The Noble Executioner
Kaegal's voice smelled of blood. Nessos' Deadly Poison was a guild of assassins — and assassins were the kind of men who only ever revealed their techniques at the moment they killed.
"If you're not in a hurry, you won't need any of those secret arts. Plain swordsmanship alone will leave you without a rival."
A lion had no need for technique. What Johan had learned from Kaegal already made him someone who knew how to swing a sword and how to fight. That was enough.
When a simple vertical strike became a slash that tore through space itself, and a horizontal cut became a claw that could rend plate armor, what possible meaning did fancy maneuvers hold?
Men who knew nothing of the sword worshipped intricate flourishes and chased after such techniques, but the truth was that mastery always distilled into simplicity.
The simplest thing was the most efficient thing!
And Johan already knew that well. He himself didn't seem aware of it, but his body was showing it.
What Kaegal had demonstrated was the assassin's way of fighting, yet Johan had never copied it by rote. He had melted it down and reshaped it to fit himself.
If Kaegal's fighting was a swallow's, Johan's was closer to a boulder's. He had been born a knight, after all. Even when shown an assassin's blade, he transmuted it into a knight's swordsmanship.
Which was, in a way, a pity.
Though I doubt a man who needs nothing will ever make use of my arts.
"And next... let's see. If you live long enough, you may well cross paths with a member of Nessos' Deadly Poison."
"You mean I should show them mercy when that happens?"
"Why do you keep spouting nonsense? If you meet one, kill him on the spot. Don't hear a word he says."
"......"
Johan made a bewildered face.
"You did say you were the master of the guild, though..."
"Ten of them, and five are trash. Four are murderers. There's nothing to gain from entangling yourself with them. You won't lose to them, but getting dragged into an assassin's fight makes life complicated. I doubt you'd enjoy writhing around poisoned."
"And yet one of them seems perfectly sound."
"That one might be an eccentric like me, but even he's worth avoiding. If he doesn't take a liking to you, he'd be more terrifying than the other nine put together."
Kaegal rolled up his sleeve. There, inked into his skin, was a serpent with nine heads — a tattoo drawn with a special dye, one that revealed itself only when body temperature rose.
"Remember this. If you ever meet a man bearing this mark, be on your guard. And the more heads it has, the more on your guard you must be."
The more heads the serpent bore, the higher the bearer's standing within the guild — and the more practiced a killer he was.
"I suppose I could invite him to a bathhouse."
"That would work, sure. Though your opponent wouldn't care for it much."
Kaegal began folding down his fingers.
"What else do I need to tell you... ah, right. Get yourself a sword. A sturdy one, sturdy enough for you to wield. The one you've got isn't useless, but for you it's a twig. Push it to its limits and it'll come apart."
"I was actually thinking of something made of Danus steel."
"Forget it. Not a chance."
Danus steel.
A rare metal that only the Ancient Empire — the fallen civilization that had once spanned the continent and swallowed nations like the Holy Empire and the Kingdom of Erance whole — had ever been able to forge. When that empire perished, the craft died with it, and nothing new had been made since.
Arms forged from that steel were featherlight and unbreakable. Truly a magical metal.
"Every known Danus blade sits in the hands of famous nobles, and if you stole one, they'd hunt you to the end of your days. You might manage it if you fled all the way to the Asman Empire, but you'd be giving up far too much for a single sword. Go find one of the dwarf clans in the Empire instead. Dwarves are stubborn, thick-headed folk, but they're the finest smiths in the Empire. Win them over properly, and they'll forge you a solid blade."
The race that occupied most of the Holy Empire was humanity. The serfs were human. So were the nobles.
But dwarves lived in scattered clans across the land, and lords prized them immensely. Dwarves with their superb metallurgy were geese that laid golden eggs.
The Eitz family, of course, had never qualified. If their fief had held a dwarf clan, the Eitz family would never have gotten its hands on it in the first place.
"That should just about cover it. Hide the secret arts, don't tangle with assassins, get a sword — anything else? What am I forgetting?"
"I believe you've told me everything."
"Ah — I forgot one thing. Have you seen the black wolf?"
The black wolf of the forest, the one Johan had seen while hunting with Joseph. He hadn't been able to go hunting since.
"Yes."
"Be careful. It's an ill omen. A symbol of death."
"Wouldn't that mean it foretold your arrival, Master?"
Even to Johan's joke, Kaegal answered with perfect gravity.
"If I'd gone on to kill someone, then yes, it would have foretold me. But I've killed no one, so it foretold something else. Burn this into your mind: the black wolf is death's omen. When death draws near, you must always fear it."
"I'll fear it, but that still sounds like superstition..."
"A man who believes in superstition is a fool, but a man who doesn't believe is a bigger fool. There was a time, young, when I scoffed at such things too. But Johan — superstition has reasons behind it. Just like magic. Better to believe than not to."
Johan nodded. If Kaegal spoke of it that seriously, it might well be true.
"Fear death, Johan. Even if the gods have blessed you, death won't give a damn."
"I'll remember it, and I'll fear it."
"A good attitude."
Kaegal abruptly rose to his feet, turned, and began to walk away.
"You're leaving?"
"I am. Don't follow me. I hate having anyone at my back."
And with that, Kaegal was gone. He truly never once looked back.
Three days had passed since Kaegal's departure.
Johan clicked his tongue and slumped down where he sat.
Learning swordsmanship from Kaegal, sparring with him — those had been good days. He had felt like he was doing something.
