Spice and Wolf - Volume 17 - Chapter 14

TRAVELING MERCHANT AND GRAY KNIGHT

It was a strange thing, but without any particular reason for it, a house unlived in seemed to become decrepit with incredible force.

The doors cracked, the floorboards swelled, the roof fell to pieces.

Though the roof that had protected pitiable travelers from the rain had been robust while people lived here, it was now unreliable even before a light drizzle.

Perhaps because the building had been built on a firm foundation of stone, the weight-bearing pillars at the building’s four corners still bore the vestiges of belonging to a house. Right now he seemed as if he pressed his body against them as he sheltered himself from the rain.

As that was the state of affairs, he placed the cargo-laden horse-drawn wagon, and the horse pulling it, beside the supporting pillar on the other side, and the supporting pillar for the ridge beside it, respectively.

As Lawrence sat with his back against the wall and lit a fire, he took a good look through the dilapidated roof at the heavy clouds on the other side.

“What, the fire is not ready yet?”

So spoke a small girl as she came over along the wall, splashing water off her robe all the while.

Under the dirty stone building, she looked like a devout nun on a pilgrimage to see the remains of an ancient saint.

However, as she went to Lawrence’s side, stripping off her robe and shaking about, he beheld something very odd. Namely, though her long chestnut hair had a noblesse-like beauty to it, enshrined upon her head were the ears of a beast, and below her slender hips, which seemed a trifle too thin for a teenage girl, hung a beast’s tail.

Lawrence, who had traveled alone as a merchant for some seven years, now traveled with Holo, a centuries-old incarnation of a giant wolf sometimes known as a wisewolf.

“Is that what you should say while you’re wringing water out of a robe right beside someone starting a fire?”

The first step was to take grass stalks that had been pulverized and cleaned with water, then dried to make them come apart, and light them with sparks from repeatedly striking flints together. Next came using that to ignite straw, using that to make wood burn.

The somewhat ominous look Holo made when she put her wrung-out robe back on was just as Lawrence finally got the fire transferred to the bundle of straw in his hand.

“I believe ’tis easier to light that fire with the heat of your anger.”

Sarcasm aside, it did not seem she was interested in a real argument with Lawrence.

As her words fell on deaf ears, Holo put her hand over her head beside the fire.

Lawrence began burning wood chips he had shaved with a dagger, feeding kindling into the fire bit by bit, resulting in a fine campfire shortly thereafter.

“It really was just in the nick of time, though.”

Lawrence picked out a branch from among his kindling, speaking as he pruned it with his dagger.

“Aye, thanks to a foolish merchant being unable to say no, we piled up too much heavy freight and ran late. We almost ended up having to sleep under the rain.”

Holo spoke while spreading out some oiled leather and sprawling herself over it.

At the town they had visited several days earlier, he had been unable to say no when a traveling merchant he knew asked him to carry salt-pickled herring on his wagon. Thanks to the weight, the wagon had only been able to make gradual progress on the road, and rain began to fall midway.

But there was no mistake that far more than that, she simply found the strong smell of pickled herring on the roof rack hard to stomach. Perhaps it was due to all the lazy napping, but Holo’s overly sensitive nose was not accustomed to any scent on the roof rack besides that of the hair of her own tail.

“We are profiting from it, though, after a fashion.”

With the sharp, shaved branches, he skewered from mouth to tail a number of pickled herring from the cargo, standing them around the fire.

The contract with the shipper permitted them to eat up to ten fish.

It had been a while since they had had fish, so if he had wanted to go all out, he could put onions, garlic, and butter with them; surround them with tree bark; bury them in soil; and build a fire on top. After a while, he could put the fire out and dig the food up, having nicely cooked a covered “pot” of sweet and salty fish.

The reason he had not done so this night was that he could foresee that once Holo had tasted such cooking, she would never again be satisfied with fish that had been merely baked.

Tasty things were poison for the eyes and poison for the tongue. But one could not crave something they knew nothing about.

“Indeed. Aye, baked. ’Tis a rather tasty-seeming scent.”

Holo smacked her lips as her tail wagged rapidly.

As Lawrence made an amazed-looking smile, he tossed wood shavings right into the fire.

“Since we’re not in the woods, I’m not worried about attracting anything and everything, but I am concerned about mice.”

Even though he had only just begun cooking, Holo poked a fish with a finger and licked the salt off.

If he said something like, “I thought it was dogs that liked the taste of salt,” no doubt every hair on her tail would stand up with her flying into a rage.

“Well, I do not think that will be a problem. Not many people dwell in a place like this. For that matter…”

With that, Holo merrily licked salt directly off a fish that had not yet been skewered before continuing her words.

“…What is a building doing here, anyway?”

Holo looked up at the crumbling ceiling as she spoke, like a child looking at something odd.

It was not a particularly strange thought, nor could he call it ignorance of the ways of the world. The building suddenly jutted out of the earth amid an empty plain stretching as far as the eye could see. She must have thought it similar to a pimple suddenly popping up from silky, beautiful skin.

Looking at the building, surely it did not take someone who had spent centuries in a village’s wheat field like Holo to think the same thing.

Namely, that the building sheltering Lawrence and Holo from the rain had been built atop something that itself stood out.

“To begin with, how did you know about this place? When you realized rain might fall, you came straight here, did you not?”

Perhaps having licked enough salt to satisfy her for the time being, Holo took the piece of wood that Lawrence had been whittling right out of his hands as she spoke.

Just as he wondered what in the world she was doing, she picked out the largest fish left among those that had not yet been impaled on sticks, squeezing its mouth shut.

She was probably saying, “This one is mine.”

“That’s because I’ve been here before. At the time I was lost and just stumbled upon it.”

Holo murmured as she took that in, looking around the area.

“I wonder, was it already this worn out back then?”

“No. Buildings pile up damage when people don’t live in them. It’s right about three years since I came here.”

As the conversation continued, Holo turned to the fish baking from the fire.

She really could not calm down with food right in front of her.

“Meaning, there was someone living here at the time?”

“Yes. A rather eccentric man, too.” As Lawrence spoke, he chuckled as he remembered. But it was not simply a laugh, for a considerable sigh was mixed in as well.

No doubt the dubious-looking face Holo made toward him was due to her noticing that sigh.

