Chapter 158 - Thanks From a Mother Raising Her Son Alone

Aspen had lost. But it had not fallen. Victory and defeat came in turns. No matter how thoroughly one prepared, problems arose. Defeat was simply a problem to endure.

'You can lose.'

He accepted that possibility. But to lose like this? With every preparation thwarted? His strategies had seemed to work briefly at the start, only to be overturned entirely. Even if he had taken a step back from this battlefield, how could everything be so thoroughly negated?

Abnaire, Aspen's brilliant strategist, had been quite confident. He had thought that even if they could not achieve a complete victory, they would not be easily driven back. He had made more than enough arrangements to ensure that.

He had brought in Giants, concealed their strength, lulled the enemy into complacency, and provided an outline of the strategy. Its core was to split Naurilia's main army by winning the battle along the flanking route. Dividing the strength of their main army was the foundation of the plan, yet it had gone wrong from the outset.

Defeat in a battle they should never have lost was where everything had begun to unravel. It was like one bookcase toppling and noisily bringing down all those around it.

"It makes no sense."

It was absurd. The words escaped him without thought. Abnaire swept his green hair back with a hand.

Outside the window, a child played in the bright sunshine. Several attendants trailed after the child, who then waved toward the window. Abnaire rested his elbows on the open windowsill. He waved back and enjoyed the sunshine.

It was a fine day, in a season of rising temperatures. He watched the child climb onto the swing hanging outside. His eyes remained on the child as he retraced the operation's beginnings in his mind.

'Why?'

Why had they lost? Their defeat across the battlefield had begun along the flanking route. Several documents flashed through his mind. He needed to work backward to find the cause of their defeat. Tracing the beginning back to its beginning, and then back further still, he arrived at it.

'The duel between soldiers.'

That first setback had been the start. Then Mitch Hurrier had died. Finally, there had been those fighters who displayed unexpected strength in the battle along the flanking route. What—or who—had been at the center of it all?

There was a name in the report Abnaire had received, sent by their commander shortly before his death.

Lunatic Platoon. Platoon Commander Encrid.

The name sounded familiar. Thinking it over, he realized this was the man the Hurrier family had sent an assassin after. A mere Platoon Commander? Could such a man have been the starting point of all these battles? He did not know. From here on, it was pure instinct. A strategist's instinct. A military adviser's instinct.

'It can't hurt.'

When the Hurrier family had sent an assassin, he had thought it utterly pointless. Perhaps they had been right.

For the future—more precisely, for the next war after this peace—Abnaire decided to employ assassins. The target was still just one Platoon Commander. An old, established guild operated in Aspen. Using it would leave no trail back to him.

Having settled his thoughts, he acted. He stepped away from the windowsill and immediately had an attendant summon the assassins' guild, then placed a commission in the name of the royal palace.

"The fee triples if we cross the border. And we'll refuse unreasonable requests."

Abnaire sent his answer to the guild's reply. A slip of paper bearing a sum in Krona would suffice.

"One Platoon Commander? They're spending this much Krona on one man?"

The fee would buy a mansion in the capital of the Principality of Aspen.

The assassins' guild had no reason to refuse. They were not being asked to kill a prominent noble or target a key military figure. It was just one Platoon Commander. Apart from the risk of crossing the border, it was an easy job.

The guild accepted the commission and set to work. They selected three assassins and sent them.

"They failed?"

The guild leader thought he had taken the job too lightly.

"Use mid-ranking assassins."

Come to think of it, hadn't the mixed-blood Fairy failed before? She had been mid-ranking too. Well, that was why he had sent three in the first place.

"Send two."

And so he dispatched the assassins.

"Boss."

"Failed again?"

No, something was wrong here. Why was every last one of them getting fucking killed?

"Two mid-ranking assassins?"

"Yes."

What was this? Should he send a high-ranking assassin? At this point, it was time to start counting the losses.

"Send a high-ranking one."

They finished the jobs they took. More importantly, these orders came directly from the royal palace. Outwardly, the Swamps of Montterre operated as an assassins' guild, but in essence, it belonged to the palace.

The guild leader knew that well. If he antagonized the palace, his days of making a living through assassination here would be over. And so a high-ranking assassin departed.

"What the hell is this!"

An assassin ranked among the Swamps of Montterre's ten best had failed. They could no longer make contact. Unless some kindly mage had suddenly appeared and dispelled the inscribed spell on the assassin's body, the assassin had to be dead.

Sure enough, two days later, the assassin's severed head arrived. At a secret mansion the Swamps of Montterre had kept hidden, no less.

"Send word to the palace."

Continuing like this would bring devastating losses. The other side had something. A high-ranking assassin had not escaped but been cut down. And their location had been exposed too? A group more powerful than theirs was intervening.

"That is my assessment."

The guild leader went straight to the royal palace, recounted everything that had happened, and explained that they could not readily proceed any further.

Abnaire swallowed an incredulous laugh.

'The assassins' guild failed?'