But the moment Kaegal left, the hollowness had crept back in.
A life with no goal whatsoever, lazing around eating bread!
What was the point of becoming a superb swordsman if it amounted to nothing?
Should I really just leave first?
Kaegal had breathed confidence into him. Until he'd met the old assassin, Johan hadn't known he was a lion. Now he knew. He knew what he was.
There was only one reason he hadn't left yet. If he announced his departure while his father, Gesen Eitz, was away, he would walk away with nothing.
His stepmother and half-brothers would wish him the best of luck, certainly — along with a firm instruction not to let the door hit him on the way out.
If he wanted so much as a scrap, he had to raise the matter while Gesen Eitz was home.
Not that he seems likely to give me anything.
With so many sons, the odds did look rather slim. More than once, Johan had seriously considered just walking out.
Damn it. If the Master saw this, he'd call it living like a groveling cur.
Kaegal would have told him to rob the estate blind and run. But that wasn't Johan's way. He had no intention of manufacturing a grudge that would hobble him for the rest of his life over a handful of silver coins.
"?"
From far off, hoofbeats drifted toward him on a cloud of dust. At first he thought Gesen Eitz was returning — no one else on the estate could produce hoofbeats that heavy.
But it wasn't him. Knights he had never seen before were galloping closer from the distance. There were barely a dozen and a half of them, yet Johan felt an inexplicable sense of dread.
Sir Karamap was an elf knight famous enough that even Johan had heard his name. Elves, with their looks that far outshone any human's and lifespans twice as long, held noble seats wherever they went on the continent.
In particular, the nobility of the Kingdom of Erance, west of the Empire, was almost entirely elven. Sir Karamap, too, was a knight who had come from Erance.
Despite his origins, Karamap was a knight the Emperor trusted enough to place his soldiers directly under his command.
He had distinguished himself in the western rebellion, and he was a knight who had bested countless men in duels!
The nobles who held grudges against him called him the Noble Executioner. Such was the toll of nobles Karamap had put to the sword.
And this same Sir Karamap had come calling at the Eitz estate.
"It's — it's an honor! Sir Karamap! To meet you like this!"
John Eitz, the youngest, practically gushed. His eyes sparkled with adoration. Behind him, the eldest son, Philip Eitz, shot John a sour look.
But he, too, cowered before Sir Karamap all the same.
"We welcome your visit to our fief, Sir Karamap. The fare is modest, but please eat your fill and rest from your travels before you go."
Philip spoke with practiced ease, as though the estate were his own. At the sight, Lady Eitz's brow furrowed. She could hardly stand by and watch the eldest son step forward over her youngest's head.
"I was under the impression that hosting guests in Lord Eitz's absence was my role?"
"Oh dear. Lady Eitz, I only stepped in for fear you might make an error in unfamiliar duties. After all, this is work I was handling long before you arrived."
Stepmother and son though they were, Philip was past thirty. He and Lady Eitz were barely apart in age. The two glared at each other, neither yielding an inch.
Philip, who had long worked alongside the Eitz family's retainers and earned their trust.
Lady Eitz, who could move Lord Eitz with a few whispered words at his pillow.
Their rivalry was so taut that even the serfs of the fief knew of it.
"Where,"
And it was Sir Karamap who cut through their exchange.
"is Lord Eitz?"
"Pardon? Lord Eitz is away visiting another fief at the moment."
"Which fief?"
Somewhere along the way, Karamap's speech had shed every trace of courtesy. It was a mineral, frigid voice. Yet everyone present had been so thoroughly overwhelmed by him that no one noticed the change.
"Well — Lord Eitz does travel rather often on private business, you see..."
"Name every place he might have gone. Now."
"Th-that much is — may I ask what business this is?"
"You need not know."
Every face in the Eitz household went rigid. Whatever else, this was rudeness beyond all bearing.
A guest, invited into another man's home, taking this kind of insolent tone? Even the great Sir Karamap could not be forgiven this.
"Sir Karamap! This is outrageous! Apologize for your insolence at once!"
Whip!
Karamap's head snapped around. His small eyes bored into Philip like awls. Under that gaze, Philip felt his heart freeze solid.
Those cold, mineral eyes!
"What?"
"You come into our home and..."
"Ho ho ho. It seems Philip spoke carelessly out of nervousness. Sir Karamap, how would you like to converse with my son John instead?"
That insolent woman!
Philip ground his teeth. The Eitz family's honor had just been trampled, and she was turning the moment into a bargaining chip.
A lavish spread was laid out before Karamap. Bean soup simmered with mutton, a castrated rooster roasted with herbs, soft white bread and more. Sir Karamap didn't touch a bite of it — he simply shoved the whole table aside with one hand.
This world was a lean one for gourmets. Spices were easier to come by than in the Middle Ages of his old world, but that didn't mean one could eat whatever one pleased, whenever one pleased.
Bean soup made by rendering fatty mutton into thin slices, steeping it with onion in beef broth, then simmering it with wine and spices — or a whole plump capon roasted to glistening gold — even Johan had only tasted such dishes a handful of times in his life.
On those occasions, he would plant himself at the table and eat stubbornly, weathering the glares that said that food wasn't set out for you.
Karamap, however, pushed it all away as if food were of no interest to him whatsoever.
"Conversation would suit me fine. Find out where Lord Eitz is, then come tell me."
"Meeting you is already an honor, but might you grant my son John a lesson?"
"No."
Karamap said nothing more and strode straight out of the hall. The insult was enough to harden even Lady Eitz's face.