Chapter 271 - Not Everything Goes According to Plan (2)

Pin tilted her head up to glance in the direction Jaxon had gone.

'Is he heading straight for the village chief's house?'

To her eyes, there were far too many suspicious things about this village. Hadn't there even been a woman with an unusual gait among the people passing through the streets? Even Pin could tell that woman was no ordinary person.

'Fucking bandits.'

Through her various assignments with Sinar, she had learned how deeply Black Blade's reach extended into the kingdom. Nobles in the capital, or even lords with vast territories, were probably involved. And the greatest problem of all was...

She was walking under cover of darkness, lost in thought. Her habits as a ranger kept her deliberately out of sight, her steps avoiding people's eyes while she remained alert for anyone following.

She headed toward the watermill on the rise. Just as she was nearing it, something struck her head.

Pin reacted, twisting to shift the point of impact and minimize the blow. Reacting just before it landed was half luck. But if half was luck, the other half was skill.

Since seeing Encrid in action, she had practiced Ail Karaz-style martial arts constantly with Audin and Sinar. She had focused particularly on defense, less by choice than out of necessity.

["If this hits you, you will meet God, Sister."]

Taking one of Audin's punches the wrong way was as good as knocking on heaven's door.

["Too many openings."]

Sinar would jab the back of her head or neck from outside her awareness at the slightest opportunity. For all these reasons, Pin had grown more sensitive than before, her senses sharper and her reactions faster.

THWACK!

The blow landed audibly, but Pin neither lost consciousness nor fell. Tucking her chin and tensing her trapezius muscles against the strike aimed at the back of her skull, she had taken it near the ear instead. Even so, her head rang.

Her opponent did not wait. A second attack followed immediately, this time sweeping at her legs. A practiced fighter: the first surprise attack went high, the next low. It was a tactic difficult to react to.

Pin did not fall for this one, either. She bent her knees and braced her legs, using an Ail Karaz-style rooting technique. As her opponent's foot struck her shin, she half turned her body and once again let the attack slide past.

'You bastard.'

Her head was still pounding, but knowing she would be done for at this rate, she whipped the shortsword from her sword belt.

SHING!

She slashed savagely across as she drew, not bothering to look. Her blade met nothing. She sensed the man who had struck her retreating. Her vision swam, drawing her brows together.

"Don't move. Move and you die."

The voice came from behind her to the left, accompanied by the ratcheting creak of a crossbow being drawn.

'Fucking hell.'

She was well and truly caught. These people were skilled at ambushes. More importantly, they seemed to have been waiting. The enemy was prepared. This was dangerous.

"Do we look like blind fucking idiots to you? You fucking bitch. Maybe I'll cut your limbs off and sell you to a brothel where you won't even fetch a few coppers."

The man who had struck her spoke, a short club in his hand. His mouth was not merely foul, but filthy.

Rather than answer, Pin concentrated. Sweat trickled down her temples. She could not even feel the winter cold. Her head still seemed to be spinning, though it was better than before. Her immediate concern was getting out of this predicament, and to do that, she first had to assess the situation.

"Don't shoot."

Pin slowly raised both hands as she spoke. The shortsword she released dropped and sank into the earth at an angle.

"You crazy bitches and bastards. Do you have any idea where you are?"

The bandit with the club twisted his mouth into a sneer.

'This isn't good.'

Raising her hands in feigned surrender gave her a rough grasp of the situation. It came down to three things.

First, the villagers were not stupid, nor were they idiots. Which meant, second, that her own group had ended up looking like the idiots. And third and last, not everything went according to plan.

The original plan had been to investigate the village for two days, then sweep through it with the troops waiting nearby.

'Find evidence.'

Their first priority had been to use that evidence to obtain permission from the lord who ruled the area.

Border Guard was a territory, but originally it had possessed nothing beyond its boundaries that could be called a domain. Strictly speaking, this area belonged to another noble.

In truth, this undertaking involved several political considerations. Marcus intended to turn Border Guard into a lord's domain ruling the surrounding area, and he thought an operation like this necessary to exert its influence. He was genuinely angry about the drug users and the assassins Black Blade had sent, but calculation lay behind that anger, too.

Marcus was the sort of politician whose mind worked that way even when he did not want it to. He meant to use this affair to liberate the village and rebuild it around its innocent inhabitants. He intended to transform it from a drug-producing Black Blade bandit village into one under Border Guard's protection.