He, too, could only find it absurd. He had neither the resources nor the time to take further action.

"Let's leave him be."

Abnaire gave up. Aspen's internal affairs kept him too busy to devote any more effort to this.

If there was something to that man—if there truly was something...

'We'll meet again.'

With that, Abnaire put the name Encrid behind him.

If they were fated to meet on the battlefield, he would simply accept that fate. It meant this was not a man whose life would end by assassination.

* * *

A shadow had been prowling around the barracks for days. Familiar movements, and disguises good enough that a casual observer would struggle to recognize the same person.

With the man ahead of him, Jaxon silenced his footsteps and held his breath. He had erased every trace of his presence to confound the man's senses.

'Now, what is this?'

An assassin. He had recognized one at a glance. They were in the same line of work.

A fine cord uncoiled from Jaxon's hand. It was a thick thread coated in black ink and special oil to prevent it from reflecting light. It wrapped around the assassin's neck.

Before the assassin could react, Jaxon pulled the cord taut with a grinding crack. He drove an elbow into the man's back and hauled hard, half-breaking his neck.

CRACK!

The man's head snapped sideways. A broken neck meant death. An obvious fact.

Jaxon examined the dead man. Was he skilled enough to have been difficult for anyone else to handle? Jaxon's people in Border Guard were informants, not combatants. Not that they would simply stand there and let themselves be killed.

'The third.'

This was the third attack in the three months since they had returned from the battle. This third attacker had doggedly lingered by the barracks wall. Over three days, he had come disguised as a beggar, an old man, and a merchant, wearing a different disguise each time.

'Fairly skilled.'

Men like this were entering the city where Jaxon was staying. Their target seemed to be inside the barracks. If they had been after a Company Commander, the Battalion Commander, or some noble, they would have operated differently.

The first arrivals had posed as new recruits. Their objective had been all too clear.

'The Lunatic Platoon.'

Following the pattern revealed the target. The Platoon Commander. They were after Encrid.

But Encrid had spent all three months without leaving the barracks and training ground, so they had tried to get inside instead.

"Crazy bastards."

All these resources just to kill one Platoon Commander?

Beside the barracks wall, screened by two large trees, Jaxon hoisted the corpse over his shoulder. Avoiding people's eyes, he carried it to an alley near where the vagrants gathered and set it down.

He arranged it roughly into a sleeping posture, bought a bottle of liquor, splashed it around the body, and left the bottle beside it. This way, they would take it for a dead vagrant and not bother investigating the cause of death.

After disposing of the corpse, Jaxon entered the red-light district. He was a regular customer there. Several prostitutes glanced at him as he arrived. Looks like his were hardly common.

Ignoring every gaze, he went into his usual room. Inside, a beautiful young blonde greeted him half-naked. Jaxon bent and straightened several fingers of his left hand, conveying a message in sign language. The woman spoke.

"No one's listening."

"Any problems?"

"No more problems, either."

Previously, they had missed a mixed-blood Fairy assassin entering the city. Even if they did not have eyes across the entire city, how was that acceptable? The incident had bothered Jaxon. It had wounded his pride.

After that, more assassins had trickled in, and he had killed every one of them. As long as he remained in Border Guard, no other assassin—or anyone engaged in similar business—would be allowed in.

This was not necessarily because someone was targeting his Platoon Commander. Absolutely not.

Leaning back against the door, Jaxon wore his usual expressionless face. Watching that face closely, the woman continued.

"They're from the Swamps of Montterre. What should we do?"

The Swamps of Montterre was an assassins' guild based in Aspen.

"Let them know this is my territory. Our way."

In other words, kill every one who came in and crossed the line. The woman nodded.

It might become a war between guilds. But it would probably be a war no one knew about. That was the nature of the organization she belonged to.

Afterward, Jaxon spent the night with her. Work connected them, but they also desired each other physically. They were close to being lovers.

The woman woke before dawn and ordered several subordinates to cut the head from the corpse Jaxon had left. She sent it straight to one of the Swamps of Montterre's bases. It was a warning.

If they attacked despite the warning, the regret would be theirs. After that, the Swamps of Montterre made no further moves against them. Understandably so. The other side operated across Aspen. These people operated across the continent.

* * *

"Are you sure this is the way?"

Krais asked as he surveyed the dank back alley. It stank, and the filth covering the ground made him reluctant even to step on it. The alley was near the vagrants' haunts.

His question was directed at Jaxon. Encrid glanced over as well. While shopping for various supplies, he had asked whether they could get whistle daggers.

["I can get them."]

That was what Jaxon had said before telling them to follow him. And so here they were.

He had been so busy lately that Encrid had assumed he would not have time for this. Between visiting the red-light district and various other places, he had barely come back to the barracks.

Jaxon did not even acknowledge Krais's question. If he thought something was not worth responding to, he did not respond. That was Jaxon as usual. His silence meant this was the right place. Sometimes silence was an answer.

Krais had asked, but he did not argue. A little filth would not stop him from going in.