Lawrence raised his face up and shook his head a little.

“He built a stone fort in a place like this and lived in it, so of course he was eccentric.”

“Indeed…Well, that might be the case, but…”

…What was the cause of that sigh?

As Holo spoke the unexpected words, she stared straight toward him.

Lawrence did not notice where she was looking, for he was looking not at her, but squarely at the flames of the campfire.

“It sounds like quite a story.”

The voice Holo suddenly turned toward him seemed displeased on the surface, but there was a small air of sadness lurking behind her tone.

“Not really, but…”

It was not really something Lawrence wanted to talk to other people about.

That seemed particularly so in Holo’s case.

Even though it felt like Holo lived to expose that which was hidden, she seemed to read the atmosphere at that point.

It looked like she might just quietly back off, but her ears drooped as she gave off a desolate look.

And then she spoke while reaching out for a fish. “You really do not speak much about your past.”

Surely it was not so much insisting on hearing the story than lodging a small complaint.

Even so, Lawrence got weak in the knees when he saw Holo in that state.

As Holo, perhaps unable to resist, bit into the fish, as if purposefully taking off the salt she had gotten on her cheek in the process, Lawrence tentatively prefaced his comments.

“When tired on a journey, aren’t funny stories better?”

“Salt never tastes better than when you are tired.”

In no time at all, she had finished eating half the length of the fish and drank wine from a small keg with a sour look.

Her behavior, like that of a spoiled little lady, was largely an act, but Lawrence knew she wanted to be indulged with a story.

No choice, then, he thought with a sigh; he brought the dagger he was using to scrape branches over the fire.

“This dagger’s taken good care of me here and there.”

With that, he began.

“You see the words engraved here?”

It was a well-made dagger that he would not be ashamed to show any smith in any town whatsoever.

It had protected Lawrence on numerous occasions and had served as a convenient tool on his various journeys.

But it really felt like too martial a dagger for a traveling merchant to carry around with him.

As Holo savored the taste of the fish in her mouth, she snuggled against Lawrence’s body under his arm, squarely peeking out at it like a cat.

“Ahh, where weally is somewhing?”

Holo spoke lazily with fish still in her mouth.

She was probably asking, “So what is written on it?”

As Holo sat beside him, Lawrence handed her the dagger.

“God grant me mercy.”

Holo’s look of surprise might have been because she expected something more magnificent to be engraved on a weapon like this. In fact, chariots, rams, and the great swords and lances knights used on horseback all had phrases etched upon them. Yet among them, only a knight’s dagger had something as seemingly banal as “God grant me mercy” engraved upon it.

In the past, Lawrence, too, had found it curious but thought it simply a matter of custom. He had only learned of its significance when he came to this very stone fort.

“Among the elderly, there are those who call these daggers ‘misericordes,’ meaning acts of mercy in an older tongue.”

Holo nodded with deep interest; the moment she raised the dagger over the fire, the finely polished blade reflected the fire’s light so brightly that she closed her eyes.

“Ha-ha. So you see, this dagger was handed down to me by just one such old man.”

As he retrieved the dagger from Holo, his gaze fell to the well-used hilt.

The story was from three years prior.

It was a time when something like Lawrence meeting Holo was as yet unthinkable.

Though by good fortune he had reached it while having lost his way, truly this was the house of the devil.

The story of a merchant who wasted his profits on a daily basis was not an amusing one.

Furthermore, having set eyes upon it amid a plain that continued seemingly for all eternity, even though he thought it an ill omen, it simply could not have been helped.

The bare hill appearing smack in the middle of the plain had posts sticking out of it like the spines of a sea urchin. The grand, dignified stone fort at the summit of the hill gave off an atmosphere like an execution ground straight out of hell where the sins of man would be judged.

The feeling that a demon or Grim Reaper might show up at any moment was not based upon that atmosphere alone.

Having cut food down to the minimum to reduce traveling expenses, his last provisions had run out the night before. Horses could live off eating the poor, wild grasses while on the road, but men could not. Though he could choose to sacrifice his horse as a last resort, it would bring about bankruptcy, which meant much the same as death to a merchant.

Finally, he had received divine punishment for being too obsessed with turning a profit.

The circumstances were more than sufficient to make a man think that way.

Aided by his empty stomach, Lawrence was on the verge of losing his spirit and giving up.

However, it was an all too realistic welcoming ceremony that suddenly brought Lawrence back to his senses.

He heard a high-pitched sound, making him think that a large insect had buzzed past his ear. After, a sound like the shaking of wood instantly alerted him to just what had flown at him.

Lawrence instantly leaped down from the driver’s seat and hid under his horse.

Someone had shot an arrow at him.

“I’m a traveling merchant who got lost! Just a traveling merchant!”

And even after yelling with all his strength, two more arrows thrust into the earth. They neatly avoided the horse, one falling to the left, one to the right; the shooter must have been rather skilled.

Whether as a result of Lawrence’s shouts or not, no other arrows came flying, or perhaps the shooter was simply waiting for him to stick his head up before shooting again. Thinking of that, Lawrence stayed put for a while; finally, he heard the sound of footsteps. It seemed he had not been shot at from the fort; the shooter was apparently hidden on some slope somewhere.

When Lawrence, pathetically between the legs of his horse, looked in the direction of the sound, he saw the silhouette of a man.

The man stood still and spoke.

“A traveling merchant, you say?”

The voice was rather coarse; even if it was for show, Lawrence thought the man had to have been fairly old.

As Lawrence answered yes, the man swiftly crouched down.

The man, as small and aged as his voice had made him seem, had a very frank look about him.

“By the grace of God. Good thing I didn’t shoot you to death.”

The leering grin on his face made it hard to dismiss as a joke.

But the man stood up and made an about-face on his heel.

Is he letting me live? wondered Lawrence, staying put under his horse, when the old man suddenly looked back.

“Well, what are you doing? You got lost, didn’t you?”

When Lawrence slowly poked his head out, the old man was pointing to the fort atop the hill as he spoke.

“At least let me treat you to a meal for your journey ahead, young man. Also, I have a favor to ask you.”

It was quite a line, coming from someone defending his fortress by bowshot.