The noble who officially owned the surrounding land would raise hell, of course, but there were any number of ways to handle that. The best would be evidence connecting the lord to the bandits. Still, finding it would be a bonus; failing to find it would hardly matter.

Marcus knew how to wield influence. He also knew how to placate a single noble and swallow up a village to start with. The beginning mattered. Once he had taken one, the next would be easy. Surrendering one village would not end with just that one.

But who would recognize that and prepare for it? Wasn't the lord ruling the area just a pig with a head full of shit? Various preparations and a host of interconnected arrangements formed the backdrop to this operation.

And now it had gone wrong from the outset.

Of course, Pin could not have known all of this. Even in her predicament, she was simply reminding herself of her mission. She was a soldier through and through.

Pin thought that finding evidence now seemed about as recoverable as water spilled onto dry earth.

'They really got me.'

She had walked into an ambush. Sweat streaming down her face, she readied her next move. Being caught did not mean she could simply let them have their way.

Fight desperately, then fight some more. She, too, had learned something from watching Encrid. Because he did not know how to give up, he kept moving forward. Because he kept moving forward, he changed. Pin had watched him do it from right beside him.

Her foot kicked the sword embedded in the ground. It came free and flew forward. At the same time, Pin drew the two daggers hidden against her forearms, each a little longer than a handspan.

It was time to fight. Even with no chance of winning, if this was a moment that demanded it, she had to fight.

* * *

After Jaxon slipped out the window, Encrid gazed outside idly.

'How did he get through that opening?'

The window was small. Jaxon had slipped through as though his body were oiled, and the way he had done it was truly remarkable. He had not struggled his way out. He had gauged the size of the window against his body, given a light jump, and slipped straight through in one motion. He had vanished as though flying, his body stretched straight in midair, as if someone outside had pulled him through.

Jaxon's spatial awareness was astonishing.

'He looks, judges, and pictures his own body accurately.'

It was a feat possible only through a perfect understanding of his body and its physical capabilities. Could Encrid do it himself? He had very little confidence that he could.

His curiosity ended there. He looked beyond the window through which Jaxon had vanished. Outside, moonlight seemed to lie scattered like shattered powder. It was a bright moonlit night.

After watching the view for a moment, he turned his gaze back into the room. The air might have been chilly on a winter night, but the brazier held heated stones and red-hot charcoal, with pieces of firewood half the length of a forearm beneath them.

Encrid pulled the brazier in front of the bed and stared at it. He placed another piece of wood on top. Meeting the red charcoal, its surface began to char with faint ticks, then flickered into flame with little red tongues.

He watched the piece of wood begin to burn with a dry crackle, his gaze hazy. He simply stared blankly into the flames, half slouched, every bit of tension drained from his body.

The flames rose, sending out sparks. The crackling wood, the fire in the brazier, the heat pushing back the chill. The mild air born where warmth met cold. It all enveloped him. His body sank toward the bed as though someone were gently embracing him and laying him down.

Soft straw supported his body. The bedding was cushioned, his belly full, his back warm. With the soothing air wrapped around him, it felt as though he lay in his mother's arms. As an orphan, Encrid knew nothing of a mother's embrace, but he felt a similar sort of comfort.

He curled up like a child. The bath in the wooden tub, with hot water he had bought for six copper coins, left his body utterly relaxed.

Encrid had a brief dream. In it, he became a child whining to his mother. Then he left home to embark on a long journey, only to find his life threatened ten days later. After barely surviving, he felt a fresh pang of regret.

'What did I leave home for?'

Outside his home, there was nothing but hardship. Difficulties lay everywhere. The slightest mistake could put his life in danger. It was like crossing between cliffs with only a thin rope to rely on.

'Will you cross anyway?'

Someone asked him that. He could simply go home, but Encrid did not. Though he enjoyed the peaceful, soothing air and the pastoral meadows, he did not. Though everything he loved so much lay behind him, he did not turn back. Though he missed his mother's arms and his father's large hands, he did not.

'Of course I'll cross.'

'Why?'

'Do I need a reason?'

'There are things people do for no particular reason, aren't there?'

'No. Everything has a reason, even if you don't realize it yourself. Why do you walk that road?'

Though he was sure it was a question without an answer, the Encrid in the dream replied without hesitation.

'It's fun.'

'Is that all?'

'Would you rather smile or frown? Would you rather hurt or enjoy yourself?'