"This way."

Jaxon spoke indifferently and went in. Encrid followed him.

He had intended to find a smithy—one with a skilled blacksmith. But he already knew that route would lead nowhere. He had had Krais make every inquiry he could.

The Frog followed Encrid, and for some reason, Esther had come along too. When they entered the filthy alley, she scaled the wall and took to the rooftops instead.

"That's no ordinary beast," Luagarne remarked.

Encrid half agreed. She really was like a person.

Luagarne wore boots made for Frogs. They had a peculiar design, with eight straps drawn tight over the tops of her feet and soles made of hard wood. With every step, they clacked against the stone paving.

"Here we are," Jaxon said, stopping.

A journey—especially one for a mission—required many supplies. Among them, Encrid particularly wanted a stock of whistle daggers.

"... So many customers today."

An old woman spoke from behind a stall set directly in front of her open door. A crystal ball, faded blonde curls, wrinkled hands. A fortune-teller.

"They have them here?"

Encrid had been through his share of experiences. Black markets? He had visited plenty. In his mercenary days, he had even seen clandestine illegal slave markets. But this was not a black market. It was an old fortune-teller.

Whistle daggers were hard to come by. Even on the black market, they were not weapons one saw often. And a fortune-teller like this had them?

"Yes."

After answering, Jaxon spoke with his hands. Sign language. Encrid did not know what the gestures meant, but they must have been the right signal. The old fortune-teller let out a nasal hum. Surely Encrid was not alone in thinking it sounded like permission.

"What are you looking for?" the fortune-teller asked.

"Whistle daggers. The more, the better," Encrid answered.

"And payment?"

"He'll handle that."

Encrid put Krais forward.

"Yes, I'll pay."

Encrid knew he was stepping up reluctantly, but outwardly, Krais looked generous enough. Having decided to spend, he opened his purse properly. You had to invest to make a profit, after all.

"I'll send them to your unit."

"You know who I am?"

At Encrid's question, the old fortune-teller chuckled.

"People in this city might not know the Battalion Commander's name, but I doubt there's anyone who doesn't know yours."

What was that supposed to mean?

He meant to ask more, but the fortune-teller folded up her stall and began gathering her crystal ball and tools.

"Well, goodbye."

What could he ask when she was already slipping back inside her home?

The way she packed up made it clear she had done this far more than once or twice. In no more than a few breaths, the stall was folded away and everything cleared.

Every so often, he did wonder. How did Jaxon know places like this? Even Krais had thrown up his hands and said he could not find these weapons. Still, Encrid did not ask how he knew. He was after whistle daggers, not Jaxon's past.

"Will she really get them? I don't trust this at all."

Krais muttered beside him. Suspicion was his default response to everything.

"If she can't, she can't."

Encrid moved on. Since they were out, he intended to pick up a few things at the market.

For instance, he wanted to visit the shop with the wonderfully seasoned jerky, then stop at a smithy to see to his armor. It was too hot to wear a gambeson, but he could hardly set off without protection. Perhaps some roomy leather armor would do.

He had thrown away his old leather armor. He had meant to make do with it, but one day Esther had shredded it with her claws.

"I'm beginning to think I ought to sell your claws to pay for the armor."

The thought prompted him to address Esther as she walked along the rooftops.

"Mrr."

The panther gave a low cry. It sounded almost like, Don't be ridiculous. Encrid had only tossed the remark out. It was a joke.

Then they reached the jerky shop. Before he could place his order, the owner greeted him with,

"Thank you."

"What for?"

When Encrid tilted his head, the owner bowed twice more. Flecks of gray showed among the hair at her crown.

"I'm grateful. As that foolish boy's mother, how could I take Krona from the man who saved him? Take as much as you like."

"Huh?"

Encrid had not known. He had simply fought as hard as he could, thrown himself into battle with his life on the line, and struggled desperately just to move forward. Yet because he had struggled and gone out to fight...

"Thank you. Without my son, I would have nothing left to live for."

A mother raising her son alone was thanking him.

What had happened on that battlefield. Many people owed their lives to Encrid. And every one of them had roots in Border Guard.

"That armor? Just pay half."

"If you need a waterskin, I think this one's better."

"Are your boots still holding up? I've got some newly made ones. Bring your platoon members along, and I'd be happy to take their measurements and make boots for all of them."

"Flowers are all I can offer you."

"Here, take this."

"Would you like an apple?"

"I've put together some dried fruit."

"How about some charcoal?"

The market merchants, who had not seen Encrid in all those three months, welcomed their hero. He had never imagined anything like this.

"Tch. Why does this make me feel so good?"

Krais's words beside him captured Encrid's feelings too.

He had not struggled desperately with the sole purpose of saving someone. But protecting those around him had been in his heart as well. The thought came to him anew. What was a knight?

'Someone who protects.'

Someone who protected his people's smiles, established his convictions, and pressed onward. For Encrid, it had been a deeply satisfying outing—and a deeply satisfying day.