He behaved as though he was the master of this fort, but the old man, showing a perfect set of teeth in spite of his age as he smiled, introduced himself in this manner:

“I am called Fried, entrusted with Rumut Fort by the command of Count Zenfel, honored lord of this castle.”

Spoken like a king, or someone who thought he was one in his own mind, but as Fried finished speaking, he looked up at the fort, his face suddenly breaking into an embarrassed-looking smile.

“Having said so, it’s been quite a while since I shot an arrow at someone. I’m thankful I didn’t hit you.”

And as he made a chuckle, he walked up the hill.

For a while, Lawrence stayed where he was, watching Fried’s backside from under his horse, his face a mix of a bit of surprise and bewilderment. He had heard of a Count Zenfel. He was famous in this region for his trivial pursuits, though one would no doubt only hear such talk about the ruler from travelers on the side of the road.

After all, it had been over a decade since that ruler had governed these lands.

What was Fried doing in a fort that no longer had a lord?

Bandits were fond of setting up shop in forts abandoned by soldiers, but was it really that?

Furthermore, he had no sense the man was going to plunder his cargo.

Courting unprofitable danger would make him a poor merchant, but lack of curiosity would make him an even poorer one.

After thinking it over for a while, Lawrence finally crawled out from under his horse, picked up the arrows Fried had left on the ground, and tossed them on top of the roof rack, and gripping the reins, he followed after Fried.

The road winding its way to the fort was in good repair, with tapered stakes all over the place embedded into the slope at an angle. They looked like defenses one would put up against an army about to invade at any moment, yet it all seemed to be lacking somehow.

It was only when they entered through the open stone gateway that he realized that somehow it was far too quiet.

“…Goodness, it’s hard getting up the hill at my age.”

As the wagon entered the courtyard, Fried spoke while slapping his hip with his bow.

Inside the finely set stone walls, life on the inside of the fort was just as finely maintained.

There was a cattle pen, a vegetable garden, and a stable, plus a graveyard and a small chapel, with flowers blooming all around.

It was immediately clear that the second floor of the building was kept in impressive repair as well; it seemed like someone’s face might suddenly poke out from the shadows made by the open windows and doors.

But as Lawrence tethered his horse as Fried told him to, no faces poked out, nor was there even the slightest sign that they might.

He heard pigs, chickens, and even the faint baa of a sheep.

To be blunt, it was as quiet as if all the soldiers had turned tail and run.

“Hmm. I thought it might be my imagination, but you really don’t look so good.”

Fried suddenly spoke like that as he took note of Lawrence’s state while walking with him and leading him inside.

There was no point hiding it, so Lawrence made an honest reply.

“Actually, my last proper meal was two nights ago.”

“Hmph. That would do it. I must treat you to a feast, then. I have freshly ground pork and…Oh, come to think of it, Paule laid an egg by the ditch just this morning,” Fried murmured to himself as he went into the building.

Many people spoke to themselves as the years advanced, but if Lawrence’s assessment was correct, Fried was likely doing it out of having lived on his own for too long.

Thinking such thoughts, Lawrence followed along, entering a neat and tidy galley.

“Over here.”

They passed by a cooking stove that still had red embers in it, arriving at the middle of the room.

There stood a well-used table and chair.

As Lawrence sat, the chair made an uneasy creak, but there was not a speck of dust on it.

“Yes, yes. Still fine for you to sit in, is it? It seems my skills haven’t dulled yet.”

Though he spoke like a noble, he apparently did not shy away from manual labor.

In the first place, if he was the lord of the castle, he would not go out of his way to personally take up arms against guests. Moreover, leaving one’s fort meant it had no value as a fortress.

“Well, you can rest easy. You and I are the only ones in this fort, after all.”

There were tales of women living in small cottages in the middle of the forest.

Whether the woman be witch, devil, or spirit, the possibility she brought good fortune was overwhelmingly low.

But did that go for an old man who greeted visitors with shots from his bow?

Whatever the case, Lawrence certainly could not think of him as some sort of monster.

“Have you always been here by yourself?”

Fried smiled at Lawrence’s question.

It seemed the chagrined smile on his face was not just Lawrence’s imagination.

“When this place was entrusted to me, I had five bold men under me. I was down one, then another, and finally, only I remained.”

“Was that from battle?”

As Lawrence questioned further, Fried turned toward him with a very forthright look.

Right around the moment Lawrence wondered if it was a bad question, Fried raised his face toward the ceiling and let out a hearty laugh.

“Ha-ha-ha! If only! It’s been ten years since this was entrusted to me. The only visitors are the ones who get lost!”

Speaking as he laughed loudly, he stopped on a dime and closed his mouth, glaring at Lawrence.

“Do be careful about supper. If you eat too much, you won’t be able to leave.”

And smiling once more, he immediately walked toward the kitchen.

I’m sure this is not some demon-built gateway to hell, at least, but I have entered a very odd place indeed, murmured Lawrence within his own thoughts.

It did not take much time before pork added to runny eggs and rough-cut vegetables stir-fried in tallow were all done; the outside was still dyed dark red.

Bread seemed to have been recently baked inside the fort, for the wheat bread he was served was still soft, coming with ale that itself had been brewed in the fort. His mouth was full of herbs he had seen in the vegetable garden outside. In most respects it was a feast indeed.

Furthermore, before Lawrence could worry about it being poisoned, Fried himself toasted him in good cheer, displaying a healthy appetite one would not expect from someone his age.

“Aye. It’s indeed tastier than when you’re by yourself. Oh, don’t hold back. You’re young! Eat up! You’ve barely touched your ale.”

He was hungry, of course.

Once he first stretched out his hand, he wolfed down everything in no time, to the point Fried’s eyes went wide.

“My, my, you certainly ate that,” Fried remarked while putting toothpicks whittled from a branch with a small knife through scraps of meat and bread. Indeed, though he spoke as if he was a nobleman, he looked like an old man in a village happily heading out to his fields and certainly nothing like a noble or knight at all.

In the middle of their meal, Fried asked Lawrence some very probing questions, such as “Where did you come from?” “What are you trading?” “Where were you born?” and “Do you have a wife?” As Lawrence had to answer such questions or do without such a delicious meal, he had no time to ask questions of his own at all.

“That was truly a splendid feast. No doubt I’d have needed a gold coin to eat like that at a traveler’s inn.”

