Chapter 58

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It was a forest night without so much as an owl's call. The loudest sound was the savage tread of men carrying torches. Voices reached him: Go around that way. No, left. I'm going to kill that fucking bastard.

Hiding behind a tree, Ricard estimated the enemy's numbers from the confused footfalls. Four? No, five.

His ability to count enemies almost precisely by sound alone was all but inhuman, yet he could tell these opponents were no pushovers. Maintaining their spacing and a loose encirclement as they pursued Ice was no easy feat, especially at night. They had to belong to the same clan, he thought. And they were good.

But there was scarcely a greater advantage than knowing where your enemies were when they did not even know you existed. Ricard was not simply an accomplished swordsman. He knew how to fight—not swordsmanship, but combat skills. In truth, those skills had played a greater role than swordsmanship in making him the strongest a century ago. Surprisingly few people understood that. Obsessed solely with becoming Sword Masters, they could not even begin to imitate him.

The forest was full of thick, straight trees, and the enemies checked carefully behind them as they closed in. Too slow, however, and Ice the Ermine might escape. They moved as quickly as caution allowed.

Ricard saw torchlight reach the ground nearby. Concealed in the darkness, he focused on the approaching footsteps. Without conscious effort, he pictured the distance, the man's weight, even his posture. Then he heard the step that brought the man into range.

CRUNCH.

WHOOSH!

THUD!

Ricard did not look at his enemy before swinging. He burst out with his sword already in motion and struck squarely through the neck. Naturally, the man's head flew off before he could react. The other pursuers, spread apart from one another, started in alarm and immediately realized what had happened.

"Here...!"

The man nearest their dead companion shone his torch on Ricard and shouted, but never finished his cry. Ricard darted between light and darkness, closing the gap in an instant.

With a torch in one hand and a sword in the other, the man hastily retreated and raised his weapon to guard. There was no chance such an awkward stance could stop Ricard's sword. True to the name he had once borne around Beringen, Riki the Severer broke the man's feebly held blade and cut off this one's head as well.

CLANG! THUD!

The instant his second opponent fell, Ricard flung himself into the darkness. The three men pursuing him hastily directed their torches that way, only for a sword point to appear before their eyes.

WHOOSH! THUD!

"Ugh!"

The sword buried itself in a man's chest. He toppled backward. A nearby companion glanced at him in shock, and by the time he turned back, a boy with a dagger was rushing straight at him. Like a gust of wind, Ricard's dagger slashed the inside of his thigh and his armpit.

"Aaaaaagh!"

The scream echoed through the quiet forest. With major tendons severed, the man dropped his torch and crumpled helplessly to the ground. The last remaining man instinctively focused on his screaming companion. His torch flared as he swung it around, but this time Ricard appeared behind him, gripped his forehead, wrenched his head back, and slit his throat.

"Ghk! Gah!"

The blood welling up blocked his airway. He fell right in front of his crippled companion and twitched.

THUMP.

The man sitting on the ground with the tendons of his thigh and armpit cut gasped in shock and terror, then froze. Trembling, he looked up. Fear filled his mind with an echo: he was dead, he was dead, dead, just kill him already.

Ricard stabbed the man, who had lost all will to fight, through the throat and sliced through the cartilage to finish him. His eyes were not cold, merely composed, without the slightest pity or sympathy. Still seated, the man pitched forward onto his companion's corpse. Blood spread across the ground.

With every enemy dead, Ricard surveyed the scene. Fallen torches lay scattered about. Their light illuminated only parts of the corpses, lending the sight an eerie quality.

The fact that they had all died in moments did not mean they were weak. They had relied solely on torchlight, whereas Ricard could map the battlefield through sound alone, almost as though he could see the future. That was what made the difference. With surprise on his side as well, they could not have withstood him, however skilled they were.

When he had fought the ten swordsmen on the Kaitz heights, the full moon had made the night as bright as morning. He had been unable to hide or use the terrain to his advantage. Forced to face them with swordsmanship alone, he had inevitably struggled. Defeating them all despite that was remarkable, which was why so many people spoke of it.

Ricard could read both his surroundings and his enemies' minds, turning their weaknesses into his strengths. That ability did not come from practicing with a sword alone. It required natural senses, real combat experience, and the luck to survive.

Ice possessed an innate gift for swordsmanship, but here the difference between him and Ricard was stark. What Ice had accomplished was certainly impressive. This, however, was why he could not produce monstrous results like Ricard's.

"Riki?"

It was Marie's voice. Ricard had retrieved his sword and was wiping it clean as he searched for spoils. He looked up at her. She had clearly rushed over to help, and stood dumbfounded, not having expected it to be over already.

"Huh?"

"Oh, nothing. I came to help."

"Where are the others?"

"They took that Ice fellow to camp."

"Is he all right?"

"He isn't wounded, but he passed out. He seems utterly exhausted. They must have been chasing him for quite a while."

"That's something, at least. Can you give me a hand?"

"With what?"

"Collecting their gear. Taking any money they have."

"Huh? Oh, r-right."

