The big guy hammering heated metal by the furnace looked up, maybe sensing the chill.
A sturdy, muscle-packed build, thick beard—middle-aged man.
Kunrot, the mountain spirit blacksmith I'd known for ages.
He stared blankly, then widened his eyes like he'd seen a ghost and slowly spoke.
"...You?"
"Yeah, it's me."
"What, how many years has it been! You said you'd come back soon! I thought you'd croaked somewhere!"
"Just about 100 years."
"'Just'? It's a full 107 years! Wait two more and I'd have met you as a ghost!"
Kunrot laughed heartily, stripped off his gloves, and offered a hand. I gripped his rough one in return.
Last time, all black hair and beard; now streaked with white. He was aging.
"Who's the kid you brought?"
Kunrot nodded at Kasian peeking around behind me.
"Disciple."
"Disciple? What about that other guy you brought before?"
"Died of old age. Like you said, 107 years ago."
"Hm... That's a shame."
Kunrot nodded awkwardly, then waved it off like changing subjects.
"Anyway, sit. I'll brew some tea."
While Kunrot fetched the kettle from the shelf and steeped tea, I had Kasian pull the broken staff from the backpack.
"Master, who's this guy?"
"Kinda like a friend."
"But you said you met him 100 years ago. He that old?"
"Well, mountain spirit and all. They say..."
Not wanting to be rude about race, I glanced at Kunrot. He set three cups on the table and said,
"Dwarf."
"You cool with that?"
"What, humans call us that all the time."
Kunrot sipped his tea. I followed suit.
Distinct southern continent grass aroma. Slightly bitter, but blended nicely—not unpleasant. This was...
"What, why's it taste good?"
"What kinda talk is that?"
"Last time you just steeped mud water."
"You think I only swing hammers...? So, you came for this snapped stick?"
Kunrot picked up the broken staff pieces, one in each hand, aligned and inspected them. Frowned a few times, then spat,
"You, what cheap crap is this..."
Cheap crap? We'd used it for three years solid. Call it good value.
We'd picked it for lack of funds, sure.
"Can't really fix it for reuse, huh?"
"Might as well make the kid a new one tuned to his mana. Not pro-level, but solid enough. What say you?"
He downplayed it humbly, but Kunrot, with 150 years hammering, outdid any human smith. His "pro" meant fellow mountain spirit smiths.
One big issue, though.
"No money."
I plunked my entire coin pouch on the table. It clinked heavily enough, but the contents weren't shiny.
A few silvers, mostly coppers. Mix of northern and southern continent coins, but not much wealth either way.
"What? Aren't you loaded?"
"Money comes and goes."
Kunrot stroked his beard thoughtfully, then lit up.
"Fine then. Skip the money—do me a favor."
"Favor? Not if it's too risky."
I pointed at Kasian beside me. He flinched a bit; ignored.
"Leave the kid if it looks dicey and go solo. With you, it probably won't be that bad anyway."
Kunrot downed his tea and explained.
"Lately, kids around here keep vanishing. Over ten gone in three months. Cute ones who hung at the forge for bread handouts. Rumors fly, but no one knows where they go."
"That's guards' job."
"True, but you know how power shies from slums. And that's not all. I poked around solo, and... seems like..."
Kunrot drained the last of his tea and continued.
"A black mage might be involved."
"Alright, I'll go smash 'em right now."