He spoke very merchant-like words of thanks.

“I see, I see. Ha-ha-ha.”

Fried, his face red from drinking ale, made an amiable laugh and nodded along.

“The wheat bread was splendid. The pork was of exceptional quality. But there’s no land here to grow wheat, and you can’t have enough feed for pigs and sheep on your own. What do you do about it all?”

Fried kept the smile on his face as he looked over some bread that had absorbed a lot of grease while being used in lieu of a plate.

There was a smile on his face, but Lawrence knew well the look of someone in thought.

In general, he found that if one was in a normal conversation with an elderly person, even if they were reluctant, they would speak even of troubles and conflicts of the past if a person insisted on asking.

“And…it has been several years since Count Zenfel…”

“Aye.”

Fried promptly made his decision.

As he nodded, he took hold of the bread acting as a plate, and as if ripping the caution in his heart, he tore it into four large, roughly similar pieces.

“It’s been…six years, perhaps, since the last letter came? It came from a knight calling himself the count’s nephew. Apparently the count was campaigning in distant lands, fell ill, and passed away. What a shame to lose him.”

So it was largely as Lawrence had remembered.

“The letter contained a will by the count, stating that he was entrusting this fort to me, to defend well this dominion. It also said the Duller Monastery would no doubt send whatever supplies I might lack. There are many who claim that the count was as upbeat as a poet singing a song, but he was very reliable in such matters.”

He had probably made donations there when it was harvest time in the territory.

So this was the reason Fried was living alone in a fort on a hill in the middle of a barren prairie.

“I left a village withering away to begin with. Over twenty years ago, I was a would-be mercenary while the fever of a great war laid waste to the world. I gained a fief from the count during that time. He truly was a fine man to serve.”

“They say…it is only in a time of war that one can dream of going from a shoemaker to a shepherd, yes?”

As Lawrence spoke while getting further along with his ale, Fried made an “Ohh” with a suitable expression, nodding in satisfaction.

“Yes. It was an age when princes strove to gain lands by force of arms, however barren they might be.”

Like an elder, Fried spoke of the past with nostalgia and some measure of pride.

But Lawrence knew. In truth, war took place in but limited regions, though based on the all-too-heroic tales that were topics of conversations in this town and that, one would think the entire world had been plunged in mayhem.

Of course, Lawrence kept his peace, not wanting to pour cold water upon the matter, but Fried gazed at him with amusement as Lawrence casually brought more ale to his lips.

“Ha-ha. You are quite reserved for one so young, not telling me I’m an ignorant old man.”

Surprised at those words, Lawrence made a pained smile.

Even in a place like this, Fried was well aware of the goings-on in the world.

“It’s fairly often that far-off disputes are taken for stories of conflicts in nearby lands by mistake at some point. The sparks of war and chaos fly out of the mouths of men. Neither those who live in towns nor those who till the soil in villages travel outside them very often. Furthermore, travelers like you don’t pour cold water on the tales of villagers, either. Before long, people get the notion that war is a whirlwind spanning the entire world.”

Lawrence wondered if it was a magnanimous era.

Many real conflicts erupted over mere rumor; in many cases, both armies stuck their noses into something in the name of justice, with different ideas about how that was to be defined.

The stories left behind seemed like bad jokes.

“Because things are like that, I was as surprised as a hen when I heard the tale at a tavern…that Count Zenfel, known not only in his own lands but outside them, had declared he was building a fort here.”

As Fried spoke, he tossed broken pieces of bread out through the window.

“Stöckengurt!”

And as shouted outside the window like so, Lawrence heard a sound like hooves; the whine that followed established that it was that which bore the exaggerated name of Stöckengurt.

Apparently it was a pig.

“But building this fort did give plenty of people work to do. Count Zenfel was a very generous man. Thus, the fort was completed, but…”

“So no enemies came, then?”

As if Lawrence’s words had awoken Fried from a dream he had not wanted to wake from, he slowly nodded.

“I have no recollection of any in the last ten-odd years. I’ve aided many lost souls, and once some bandits came down from the mountains looking for this place, or at least I heard rumors to that effect. In the end, there has not been a single battle.”

It was pointless to invade a barren land with nothing but dry, open prairie, after all. There was no value in defending such land. The fort could not support itself if besieged and would be forced to surrender in a very short time.

A worthless place to attack and completely unsuited to defense.

So that was why an abandoned fort like this had not fallen even once in spite of the passage of over a decade.

“In the first place, I never heard one word about anyone invading this region after the count passed away. I suppose other groups didn’t want the place because it’s too barren. It’s like a teaching of the Church, is it not? Blessed are the meek.”

Aided by his ale, Fried’s laugh was tinged with a smidgen of anger.

He had lived in this fort for ten and more years.

Perhaps he regretted that he had not had a single battle in that time.

“But it looks like the privileges granted to the count will run out next summer. A letter to that effect practically just arrived.”

“Oh?”

Fried stood up at the same time as Lawrence’s surprised reaction.

“Because of that, I am, as I said, quite glad I did not hit you with my arrow. You’re a traveling merchant, yes?”

When Fried tossed yet another piece of bread out the window, it was a chicken that cried out this time. Perhaps this was the Paule that had just laid an egg at the channel.

For a quiet fort, it had certainly become rather noisy.

“There is something I wish to ask of you.”

“That’s…Yes, of course, if it’s within my power.”

Even though he had only recently begun traveling on a proper trade route, he was still very hungry for new business opportunities. Even a fort with its lord having long passed away, with his privileges soon due to expire, it had to have stores of some kind. He would be very grateful if he could make a good profit from it.

As Lawrence balanced his debt to the man who had aided him and his own greed on the scales in his mind, the elderly man employed in defense of the fort had a smile on his face, looking somehow relieved as he spoke.

“I’d like you to help me liquidate this fort.”

Lawrence raised his face, realizing then that he had an unguarded look that was entirely pathetic for a merchant.

“I want to go on a journey. So, I want to convert everything here into money.”

“I don’t…mind, but…”

“I have served here for ten-odd years. I deserve that much of a fitting farewell. I have faithfully defended this land, after all.”

Only the last line sounded like the joke of a man who was drunk.