'What?'

He could not see the face of the person asking. His final words came aloud.

"I walk the road I enjoy and believe is right."

He had no doubts about that. He did not even call it conviction.

He opened his eyes. It truly had been a short dream. The firewood had not even burned out. It had not yet blackened, so his rest had been very brief indeed.

And yet his body felt refreshed. His feet were light, and strength flowed readily into his hands. Normally, his strength would not return the instant he woke, but not this time. His body brimmed with power, as though someone had breathed strength into every strand of muscle.

Then someone knocked on the door.

KNOCK, KNOCK.

He heard the knocking.

"Are you in there?"

The tavern servant's voice followed.

"You're in there, aren't you?"

The servant asked again. Encrid dressed, wrapping his bandage-like under-armor around himself in an instant, then pulling thin leather armor over it. He buckled on his sword belt as well.

The speed with which he armed himself went beyond exceptional. Why wouldn't it? A man without much skill with a sword did plenty of odd jobs. Encrid had spent considerable time attending other mercenaries. Even then, he had needed to take care when putting on his own armor and preparing his weapons if he wanted to survive. His speed was truly astonishing.

As he finished arming himself, the servant spoke.

"You're in there, but you won't answer."

There was a hint of laughter in the servant's tone.

"Hey, idiot."

Those words came next. The door clicked open. The lock meant nothing.

At the open doorway, the glow from the room's brazier met the light coming in from outside, as though competing. Yet the lights did not quarrel. Each did its job, illuminating the surroundings.

The inn's corridor was narrow. Beyond the doorway stood the tavern servant and the innkeeper, with a man whose beard grew like a thicket beside them. Every one of them had gleaming eyes and an air of swaggering confidence.

"Three?"

Encrid skipped straight to the question. His head lowered, he glanced up at them from beneath his brows as he asked it. As he spoke, he adjusted his sword belt, drawing it a little farther forward to make his swords easier to draw, shifting it for even the slightest improvement in comfort.

The servant sneered at him. Look at the idiot, floundering around after barely managing to arm himself.

"What? Three? This crazy fuck's lost his mind."

The servant sneered. Encrid continued adjusting his equipment. Hadn't he only recently realized anew how important small preparations were? He did not quite like the angle of the dwarf's gladius at his right hip. He shifted it by hand, tugging it tight.

"You know how to use a sword, don't you? Fuck, what was that pathetic act supposed to be?"

Suddenly, Krais came to mind. His nagging admonition not to act flitted through one corner of Encrid's thoughts. For a moment, Encrid resented a world that failed to recognize his acting talent. Surely, back in the territory, there was a playwright who would appreciate his exceptional performance.

"No need to drag this out, is there?"

The servant spoke with a sneer. Normally, he was the sort to exploit an opponent's openings and lapses in vigilance, but to his eyes, this Encrid was far too inept. The Fairy who had been beside him might be a little troublesome, though.

'Do they have any idea where they are?'

The servant was confident. He was certain he could strip every one of these bastards and bitches who had entered the village to the bone.

"Hey, hurry up and kill him."

The bushy-bearded man who had been watching blankly from behind spoke. Why all the talk? This was no salon for laughing and idling away their time.

Encrid drew his sword belt a little farther forward one last time, bringing The Tutor around in front of his hip. At last, he was quite satisfied with the arrangement of his weapons. He raised his head and straightened his back.

The tavern servant, who had been watching, flicked his hand. His lips curled impudently upward, and the eyes that had feigned such innocence at their first meeting now glittered with killing intent.

Encrid saw it all. In slowed time, he registered the expression and the gaze. They were only three or four steps apart.

The man threw a dagger, and Encrid tilted his head aside. At the same time, he took hold of his sword's grip. He did not draw it yet.

The thrown dagger whizzed past his hair and buried itself in the wall behind him.

"... So you do have some skill!"

The servant shouted savagely and raised both hands, a dagger in each.

Instinctively, Encrid gauged his opponent's physical capabilities from his movements, his demeanor, and the way he had thrown the dagger. That assessment led directly into another small preparation.

He slid his left foot forward. His leather boot scraped ahead, a brief movement no one noticed. Now everything was perfect. His small preparations were complete.

Apparently confident in his knife-throwing, the servant flicked his arm again, while the innkeeper behind him drew a shortsword. Steel rang out, as though each blade were announcing its presence.