Chapter 394 - Dark Dawn

There was nothing more to do at the palace, and Krang would soon be busy. It was time for Encrid to head back, too. Just before they parted, he saw Matthew dragging his wounded leg after Krang, only to be thoroughly chewed out and sent off for treatment. “Wouldn't it be better to receive treatment at the palace?”

The Marquis of Fertile Lands asked Encrid as he turned to leave after watching Matthew. The man knew how to look after people with care and attention. He had a discerning eye, too. Otherwise, he would never have sided with Krang. “I'm fine.”

Encrid declined. His right wrist would heal soon enough, provided he ate properly and rested. He needn't stay in the palace to do that. He could set a troublesome joint himself, and Rem and Ragna both knew that much first aid. Above all, he had Esther. [“With my touch, you'll heal in no time.”]

Hadn't she said so with complete confidence? She had examined Encrid as soon as Count Molsen's double, or whatever it was, died. [“I told him that if this were enough to kill you, you'd have died long ago.”]

That was what she had added, looking rather satisfied. Encrid didn't know what she meant, but he hadn't pressed. She didn't seem likely to answer, and his own exhaustion had piled high enough. He wasn't about to collapse and die, but he had made it through repeated todays, beaten Aesia senseless, survived the rhythm-breaking proto knight, and watched Count Molsen and Krang argue. Listing everything that happened in between would have worn his mouth out. In short, he'd beaten people, killed, and run. His legs weren't shaking, but he wanted a good meal, a wash, and some rest. He stank—a mixture of blood and sweat. Outside, he found Rem, who had been chasing some idiot. He stood beside Odd-Eyes, right in front of the palace, so drenched in blood that he looked as though he'd bathed in it. As Encrid looked him over, Rem said, “Well, a little beating, a little bashing, chasing a bastard who ran. That sort of thing.” There was a note of dissatisfaction in his voice. A closer look revealed that his balance was slightly off. He'd hurt his ankle. He wasn't limping, but he was injured. “Bastard had one last trick up his sleeve.”

Rem supplied another answer without being asked. He still wasn't smiling. Apparently, it hadn't brought him much satisfaction. He'd seemed to have some history with the man he'd chased. The man had looked western, too. “Are you getting beaten up because you're not good enough?”

Ragna asked solemnly from behind. He even sounded concerned. In other words, he was mocking him. Only then did Rem smile. It was, of course, a far cry from a smile of joy or happiness.

“Keep that up and you're really going to die.” “Hmm? Can't hear you. Not from a man who just got beaten up.”

“Want me to split your ears open with an axe?”

“Can't hear you. Not from a man with a hurt ankle.”

“Fine. Guess I'll have to use this on you.” Rem reached inside his clothes for something. Encrid stepped between them.

“Enough.” Business as usual. Still, they had both grown more eloquent. Since when had those two become so good with words? At first, they'd both seemed quicker with their hands than their mouths. He remembered Ragna taking a bite of an apple and getting lost. And Rem approaching without a word, running a whetstone along his axe. “You two have gotten much better at talking.”

When he voiced that observation, Rem shot back, “... Look who's talking.”

Ragna blinked a few times, too, then said, “What are you on about?” On their way back, Encrid explained that Ragna really had taken a shortcut. Rem was genuinely surprised. It was a new way of thinking: he'd made a road where there wasn't one and charged straight across, keeping his eyes on the palace. It certainly qualified as a shortcut. “You bastard. You really have improved.”

Rem was impressed. Ragna lifted his chin slightly.

“Finding shortcuts has always been my specialty. I'm better at it than swordsmanship.”

“Are you fucking insane?” And they fought again. After making a halfhearted effort to stop them, Encrid reached Andrew's house, where Dunbachel, Andrew, the trainees, and the others had gathered. No one had died. “What was that about, suddenly running off?”

Dunbachel addressed Ragna, which meant they had to hear about the shortcut all over again. Had finding his way been more rewarding than killing a proto knight from a knight order? It certainly looked that way to Encrid. Dunbachel was more surprised that he'd found his way, too. She wasn't likely to care about what had happened in the palace. She merely nodded, her eyes heavy with exhaustion. Jaxon returned around then. He greeted them with a glance to announce his return, then behaved as usual. Meaning he was silent. “How did your business go?”

“It ended well.”