“Well, go ahead and enjoy a good night’s sleep. It’s been so long since I had a guest. You’ll be amazed at how well you sleep on a straw bed that isn’t squished down!”

Fried spoke in the exaggerated manner of a knight on the field of battle, following up with a great, hearty laugh.

Among human-built structures, forts were said to be places of simplicity and elegance second only to churches. Fried walked down a set of stone stairs within the fort, talking along the way.

Building a fort on top of a hill required a hill road, and these invariably spiraled clockwise around the hill going up. Such planning allowed for the transit of cargo up even steep hills, and should enemies ride up on horseback, it forced them to continually expose their right flanks to the fort. Since ordinarily, knights carried weapons in their right hand and shields in their left, this made them easier to attack from the fort.

Besides allowing one to see the condition of the enemy, the holes in the stone wall protecting the fort were harmonized with a solar calendar so that people under siege could determine the time of year.

It was set so that one could tell what month it was by the height of the hole the sun came through at noon.

Also, channels had been dug in various places around the fort to gather rainwater that splashed off the stone walls, making it run close to the vegetable garden. Jugs were placed thereafter so that the water did not go to waste; even the excess was blocked by stone slabs embedded in the ground, allowing the water to be pumped out later like from a well. What made the fort even finer was that when smoke was permitted to leave the kitchen, it was piped out to distribute warmth throughout the fort.

“It’s quite a job for one man to maintain all this; in particular, dealing well with broken stones.”

That was how Fried put it, but Lawrence felt that if he had been here by himself, maintaining a stone fort like this over the course of several years would be little short of a miracle.

The treasure room he was guided to after breakfast was, of course, not despoiled by enemy actions, but rather had been maintained in a tidy state, prevailing against the forces of humidity and mold.

“Well, more than anything of monetary value, this was placed here for when Count Zenfel might visit. To me, it’s a treasure I can’t put a value on, but what about you? Surely there is something here you can convert into money?”

Illuminated by the light of a candle were pavilion tents for use by persons of high status when traveling, banners, and a number of antique utensils. Certainly, the tents and banners seemed to have been used as bedding, but since there was no mold growing on them, they surely would have a fair amount of value. The utensils were not actual, magnificent silver, but rather all tin and steel. Of course, they were worth at least as much as the value of the melted-down metal. There was also a parchment upon which was written the rights to the fort and an exception from taxation, but this was a fort ignored by bandits for over a decade. Anyone would understand that the privileges on such a certificate were worthless, but if the words were erased, it could be sold off as a blank parchment. He could probably dig out something on the level of a book of tales of chivalry.

As Lawrence took note of everything in his head, he took his own wages into consideration as he reported to Fried about one item after another.

Fried marked a wax-varnished wooden table with a dagger to keep count.

“Mmm. For things to turn out like this…”

As he recorded the final numbers, Fried seemed a bit relieved as he spoke.

“The tents and books will go for quite a bit. It might make enough of a dowry that you could get into a monastery.”

Afterward, he could live out his days peacefully in prayer and contemplation.

Fried roared with laughter at Lawrence’s words.

“Ha-ha-ha. I’ve spent quite long enough living in a place like this, staring at nothing but the sky and flat plains.

“I’ve no intention of spending my money like that.”

Speaking like a young man, Fried took in a deep breath and made a sigh.

“I left my village to win land of my own by the sword. I don’t think I could die under a roof now. I am Fried Rittenmayer, part of a knightly order under Count Zenfel.”

Even an old soldier had force behind his voice befitting an old soldier.

As Fried’s own words seemed to deeply resonate within him, he suddenly looked in Lawrence’s direction.

“I now remember that I am a knight. I forgot to take into account the most important thing.”

“The most important thing?”

As Lawrence bounced the question back, Fried made no response; rather, he placed the dagger he had left on the table back on his hip and walked to one corner of the not particularly large treasure room.

And withdrawing a box from the tents and banners the count had granted him, he peeled off the crimson fabric beneath it all at once. Lawrence had assumed it was a protrusion from when the underground chamber had been constructed, but beneath that fabric appeared a large wooden crate large enough to fit an adult person inside.

As Lawrence wondered, I wonder what could be inside, his question was immediately answered.

When Fried opened the crate’s lid, the candlelight illuminated what looked like the silhouette of a man on his knees. It was a suit of armor from a bygone era, complete with helmet and greaves.

“This.”

With that, Fried picked up the helmet, his eyes narrowing in a nostalgic look as he rubbed somewhat dented portions of it.

Perhaps, in times long past, it had gone together with Fried onto the field of battle, saving his life.

“Could you trade this for money? It might be hard to take with you due to the weight, but still.”

As Fried spoke those words, he tossed the helmet in Lawrence’s direction.

Having been well oiled, it had dulled somewhat, but was not rusted whatsoever. A little polish and it would once more be ready to take onto the battlefield at any moment.

But when Lawrence looked at Fried after a price came to mind in his head, Fried made an embarrassed-looking smile.

“The armor that saved my life in my younger days has to be worth something.”

Lawrence had heard that when a young man leaves his home with dreams of glory, whether he wears a suit of armor or not determines if he is knight or bandit.

Like a king’s cloak, simply wearing something of such high value established someone’s status.

However, was it really all right to sell something like this?

With such thoughts in mind, Lawrence could not find proper words with which to reply.

“…I think it’s…probably worth as much as everything else here put together…but…”

“Mm. I see, I see. If it’s worth more than banners and tents for looking heroic on the field of battle, I suppose I’d look like quite a person wearing a suit like this, then.”

Certainly that might be so if considering only the monetary value, but his tone made it clear he did not truly think that way. Compared to everyone risking their lives under the magnificent, embroidered crimson banner they had sworn fealty to, it was true that this dulled suit of armor bore only a tiny fraction of its former value.

It bore only the value of what was left behind with the passage of time.

He was well aware of the awful truth that things like prestige and might were fleeting things indeed.

“Fwa-ha-ha. In the old days I’d never have thought of selling my suit of armor. Yet now it is not I choking on his words in the face of it, but a traveling merchant. How amusing!”

Lawrence, his back slapped by Fried, was a tad flustered.

Perhaps it was a trick of the candlelight, but it looked to him like Fried was putting out an excessive amount of bravado.

