III
The Royal Capital of Fis welcomed Blood and the others with scenes of decay. Everyone they passed on the streets wore the same somber expression and walked so as to avoid one another. The market still showed the barest signs of life, but the shopkeepers and their customers kept their interactions as short as possible. Sain Jerim Square, a popular meeting place, was deserted. Only the statue of Julius zu Fernest, the first king of Fernest, stood as it always had.
“This place is dark,” Blood muttered, sighing.
“Dark?” Olivia asked at once. “But there’s not a cloud in the sky.”
“No, not like that...” Blood swallowed what he was going to say next, settling for a quiet snort instead. On the way, they passed in front of where he had spent his school days: the Royal Military Academy. As they did so, he noticed out of the corner of his eye an instructor gesticulating dramatically at a row of cadets.
Something about that voice sounds familiar... Blood peered through the fence and found himself looking at a face he knew very well. Agh! That old codger’s still alive?
The instructor, who had left a powerful impression on Blood, was called Lacan Talisman. He was tall as an oak, lacked any affectation, and was direct as a spear thrust. As such, the word “reserved” had not been a part of his vocabulary. He was up there with Paul as one of the two instructors Blood had liked least.
“What’s up?” said Olivia.
“We’re getting out of here, now.”
“How come?”
“Just because.” Blood pulled up the collar of his coat to hide his face, but he had only taken one step away when—
“Well, if it isn’t young Master Blood!” boomed a cheerful voice from behind him. Blood’s shoulders twitched.
He spotted me. He could always tell, Blood thought. Pretending he hadn’t heard, he kept walking at a brisk pace. But then someone grabbed his arm and forced him to stop. It was none other than Olivia.
“That was your name.”
“What was?” he said, playing dumb. He tried to free himself from her grip, but Olivia did not let go.
“Blood, that giant grandpa called your name,” she insisted.
He turned, following her gaze. With the agility of a much younger man, Lacan vaulted the fence. He approached with a guileless smile on his face, waving enthusiastically. It was like being run down by a giant grizzly. At last, Blood gave up all hope of escape.
He must be ancient. How can he still be built like that?
Lacan loomed formidably over him. Blood felt a sense of despair, but he still managed a commendable salute.
“Sorry I haven’t kept in touch, Master Lacan.”
Lacan roared with laughter. “Aye, not since you graduated, I think. But see here, what’s a great general like you doing being so damn skinny? Are you getting enough to eat?” Lacan slapped Blood on the back with a monstrously large hand, making him cough violently.
Anyone would look skinny compared to you! he thought resentfully. Then, thinking he might as well take the opportunity, he said, “I didn’t think you’d still be teaching at the academy.”
“Indeed, I’d long since settled down to enjoy a comfortable retirement. Then two years after this war with the empire began, they called me back!” Lacan said with a chuckle. Blood felt a rush of sympathy for him. The timing of Lacan’s return to duty coincided with the fall of the impregnable Kier Fortress and the precipitous decline of Fernest’s fortunes.
“Now, m’boy,” Lacan went on, “what brings you to these parts? A man in your position doesn’t just take a pleasant stroll around the capital.”
“I’ve got some business to clear up,” Blood said, his eyes wandering to where Leticia Castle stood in the distance.
“At the castle?” Lacan said with a curious look, but it seemed he knew better than to press the matter any further. His gaze moved to beside Blood where Olivia stood, then he wrapped an arm as thick as a tree trunk around Blood’s neck. Blood was quite sure that this did not bode well.
“Yes...?” he asked reluctantly. Lacan grinned, grinding his rock-hard fist against Blood’s head.
“Hey now, don’t you be coy with me. Where’d you find an angel like that, eh? You sly dog.”
Just as he’d thought, Lacan had gotten the wrong idea. With a loud sigh, Blood set him straight.
“Much as I hate to disappoint, Master Lacan, this isn’t what you think.”
“Come now, you’re too old to be shy.” Lacan’s knuckles ground harder into Blood’s skull.
Blood, struggling to breathe and growing irritated, snapped, “You must have at least heard stories. You know, about the girl the imperial army is calling the Death God?”
“No...?!” Lacan exclaimed. “This is the girl?”
His surprise only lasted a moment. He tossed Blood aside, releasing him, then moved in front of Olivia. His genial manner evaporated, and he looked down at Olivia with a glint in his eyes like that of a predatory beast. Olivia, meanwhile, looked up at him, mystified.
“This is the girl...” Lacan suddenly reached out and grabbed Olivia by the shoulders. Before Blood could stop him, he lifted her up high into the air. Olivia was unfazed.
“Ooh, it’s fun being up here!” she said cheerfully.
We’re standing out and not in a good way, so if you could cut that out... The sight of a giant old man in military uniform lifting up a beautiful young woman also in military uniform couldn’t help but draw attention. Perhaps Lacan realized that a crowd of onlookers was not what they wanted, because he gently lowered Olivia back down, then shook his head sadly.
“Oh, Blood.”
“Yes?”
Lacan hesitated. “It’s nothing. You must be in a hurry. I’m sorry to keep you.”
Blood, who had an idea of what was on Lacan’s mind, excused himself quickly.
“We’ll be off, then.”
“Aye. If ever you feel yourself getting rusty, come to me and I’ll go a round with you,” said Lacan, throwing his chest out.
Blood glanced at the straining buttons that looked like they might fly off at any moment, then he looked away and muttered, “I’ll let my sword arm rust right off before I take you up on that.”
He took Olivia smartly by the arm and fled.
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