Marie had killed people before, but had never searched a corpse, and was a little flustered. Something about this felt wrong. Still, seeing Ricard rummage without concern, she followed his example.

"H-how thoroughly should I search?"

"Huh?"

"Well, I can't put my hands down their trousers."

"Hahaha! You don't need to go that far. Just pat them down and take any purses you find. Focus on weapons. Only take what we can carry. Too much will weigh us down and might hurt our fighting ability later. Don't get greedy, Marie."

A thorough looting would ordinarily mean taking everything but their underwear, but as Ricard said, there was no need to go that far.

"I wasn't being greedy..."

"I'm joking. Let's go."

"Okay."

Ricard collected two swords and a purse, then returned to camp with Marie.

Ice lay under a blanket, pale tear tracks on his face. Boribori had placed some unidentified leaves beneath his nose.

"He'll have an appetite when he wakes up."

It was one of Boribori's usual unsubstantiated folk remedies, though they sometimes proved useful.

Volka looked down at Ice with a complicated expression. Lost in thought, he was slow to notice Ricard's return.

"Did you kill them all?"

"Yeah."

"Can I speak to you for a moment?"

"Why? Talk here. The others know too, really."

Ricard's perception was uncanny. He already had a rough idea of what Volka wanted to say. Given what Dunkel had told them, he probably wanted to discuss what to do with Ice.

Boribori and Delphi had attended the academy with Ice, so they knew he belonged to a heretical faith. But they knew little more than that and looked puzzled, unsure what this was about.

"Wouldn't it be better for us all to discuss it? We're one clan," Ricard said again. Marie was not an official member of the Viola clan, but she was practically halfway there. The others treated her that way, too.

Deciding he was right, Volka spoke frankly.

"You know Ice belongs to the Church of Judgment. But apparently he doesn't just believe in it—he holds a position there. I thought it might be a problem if he's that deeply involved. If he's tried for heresy, we could get dragged into it too."

It was a shock to those who had not known. Holding a position in the Church made him indisputably a heretic. If discovered, he would go straight to the stake without so much as an interrogation.

"So... well, I think we should just treat him and send him on his way. We'll be busy enough with the branch as it is."

Volka cautiously offered his own opinion first. The mood was heavy, though at some point owls and night insects had begun calling. The campfire crackled too, but those roused in the dead of night remained silent.

Boribori crouched beside the sleeping Ice and spoke as he looked down at him.

"I don't know. I owe Ice a lot. But I'm not the only one in the clan..."

His opinion resembled Volka's. Much as he disliked it, taking Ice with them would be difficult. Yet contrary to his words, his face was full of pity and worry. Gratitude and sympathy seemed to have softened his resolve.

Delphi and Volka were practically husband and wife, so she would likely follow his lead. That left only Ricard's opinion. Surprisingly, however, Marie spoke up.

"You don't need to worry about an inquisition. It's the royal houses of the kingdoms that are persecuting the Church of Judgment, not the Holy See."

"What do you mean?"

"It's a little complicated, but that's what I've heard. People keep leaving their domains, and they say the Church is behind it. The imperial household is standing by and watching. Weaker kingdoms benefit them."

Kings and the emperor had a rather complicated, peculiar relationship. As the supreme ruler of the world, the emperor outranked kings, but could not treat them as he pleased. The kingdoms had their own military authority and autonomy, and exercised considerable influence within the Empire.

Put simply, stronger kingdoms threatened the emperor, while greater imperial authority diminished the kingdoms. Though they did not show it openly, the emperor and the kings were virtually enemies.

Yet upsetting the balance of power would hurt both sides, so they were also in the same boat. They hated one another enough to kill, but did not wish for the other's destruction. At crucial moments they might support one another—or trip one another up. That was the relationship between emperor and king. Marriage alliances also linked the imperial and royal houses by blood, further complicating matters.

In any case, this was an age when population meant national strength. Without people, there was no one to farm or provide other labor. Peasants moving away therefore weakened a domain. Moreover, moving without permission was illegal.

But what if they moved outside the kingdom? Once those settlers entered imperial territory, not even a king could act against them freely.

Dunkel's comparison of the Ehrenberg Five to whores flashed through Ricard's mind. His sharp mind swiftly pieced things together, and when he reached a conclusion, he frowned involuntarily.

"Could the kings have been behind it? Could they have hired the Ehrenberg Five?"

The Ehrenberg Five had caused plenty of trouble everywhere, but their particular notoriety came from massacring entire villages. Most of those had been settlements founded by migrants who worshipped the God of Judgment.

From the kings' perspective, those insolent migrants needed to be exterminated, if only to set an example. Left alone, the exodus would spread. A king might not have the emperor's power, but could still keep the Five from becoming wanted criminals. Two kings or more would have found it even easier.

"Well, I don't know that much. But I think you're right, Riki."

There was no way to know whether the imperial household had knowingly turned a blind eye to the kings' actions or simply had so little interest that it remained unaware. What was certain was that the Ehrenberg Five had begun to become an eyesore.

"But how do you know all that?" Volka asked Marie.

"H-huh? I-I could have heard it somewhere, couldn't I?"