“…To be honest, I think you have enough for traveling expenses even without selling it. Besides, all you’d need to maintain this fort is enough to pay for a mason and a gardener.”

“No, it’s quite fine. The count granted me knighthood for the purpose of defending this fort. If I am to leave, I shall require the armor no more.”

In business, whether in towns or villages, the most difficult people to deal with were stubborn old men. Even if they looked soft, they never deviated from their pet theories. Lawrence was sensing that impression from Fried, but what made him give up on convincing him otherwise was seeing the lonely look on Fried’s face from the side.

He really did not want to sell it.

However, enveloped by the accumulated memories of an old man, the suit of armor was too great a burden to bear.

How he felt was plain to see.

“Well, let’s go up and have a bit of a drink. If I’m going to leave, there’s some wine I want to open up first.”

Lawrence told Fried in a teasing tone that his having a drink before it was even noon showed he was still as spry as he was in his younger days.

Putting the helmet back and closing the wooden box, Lawrence and Fried left the treasure room and went back up the stairs.

“I joined in a number of large battles, too. It was a war that will be remembered for a thousand years in the annals of scribes. I lost count of how many times arrows struck my helmet. When an enemy’s ax bounced off my armor, the sparks thrown up made my eyes dizzy. When I was waiting to have my armor fixed one time, the blacksmith told me it was only by the grace of God that it hadn’t been ripped apart.”

The white wine Fried brought out of the cellar was slightly hazy from sediment as he poured it into glasses. Completely unlike low-quality wine that had ginger added to it to cover up the taste of strained grape lees, being able to see the lees in the glass after one was finished was a mark of high-quality wine Lawrence had heard of, but never before seen.

This was absolutely not something one drank while sitting on the porch, teasing the pig while your shoes turned fluffy from the chicken pecking at them.

Fried’s face broke into a smile at Lawrence’s hesitation to drink.

“Truly, it was the Lord who guided this young man to me who knows the value of things!”

Speaking such words, he made a grandiose toast and emptied his glass in one gulp.

Lawrence had no choice but to drink, then.

It was so good, he wished he could spit it out into a barrel later, package it, and sell it in town.

“I truly wanted to drink this with the count once more, but it cannot be helped.”

As he spoke, his laugh and his smiling face struck Lawrence not as that of an old man having lived several times longer than he, but the smiling face of a man the same age—no, younger than he, a teenager still embracing tales of heroism inside him.

Lawrence, his eyes nearly spinning from pouring more of the fine wine into his glass, feared he was drunk as he opened his mouth.

“Where do you intend to go after you leave here?”

Fried looked at Lawrence with upturned eyes at his question, looking amused as he poured wine into his own cup. Though it was wine of the sort one would drink at dinner among nobles, he greedily poured too much into the glass, leaving it to a sheep passing by to lick up what had been spilled.

“I thought I’d go visit an old friend of mine. I get letters from him from time to time. It’ll take me past the monastery that’s sent me necessities so nicely.”

Most would drink even low-quality beer with more care.

Fried drank down half his glass and bit into a sausage.

“He was a stout man, but my friend’s finally at a precarious age. It’s probably my last chance to talk about old times. Also, I want to see how a town I once defended is doing now; maybe go to the church in a town I sacked long ago and atone for my sins. Even I want to go to heaven, you see.”

Making a leer, it was quite charming how he made one think he was truly accustomed to the field of battle in old times. Lawrence somehow regretted that it was doubtful he would be anything like Fried when he advanced in years.

“And I thought it’d be good to live on the road like you traveling merchants, finally collapsing on some warm patch of grass somewhere for my final breaths.”

Fried steered the conversation over.

“Ah, is that so…”

“You’ve probably had the experience. Your belly empty, lying flat on a patch of grass on a clear day thinking you might die, staring up at the sky…How strangely refreshing it is.”

Fried looked up at the sky as he spoke such words.

Hearing them, Lawrence put some wine in his mouth, as if sulking a little.

For ever since setting off on his own as a merchant, he had had his eyes glued to the ground, searching for any money that might have fallen. When hungry, he had imagined boiling leather to eat or had even looked intently upon the muscular rump of his horse.

He had not been born with the manliness to stare up at the sky, arms wide, resigned to death. He could not even imagine it.

Regretting that fact, Lawrence faced forward.

“I think, I’d like to die like that if I could. But really…”

After, Lawrence felt like Fried muttered something, but he could not catch what it was.

When he prompted back, Fried had not seemed to have said anything to begin with, for he had interrupted his mumbled words by swallowing down more wine.

“What does a knight who’s shown a merchant his treasure room have left to hide?”

That line seemed especially effective when used on an especially chivalrous knight.

Fried slapped his own forehead and made a hearty laugh; still sharp, he tossed a sandwich over to Stöckengurt as the pig searched for any openings.

“Ah, ’tis exactly as you say. Why, as I said all that, I surprised myself that I’m finally at the age to think that way.”

As Stöckengurt drew near, wondering what else there might be, Fried fended off its snout and pushed it toward a plate left on the porch as he spoke.

“In the first place, lying with my back against the grass staring up at the sky was an experience from my first sortie.”

Lawrence could not even imagine how long ago that had been, but Fried spoke like it was yesterday.

“I was wearing a heavy suit of armor, on an unfamiliar horse, all full of myself. It was right after I encountered the enemy and traded two or three blows of the lance. I thought I’d taken down my foe, but when I came to, I was spread out on the ground, staring at the sky. The suit was extremely heavy; tough as it was, once you fell, you couldn’t get back up on your own. All I could do was wait for my comrades to rescue me or be skewered.”

Lawrence was in danger of laughing as he imagined a knight like a turtle on its back.

“Of course, I was prepared to die. I hadn’t even heard the sound of the impact from the fall; the only thing before my eyes was the broad, clear sky of early spring. Even though ’twas the middle of a battle, I wondered if that was heaven.”

And lastly, Fried related in a low voice, “When I thought I’d felled my foe, I got so excited I fell off my horse.”

Even without wearing a heavy suit of armor, it was not difficult to get killed falling from the back of a tall horse.

That he escaped with only a concussion, and had not been impaled like a fish by someone’s lance, surely meant that God’s grace had been with him.