At least he answered when Encrid asked. “You want to know the shortcut to the palace?”

Ragna spoke up. Jaxon ignored him. With help from the servants and maids, Encrid washed, then set the bones in his right wrist and splinted it. When he emerged after finishing, Esther approached in human form and took his wrist. Her touch radiated considerable heat. “Bear with it.”

He did as she said. As he endured the heat, exhaustion washed over him. They said nothing mattered more than proper rest. Eating well and resting well were the key to a regenerative body—the surest way to recover quickly. Encrid shared a room with Rem. He fell asleep without saying much. Instinctively, he knew he would sleep too deeply even to dream. Which was why he was a little taken aback. A dream, the ferryman, the black river, the ferry—all appeared at once. “Sit,” the ferryman said. The ferry was several times wider than before. It could change like this? The table and chairs looked carved from solid wood and were joined to the ferry's floor, as though they had grown out of it. Was that remarkable? Yes, it was. But that was all. A little surprise, a flicker of admiration: so it could do this, too? The boat still rocked, the ferryman was still there, and the black river remained unchanged. The ferry's new size didn't strike him as a tremendous difference. The greater change was in the ferryman's attitude. There wasn't so much as a cup of tea, but what did a table signify? A place for conversation. The ferryman sat down opposite him first. Encrid crossed the expanded ferry and took the other chair. It was hard. Even on second thought, he couldn't call it comfortable. “They say Giants are born with superhuman strength, Frogs with the power of regeneration, Beastmen with exceptional voluntary control over their bodies, dwarves with dexterity and stamina, and dragonfolk with superb combat sense and words forged from determination.” Most ordinary people would have struggled to understand, but Encrid understood nearly all of it. There had been a time when he agonized over talent, striving to advance through effort and trying anything he could. When he'd thought he needed theory, he'd dug into all sorts of subjects. It hadn't done him much good, of course. But that was why this was familiar. The superhuman strength of Giants. The regeneration of Frogs. The physical prowess of Beastmen. The stamina of dwarves. The words of power of dragonfolk. “Then what do humans possess?”

The ferryman ended with a question. Encrid knew the answer.

“They say potential and possibility.”

“Correct.” Violet light streamed from the ferryman's black eyes. Its soft glow illuminated the table and their surroundings in place of the lamp. No—a lamp had appeared on the table without him noticing. “Humans can go anywhere.”

Was that what he'd wanted to say? The ferryman continued.

“And so they do not know their place.” Their eyes met. Once again, the ferryman recognized Encrid's growth. The man who hadn't even been able to properly hear him before could now meet his gaze. They could converse. “This, then, is my gift, my advice, and words offered on a whim.”

When Encrid said nothing, the ferryman continued. He raised his right hand and spread his palm before Encrid's eyes. That alone gave him the illusion of a vast wall rising before him. In reality, it was only a palm with skin like gray gravel, but it felt entirely different. Then the ferryman's voice rang out in overlapping layers, dozens of utterances stabbing into Encrid one after another. “It is beyond you.”

“You cannot break free.”

“Where could you possibly go beyond this place?”

“To believe you can always advance as you have now is arrogance.”

“That is the very arrogance of potential and possibility.”

“Humans are arrogant. Give up. This is my kindness. Greater pain will come.”

“The walls will rise higher.”

“You need only stop here.” With the ferryman's words, Encrid saw a vision. In it, he writhed in agony. Unable to find his bearings, he wandered alone, lost. He spent a lifetime repeating his suffering within it. Today had no end. A today without people, without even the smallest change. That today repeated endlessly. Not to despair within it was beyond human capacity. The sight sent gooseflesh over his entire body. Fear surged. The terror filling his chest was enough to consume a person whole. He saw another vision. In this one, Encrid lost everyone, every time. Everyone around him died. He couldn't stop it. He couldn't reach them. Something beyond human power to affect killed everything around him. And still he could do nothing. Without arms or legs, he could only watch. Another vision followed. A huge ball of fire fell from overhead. It burned everything: his body, his determination, the earth, the air. Yet he did not burn to death at once. Amid the flames, Encrid suffocated. He knew just by looking. That was not pain one could endure simply by resolving to endure it. None of this could be solved with a sword. “Stop here. Whatever today you choose, you will live contentedly.” Was this an attempt to persuade him? Or was it, as the ferryman claimed, advice, a whim, a gift? He didn't know. But even if it were a gift, that would change nothing. Encrid was a man who knew how to refuse even a gift if he did not want it. “If I'm lost, I'll keep going until I find my way.”

