The Girl Raised by the Death God Holds the Sword of Darkness in Her Arms - Volume 3 - Chapter 2.1

Chapter Two: The Royal Library

I

In the days of yore, all knew of the existence of Odh. Back then, there lived a small clan of people with exceptionally pure Odh, which gave them deep, ebony-black eyes. This was how they came to be called the Deep Folk.

In those days, a people who called themselves the Clan of the Wyrmfang crossed the sea with a great fleet to wage war on the True King. When the fighting seemed that it would never end, the True King turned to the Deep Folk, whose skill in battle was unsurpassed, to break the stalemate.

“Win me this war, Deep Folk,” said the True King, “and upon you I shall bestow everlasting prosperity.”

The Deep Folk took the True King at his word. They took up their swords and their spears and set out to kill the Clan of the Wyrmfang. The killing went on and on in an ever-mounting slaughter. After a few years fighting against the glorious might of the Deep Folk, the Clan of the Wyrmfang were routed. At long last, after a crushing defeat at the Battle of Francours, they began to retreat. The long war had finally ended, and peace returned to Duvedirica.

Though they had lost many of their comrades, the Deep Folk then stood as one in joyful anticipation of the bright future that awaited them.

But the king did not keep his promise.

Two months after the very last of the Clan of the Wyrmfang had departed from Duvedirica, the royal palace, only just remembering how to be at peace, was rocked by a shocking revelation.

One of the Deep Folk snuck into His Majesty’s chambers. They meant to murder him!

The accusation was a lie, of course. The king, after inviting one of the Deep Folk to the palace, had plied them with alcohol until they let their guard down, then had them killed. The supposed would-be assassin had in fact been caught in the king’s trap. To the Deep Folk, the accusation came like a bolt from the blue. Though they begged for an audience to defend themselves, the king naturally refused all such applications.

The Deep Folk had displayed their powers too openly. The king had grown fearful after having seen them fight that one day they would come to steal his throne. So it came to pass that the Deep Folk, who had once been Duvedirica’s heroic saviors, were overnight branded as traitors.

Following this, the king made overtures to the Asura, a league of assassins who were the only ones who could match the Deep Folk in battle. His offer was simple: join him as he led a mighty host of a hundred thousand soldiers to lay siege to the Deep Folk village.

Though every one of the Deep Folk possessed extraordinary strength, they only numbered three hundred, all told. The king’s army sent wave after wave of attackers without rest, day and night. The Deep Folk were strong, but one by one, they began to fall.

“Then, as the sun rose on the seventh day since the battle began...”

“Then what? What happened when the sun rose?” Abel, the tavern keeper, eagerly asked the man at the bar as he refilled his empty glass. The man smirked, then downed the brimming glass in one gulp.

“Well, well. Looks like I got a reaction. When I started, I thought perhaps I was boring you,” he said.

The man had slipped into the tavern in the middle of the night, sat himself down at the bar, and brusquely demanded, “A drink.” The tavern keeper had noted his silver hair—a rarity in these parts—and, as he handed over a full glass, decided to ask whether the man had any unusual tales. Though he seemed unsure at first, the man had eventually begun to haltingly recount the story the tavern keeper had just heard.

“Don’t get hung up on stuff like that. There’s something in this fairytale of yours that feels like it’s on the verge of being true. It’s weirdly convincing, y’know?”

“You don’t say...” the man said, his lip curling slightly.

“So did they kill all those Deep Folks in the end?”

“They did. Exterminated every last one of them,” the man murmured, sounding almost sad as he turned over his empty glass in his hand. “And that’s the end of the story.” He practically looked as though he’d been there himself, but right now Abel was too disappointed to pay the man’s expression much mind.

“That’s no good,” he said. “The good bit is supposed to come next, where one of them survives and goes to get revenge on the True King. If you end it there, the Deep Folk just come off as a bunch of poor sods who got taken advantage of.”

“I’m sorry it wasn’t to your liking,” the man said with an exaggerated shrug. He fished a few coppers from his pocket then placed them on the counter, before pushing his chair back and slowly standing up.

“You’re leaving already?” Abel asked.

“I am.”

“Don’t be like that. Sit down and tell me another story. I’ll give you another one, on the house. It’s not often I get to hear any interesting tales out here in the backcountry. You could pull a good audience with that last one.”

“If only I could, but my companion is here,” he said, looking toward the door. Abel followed his line of sight and found a woman with an infant perhaps half a year old in her arms standing in the doorway. He hadn’t even noticed them come in. The tavern was full of rough mercenary types who were very rowdy indeed, yet the baby was sound asleep.

“My love, we should go...” the woman said softly. The man gave her a small nod.

“I’m coming,” he said, then turned to leave. Abel, flustered, called out to stop him.

“Do you have lodgings for the night?” he asked.

“No, we’re not staying in town...”

“You’re leaving?!” Abel exclaimed. “Where do you mean to go in the middle of the night with a baby in your arms? Look, I won’t bother you any further, so at least stay here tonight—I’ll give you a discount on the room, as my thanks for the story.” He grabbed a key from the wall and thrust it at the man. He wasn’t trying to fleece them; he only felt sorry for the child. However, the man only shook his head sadly.

“I thank you for your kindness,” he said, “but we cannot linger in this town.”

“But why?” Abel demanded. When the man didn’t reply, he asked, “You’re not in trouble, are you?” Looking the man over once more, he noticed the armor plates glinting under his cloak. The woman likely wore something similar beneath her own cloak. It was hard to imagine that they were traveling for pleasure, dressed like that—and with a suckling babe to care for, to boot.

The man rubbed his neck, looking discomfited.

“Forget it, I shouldn’t pry into your business,” Abel said hastily. “If you must leave, just make sure you keep a keen eye out for bandits. What with the warm weather lately, they’ve been prowling about attacking travelers night and day.”

The man was quiet for a moment. “I appreciate the advice,” he said at last, giving Abel a slight smile. Then the man put an arm around the woman’s shoulders, pulling her gently to his side as they left the tavern. As Abel tidied away the glass left all alone on the counter, he recalled the woman’s face.

“She was mighty pretty, now that I think about it. And those eyes. Black as ebony. I’ve never seen the like...” He trailed off, then chuckled to himself. “Yeah, right,” he muttered. His words were swallowed up by the cacophony around him.