However, the only words Fried did not continue were those he had begun with, “But really…”

As if realizing he was trying to pull the wool over his own eyes as well, Fried stubbornly scratched his nose and drank his wine as he watched Stöckengurt and Paule scramble for a piece of bread.

By the time he finally opened his mouth, he was on his third glass of wine.

“I have a favor to ask.”

Having spent this much time with him, Lawrence could form a good idea of what he might want, as this was Fried, who had made such a lonely face in front of the armor back in the treasure room.

“Yes.” Lawrence could not hide the smile on his face as he replied.

Fried’s cheeks may have been red as he looked at Lawrence, but his eyes were resolute.

“Would you face me in my final battle?”

He wanted to remember old times once more before departing on his journey.

To Lawrence, entirely aware that he had a long way to go before becoming a merchant who could turn anything and everything into money without a smidgen of compassion, it was a heartwarming request.

“I am at your service.”

Fried stood straight up, looking at the radiant sun.

In spite of the armor being in fair condition as a whole, it was unsurprising that the straps and leather portions had rotted with mold growing on them and had to be replaced.

Happily, Fried had fingers as skilled as any craftsman; he made straps out of leather in no time at all, and repairs proceeded apace.

During that time, Lawrence drenched linen in oil and used it to polish the helmet, armor, and gauntlets.

There were blade marks and dents all over the place. In particular, the helmet bore dents that one would think must have been instantly lethal, helmet or no.

Fried himself said with a hearty laugh, “It’s strange, why didn’t I die from all that?”

That often seemed to be the case for those who survived in this world.

When one died, it might be from a sharpened stick thrust into them by a child in some village.

“Let’s see, how about this?”

It was well past noon when the binding of the last leather straps was complete.

As the sheep and Stöckengurt ate grass side by side in the barn in neighborly fashion, he could hear Paule making vivid calls from the back side of the fort from time to time.

The suit of armor, marks from battles past engraved in it while simultaneously polished to a sparkle, looked fine enough that even Lawrence, who walked the path of a merchant, got a little worked up inside.

How could you sell something like this?

It was enough to make him think even that.

“I’m not sure I can wear it, but…”

That was what Fried said as he and Lawrence gazed upon the suit together, but it was very obvious his voice rang false.

He wanted to wear it, so there was no avoiding it, but he was no doubt a little embarrassed at doing it in front of Lawrence.

“Let’s see, now comes the weapons. There were swords and lances in the treasure room so I’ll get some. What would be best?”

As Lawrence asked, Fried thought it over a bit before replying.

“Bring one sword and one lance, then.”

“One of each?”

“Aye. I’ll take the sword. Would you take up the lance?”

He had only heard of young knights with robust physiques swinging swords on horseback while wearing heavy suits of armor, for it was far more sensible to use the lance on horseback in most cases, charging while bracing it.

But Lawrence went to the treasure room and carried back a sword and lance just as he was told.

As he entered the courtyard, wondering if these were fit even for mock combat without being touched up, there was a single knight of small stature before him.

What sent Lawrence into shock was not so much that Fried had put on the heavy suit of armor by himself—shocking as that was—but rather what he looked like.

The small-built Fried’s upper body looked very fine with the suit of armor over it, but what he straddled was not a tall horse, but rather a sheep, calmly eating grass all the while.

“Behold my beloved ram, Edward the Second!”

Edward the Second made a “baa” with an annoyed look.

Likely, Fried himself grasped that his body was at an age where it could support neither the endurance nor the skill for riding on horseback.

But riding a sheep, let alone in that outfit, was all too comical.

As Lawrence laughed, unable to help himself, Fried let out a hearty laugh as well, saying in a loud voice, “Give me my sword!”

“I am Fried Rittenmayer under the Scarlet Eagle of Count Zenfel!”

Gripping the sword in his right hand, Fried touched the hilt against himself around his chest, holding the sword’s blade up as if about to touch it to his forehead as he made a mighty shout that filled the fort.

As he made circular motions with his sword without a hint of hesitation, even as he was clad in a heavy suit of armor, it seemed his body had not forgotten how to handle a heavy sword even now.

“Raise your lance, young man!”

And then, Fried shouted.

In a hurry, Lawrence awkwardly raised the head of the unwieldy lance.

The next moment, Fried seemed to smack Edward’s rump with his left hand.

As Edward raised a cry that Lawrence thought was more like a shriek, he ran forward like a surging wave.

Lawrence stood still in surprise; as Fried passed by his flank, he deftly struck the shaft of the lance with his sword.

“What’s wrong, young man? Losing your nerve?”

Fried grabbed the base of the confused Edward’s neck, overbearingly steering him in Lawrence’s direction.

A gentlemanly old knight straddling a fluffy ram; yet he looked good enough to make one laugh.

“My sword versus your lance. Let us make clear here and now who the goddess of victory favors this day!”

Edward ran as if trying to escape the baggage on his back.

But he was just a sheep.

His hooves suddenly slowed to run rather ponderously in Lawrence’s direction.

Fried raised his sword high overhead, staring straight at Lawrence’s eyes all the while.

Even worked up like this, he was not brought to tears from nostalgia; he had a gentle look on his face.

Lawrence thrust the lance toward his wide-open torso. Fried swept it away, disposing of it and transferring to an offensive stance with the grace of a far younger man. Suddenly, Edward’s patience seemed to snap; he lowered his head and charged with all his might.

Fried, his balance thrown off from the sudden acceleration, lurched backward due to the weight of his armor and sword. The tip of Lawrence’s thrusted lance struck his head; with light resistance, it broke from the base on up.

Fried collapsed straight behind, both arms wide as he fell from Edward’s back.

It was all over in an instant.

The great crashing sound woke Lawrence from his reverie; he hastily cast aside the lance’s shaft and rushed to Fried’s side.

“Mr. Fried!”

As Lawrence ran over, Fried was staring straight at the sky.

What surprised him was that Fried was still gripping his sword.

That he was not getting up was likely due partly to the impact he had taken to his back, but just like in the story, he probably could not get up on his own power.

As Fried looked at the sky, he spoke in a dramatic voice.

“H-has heaven finally forsaken me…?”

Fried’s gaze slowly shifted to look at him.

“But if there is compassion in you…”

And with his left hand, Fried drew from his hip the dagger he had used previously.