Only then did he speak. More words followed the first.

“If I have no arms or legs, I'll hold the sword's grip in my teeth.”

“If I can't avoid it, I'll cleave it apart.” A catastrophe could not be avoided. Then he would become a catastrophe himself. Encrid said he would advance, even if that was what it took. The present mattered more than an unknown threat. He would not frighten himself into kneeling and faltering beforehand. He would do as he always had. The ferryman said nothing more. He merely watched. Suddenly, the chair vanished. Encrid landed hard on his backside. In reality, he would have reflexively tensed his thighs to keep himself up, but that didn't happen here. The table and chairs were gone. The ferryman had pulled his hood up without him noticing, hiding his face once more. Holding the lamp in one hand, he said, “To dare sit at the same table as me. You overreach.” “It wasn't even my idea to sit down...”

Surely he had some right to feel wronged. “Go.”

The ferryman spoke, and Encrid opened his eyes again. He was back in reality. It would have been nice to forget a mere dream, but he couldn't. The visions remained etched into his mind. A today he could do nothing about. So now was the time. Repeating a today in which he could settle comfortably would be the best way to ensure his safety and protect himself. “... Have a nice dream?”

How to put it? Every so often, that bastard Rem asked about his dreams in the morning. At times like this, Encrid thought the bastard possessed some innate instinct. A barbarian's instinct, perhaps. “Yeah.”

He sat up as he answered. While he lowered his head and steadied his breathing, Rem spoke again.

“You were pouring cold sweat. Talking in your sleep, too.”

“What did I say?”

“That if you were going to do that, you'd never have picked up a sword in the first place.” It was what he truly felt. It must have slipped out without him knowing. A safe, sheltered life? “If that was what I wanted, I'd never have picked up a sword.”

Encrid murmured. A bead of sweat fell from his forehead onto his thigh. Those words were both a reply to the ferryman and a vow to himself. “No, Captain. You'd have picked one up no matter what.”

Rem had a point, too. Encrid rose. It was the early morning, before daybreak. “In our lands, we call this hour Utkiora.”

A western word.

“What does it mean?”

“A hatchling that's broken out of its shell, just before it takes flight.”

“What?”

“We also call it dark dawn.” The early morning, a dark morning, a moment before daybreak.

“Once dark dawn passes, the sun is bound to rise.”

Rem murmured as though reciting poetry. Encrid liked the word. Dark dawn. The darkness before sunrise. Wasn't it the perfect name for a good time to train? It was time to move. Krang would see to his own work. Encrid intended to do his, too. Conditioning and training, that is. As he trained as usual, word came that Count Molsen had falsely proclaimed himself king. “The Nauril plains. One month from now.”

It was morning. Aesia had brought the news. There was still bruising around the bridge of her nose. Noticing it, Rem broke off mid-yawn.

“Who's been beating you up? Who did that? Tell me. I'll pay him back for you. Grind his face in half.” He was joking, of course. He meant none of it; he was half teasing her.

“Him.”

Aesia answered the joke with a finger, pointing at Encrid. He hadn't yet told them that she had blocked his path. “The Captain?”

Was Encrid good enough to beat Aesia that badly? He shouldn't be. Rem turned his gaze on him. “Draw your axe. I'll give you a chance to avenge the lady,” Encrid said. “Who's a lady?”

Aesia interjected, but Rem knew how to play along.

“Let's do it. Smashing the face of a cripple with a busted wrist is no trouble at all. Your ribs healed yet?” They hadn't. He'd thought so yesterday, but Rem really had grown more eloquent. Remarkable progress. And during their brief spar, Rem found himself surprised in turn. “Again?”

He'd seen it often. Rapid improvement. A sword that changed overnight. Could he call it talent? No. It was as though Encrid alone had spent a different stretch of time. His sword was like a sculpture, carved and carved again, detail by detail. Like a tower built layer upon layer. “You're not living a different day all by yourself, are you?” Sometimes Encrid found Rem's instincts astonishing. From this morning's dream right up to this moment. “Correct.”

Encrid tossed out an offhand answer. He wouldn't believe it anyway.