Marie pointedly avoided his gaze. Anyone would have found her suspicious. Perhaps because he had only recently discovered Ricard was a noble, Volka wondered if she might be one too. In fact, while they had not imagined she was an imperial princess, Ricard and Boribori had recognized her nobility from their first meeting.

Ricard rubbed his chin and thought for a long time. Everyone seemed to be waiting for him to speak.

The clan came first. That was clear. Personal honor and pride had played a part in his risking his life until now, but he had largely fought for the clan. To build a home of their own.

But if taking Ice in endangered the clan, should they accept him? They did not even know whether he would be a danger. Was uncertainty alone enough reason to reject him? If they ought to take him in, why? Because he was a friend? How far could one go for a friend? Before that, what was a friend?

The more he thought, the more difficult questions arose, one after another. Had he been alone, he would of course have accepted Ice. But with the clan involved, he could not simply force his opinion on everyone. These were not questions with correct answers to discover. Ultimately, he had to define things for himself and settle his own convictions.

Ricard could have thought about the issue all day, or debated it all day. Instead, he set aside all those words and focused on what mattered most. Strip everything else away and speak from the heart.

"Let's protect him for now. We desperately need help ourselves, and he'll be a great asset. He must have learned a lot fighting our enemies, too. And..."

He trailed off. The clan members listened carefully, their faces composed, each in their own way.

"Right now, I don't think he has anywhere else to go. It would be too cruel if even we turned him away."

"..."

His friends said nothing. He could not tell whether they were willing or reluctant. Yet the thought that Ice had nowhere to go had moved them. Each of them had experienced abandonment. Anyone who had not experienced that helplessness, that desperation, could never understand. Shouldn't those who knew how it felt be the ones to offer comfort?

No one explicitly agreed, but they all settled on taking Ice in. Come to think of it, Volka owed Ice his life: Ice had saved him from Lorenzo in Griffinswald.

Without Ice, Boribori would not have properly learned Mana Drive, either. A mistake in handling mana might have left him crippled. Apart from Ricard and Marie, they all owed Ice something in one way or another.

It was a sleepless night—though, more precisely, they had woken in the middle of their sleep. About an hour later, deep blue began pushing back the darkness from the edge of the world. With little else to do, Ricard and his friends began preparing breakfast in the early dawn.

CRACK! SMACK! CRACK! SMACK!

["Ngh! Hngh! Ngh! Ugh!"]

The sounds of whipping mingled with someone's gagged groans. This was no ordinary whipping. There was unmistakable killing intent behind it.

Young Ice stood facing the wall, listening. He was not alone. A dozen or so children stood in a line, all facing the wall. It was time for punishment and training to empty their hearts. Joy, sorrow, fear—they had to offer everything to the God of Judgment. Even their parents and families.

CRACK! SMACK! CRACK! SMACK!

At some point, the groans stopped. He was probably dead. Ice slowly traced the gaps between the cold bricks with his eyes.

Imagine them as paths through a valley. Follow the path, and even without an exit, you can keep walking. No need to lose your way. Just walk. The route is already laid out. That way, no thoughts come. No—no feelings come. The whipping, the groans, the final dying sounds: none of them reach your ears.

When the priest told them to turn around, Ice obeyed. He saw a boy hanging limp, the skin of his back torn away to expose his ribs. A bloody pulp, scarcely recognizable. His crime had been laughing during training.

The priest who had administered the punishment was panting as though he could hardly breathe. Another priest addressed the boys in his place, his expression utterly blank.

["Brothers, the prophesied day is close at hand. We must redouble our efforts. Let us not falter. Let us not waver. Let us offer everything to the God of Judgment and return to heaven. O God of Judgment, close your eyes to us."]

["O God of Judgment, close your eyes to us."]

Ice and the other children repeated the priest's final words. Their voices sounded like dolls speaking. At the priest's gesture, the children stepped forward one by one to spit on the dead child's fallen body.

"Ptoo."

Then the next boy, and the next, and the next, and the next, and the next...

It was Ice's turn. He approached the boy who had died so horribly. For the briefest moment, something moved in his heart—whether a great tremor or the faintest stir, he could not say. Because the dead boy was his younger brother.

Every eye was on Ice. He could not allow even a fleeting change of expression, even a moment's wavering. He spat.

["Ptoo."]

In that instant, Ice's heart died. Alive, he was not truly living, nor was he human any longer. He was merely a puppet that moved for God alone. Surely that was what he had become.

Ice slowly opened his eyes. He heard dishes clattering and people talking quietly—comforting sounds that pleasantly tickled his ears. An early bird chirped, and the appetizing smell of food reached him.

He saw familiar faces, Ricard among them. His heart, pounding from the nightmare, gradually calmed as relief washed over him. Roused before he had finished sleeping, he was still half in a dream. Perhaps that was why, for a fleeting moment, he wondered if this was heaven.

Ricard, who was preparing food with Marie, turned to Ice.

"Oh? He's awake."

Looking at the blond boy, Ice found himself remembering a verse from scripture.

<Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.>

End of Chapter 11 – A Place of Rest.