“…would you deliver the final blow?”

This dagger was a little different than the ones traveling merchants like Lawrence employed for their daily meals, being more martial.

The dagger was sharpened along some parts; turning the crest on the hilt to him was likely an action similar to how merchants exchanged daggers when making formal written contracts.

As a noble knight, he was obligated to be noble even in defeat.

With his entire body covered in armor, slicing his neck off with a sword or impaling his chest with a lance were not realistic outcomes. Using a dagger to thrust through the gap between helmet and armor was the most logical option.

From the gravity in Fried’s eyes, it did not look like he was joking.

Bewildered, Lawrence yielded to superior force of will and accepted the dagger.

And when he beheld the blade, longer and thicker than that of an everyday tool, he swallowed.

Was this really what Fried wanted? Could it be he really intended for Lawrence’s hand to send him on an eternal journey?

His liege was no more; even bandits ignored him; when the privileges ran out, the people of the monastery would no longer bring necessities in. This was already a fort forgotten by all of the people of the world, home to an aging knight who had exposed his treasure room to a traveling merchant and who had a ram for a steed.

Suicide was considered indecent.

Then why not do it by another’s hand?

Lawrence looked down at Fried.

A moment after he gripped the dagger hard to cover up the shaking of his hand…

…he noticed the words etched into the blade.

“God grant me mercy.”

His gaze was stolen by those words carved into the blade as if they were pulling him in.

Even if a knight’s pride would not tolerate defeat, it did not mean he wished for death. If he could not beg for his life with his tongue, he need only write words to that effect on the dagger meant to finish him.

Perhaps this was a culture born from the gap between honor and one’s true feelings.

Exhaling, Lawrence’s expression slackened as he slipped the dagger under his belt.

Upon seeing this, the strength in Fried’s neck suddenly failed him; with a clang, he looked up at the sky.

His expression was not that of peace of mind, but relief.

“So I have been granted mercy, have I?”

“Yes. By a merchant.”

Fried’s lips twisted and he made a sigh.

“Then I should call myself a knight no longer. ’Twas a good, stirring fight.”

And so, the old soldier Fried finished his preparations to leave the fort.

The rain had already stopped at some point as he finished the story.

Holo was in Lawrence’s arms, resting against him and not moving in the slightest as he embraced her from behind. The sweet scent of Holo’s chestnut hair rode the wind along with the wetness of the just-lifted rain, tickling Lawrence’s nose.

Maybe she fell asleep?

Just as he thought it, Holo’s body made a small burst of motion inside his arms.

She seemed like she was going to sneeze as he noticed the bonfire had grown much smaller.

“…Nn!”

He thought Holo was murmuring something, but she was simply making a large yawn.

Within his arms, Holo stirred and spread herself larger as the wisewolf opened her mouth toward the sky.

After making a yawn worthy of a king of the forest, she lazily half closed her eyes as she crawled to the pile of kindling and reached out with her hand. On cue, the tail that had been between Holo and Lawrence that whole time struck Lawrence’s face as if on purpose.

He wondered if her yawn had been a way to cover up tears.

Holo herself had been asked to stay in a field of wheat, and so she had for several centuries, long after the person asking it had passed away and the locals had forgotten.

“So…this place has been deserted ever since?”

Midway, Holo cleared her throat as she spoke, as if she had not raised her voice in quite a while.

“I believe so. On one hand, Mr. Fried did say he had some regrets so would try to find someone he could push the deed and rights to the fort onto, but it doesn’t look like that worked out very well.”

After all, the two things that kept territorial disputes going were that barren land remained barren forever and fertile land was limited.

Even though this was an iron law of the world, seeing it firsthand did make one feel a bit desolate.

Without any warning, Holo tossed kindling into the bonfire, sending sparks dancing far and wide.

“Perhaps ’tis the way the world flows, so to speak.”

Holo spoke in an oddly candid tone as she rose to her feet and looked at the sky.

“There is nothing that does not change. All we can do is appreciate that which is right before our eyes. Something like that?”

If that is what Holo, who had lived for centuries, said, Lawrence, having lived a couple of decades and change, could say no differently.

But Wisewolf Holo of Yoitsu seemed slightly embarrassed to have only come up with that line after several centuries of life.

She turned toward him, made an awkward smile, and said…“I’m hungry.”

Lawrence made an exasperated smile as he brought out bread and sausage. Eating at night like this was more of a luxury than breakfast, but being tired from speaking so much, Lawrence was hungry, too.

As he drew his dagger and brought it to the sausage, Lawrence suddenly felt her gaze upon him and brought his face up.

As Holo looked down at him with a malicious smile, she said this:

“And how much mercy shall you grant, I wonder?”

For a moment, he did not catch her meaning, but when his gaze fell to his hands, he immediately understood.

It was Holo the glutton versus Lawrence the diligent, stingy merchant. The thickness of the cut of the sausage was a compromise between their mutual interests.

Holo was demanding mercy in the form of thick sausage; Lawrence was asking for her to be merciful in not eating any more of it.

With the blade still resting on the sausage, Lawrence did not look toward Holo as he opened his mouth.

“Are you telling me to stop being a merchant?”

He positioned the blade for a shallow cut of sausage.

Just as it seemed a little more pressure would tear the thin skin, Holo spoke to him with amusement.

“When that happens, I shall finish you off myself.”

Then, as Holo squatted in front of Lawrence, she gently took hold of the blade and moved it into position to make a cut of sausage twice as thick.

Right before his eyes, her large amber eyes bore a mischievous look.

Surely even Fried the knight would have surrendered.

Lawrence put his strength into the hand that held the dagger.

“Ohh, God grant me mercy.”

Holo smiled in satisfaction.

A building quickly fell into ruin without human hands to maintain it. Surely a person’s smile would soon falter if there was no good food to maintain it. That was especially true for this wisewolf.

Amazed at the excuses he made to himself, Lawrence sliced a thick cut of sausage and offered it to Holo.

Whatever happened, someday the end would come, and they would part.

If that could not be avoided, he at least wanted to keep a smile on her face until that moment came.

“O Lord, grant thy mercy to this foolish traveling merchant.”

As Lawrence muttered, the reflection of the moonlight gave the dagger a dull glint.

End