* * *

Since ancient times, those who had amassed great wealth and attained high station and power had made a practice of entertaining weary travelers and people of exceptional talent.

In an age when news of the wider world was itself precious, feeding and lodging travelers was considered a virtue. Among those travelers were heroes who slew monsters to repay the kindness of the chieftains or householders who had welcomed them.

Duke Sven—or rather, the ducal House Viðing—possessed immense wealth and power, and maintained a great many household guests.

These were people who, through a trusted recommendation or by catching the duke’s eye, received room and board from his house without holding any particular office. Some stayed briefly before moving on, but most settled in and lived off his hospitality.

They came from every walk of life: mages well versed in herbs, people who could imitate animal calls with astonishing skill, renowned swordsmen, eloquent speakers, accomplished writers, storytellers, bards, knights-errant, explorers, adventurers, and even Vikings who claimed to have seen the ends of the world.

Some earned posts through distinguished service. Others received lavish rewards and rose to high positions simply by winning the duke’s favor, without any particular achievements to their name.

They made themselves useful when something arose or when the duke needed them, but spent most of their days pandering to him and his sons, or simply eating, drinking, and idling.

Their dream was to receive a manor or a fief and establish a house of their own. Their greatest fear was being cast out of the ducal household.

For the young men around fifteen years old, however, things were somewhat different. Most were sons of noble houses, knightly families, or freemen. They generally served in the duke’s private army and, with luck, became squires or apprentice knights.

Strictly speaking, they were not household guests. But most were sons their families had washed their hands of, or sons of concubines, with nowhere else to go. In other words, they were all but future household guests.

A young man named Arne was one of them. Eighteen years old, tall and powerfully built, he came from the freeman class.

Freemen formed a distinct social class among the Nords. They were not commoners, and their numbers dwindled with each passing year.

Through the two great conflicts, the War of Conquest and the War of Beasts, the Nords had become nobles, manor holders, or independent farmers. Those who had become none of these were called freemen.

Freemen generally enjoyed freedom of movement, the right to own property and bear arms, the right to spoils they had won themselves, the right to resist unjust treatment, and the right to trial by combat. In terms of rights alone, they were almost the equals of nobles. Even nobles could not treat them carelessly.

Reality, however, was cruel. Without land to stand on or wealth to fall back on, they were gradually sinking into the commoner class.

Perhaps Arne would be the last of his line. His children might live as ordinary commoners, unable to enjoy the rights of freemen.

Perhaps that was why he trained harder than anyone else.

Today, as always, he rose before dawn, conditioned his body, then practiced his swordplay while utterly exhausted. The knights had told him that one could not always enter a real battle in peak condition.

“That fucking idiot’s showing off again.”

A fellow soldier who had just risen and come out of the barracks spoke loudly enough for him to hear. Arne ignored him and concentrated on his training.

Another soldier gave him a sour look and chimed in.

“Hey, aren’t you due on duty?”

“I’ll wash up and go in a bit.”

“Get your ass ready, idiot. Do your fucking job properly before you train. You think making a big show of it will make you better when you’ve got no talent?”

Hard work did not necessarily guarantee results. Arne trained harder than anyone, but his skill was hardly outstanding among the duke’s soldiers.

“I’ve never been late for duty. Never neglected it, either.”

“Well, look at that. Here comes the sergeant. Stupid bastard.”

At the continued insults, Arne lowered his sword. He stood catching his breath, then gave up and was about to go wash when someone called him.

“Arne. Come here.”

He turned to see a group of five or six young men. They had called him over on their way to the dining hall.

Wherever young people gathered, a dominant group was bound to emerge. The men who had called Arne were known as Skard’s gang, and they were that group.

As Arne approached, visibly worn out, their leader, Skard, spoke.

“People have been talking about you lately. You know that?”

“... Yeah.”

“Get your act together. Otherwise, I’ll put you on nothing but night duty. Understood?”

“Understood.”

Arne nodded and headed behind the barracks, where there was a well. He stripped naked, drew up a bucket of water, and poured it over his head. It was cold enough to make his heart stop. Even so, he repeated the process several times to wash himself.

He went back inside as he was, dried himself, and put his sweat-soaked clothes into the laundry basket. The men assigned to laundry would come, wash them, and return them.

Then he dressed for duty. He buckled a belt over a thigh-length gambeson, put on a spangenhelm, and fastened its chin strap. Afterward, he went to the armory to collect a sword and spear, hanging the sword at his waist.

Arne left the citadel with the other men on duty and headed for one of the city’s water gates. The outer walls had two land gates and three water gates.

When he and his fellow guard reached their assigned water gate, the men from the previous shift rose from where they had been sitting, dozing or passing the time in boredom.

“Arne, can’t you just take the night shift?”

“I’m not the one who draws up the roster.”

“No fun, no money. Fuck...”

One of the men who had stood watch overnight grumbled.

They completed the handover as usual and opened the water gate. Before long, boats that had been waiting at nearby landings began coming through.

They carried all manner of cargo. Arne’s fellow guard jabbed at the goods with his spear shaft, picking fights with the passing merchants.

“What’s this, then? What? Olive oil? You filthy bastard. You thought we’d let this through?”

There was nothing whatsoever wrong with the goods, but the water-gate guard saw things differently. In truth, his harassment had a very clear purpose.

Sure enough, the merchant offered him copper coins with a servile smile. The guard scowled in displeasure, and the merchant handed over more.

“I won’t let you off with this much next time. Move along. Next.”

He kept extorting money in this fashion.

This was a world without even a concept of bribery. Neither giver nor receiver thought there was anything wrong with it; it was simply part of life. Slave traders sometimes even offered female slaves.

That did not mean one could squeeze people too hard. One had to judge the person in question. Ordinary passersby who clearly had no money, wealthy men of influence within the city, and powerful merchant companies were sometimes allowed through unmolested.

No one had taught Arne otherwise or told him not to do it, but the whole business made him uncomfortable. Everyone else did it, yet his innate honesty recoiled.

This was what Skard had meant earlier by getting his act together: extort money properly. He was to give Skard a fixed sum and could pocket the rest himself.

Still, Arne could not bring himself to do it. He could not stop the others, either. He could only endure his own discomfort.

Sometimes, though, the tougher merchants fought back.

Venturing out into a world little different from the wilderness, buying goods, and hauling them great distances to sell was no easy task.

It required armed strength as a matter of course, and sometimes the merchants themselves were skilled fighters. In short, these were not ordinary men.

“What’s this? You dare defy the ducal house?”

“You motherfucker! The ducal house can kiss my ass! Go bleed someone else dry! I’ll take you down with me!”

“Wh-what?”

“Sir! Put away your sword!”

Arne, who had been uncomfortable throughout, stepped in. Whatever else happened, he had to stop the fight.

After a furious altercation, they settled the matter by simply letting the merchant through.

“Fuck him! Fucking—ptoo! You remember that bastard’s face, right?”

“... Give it a rest.”

“What? Give it a rest? Didn’t you see that bastard defy us? That’s defiance of the ducal house, too!”

“Whew...”

Arne let out a deep sigh. Duty was more exhausting than his grueling physical training.

“You thickheaded idiot. You think training all day will get you anywhere? Take what you can while you can. For fuck’s sake! Don’t you know Skard’s got it in for you?”

Perhaps his fellow soldier was right. Arne had considered it time and again: should he just extort money like everyone else?

All he had to do was follow their example. No one would criticize him. Yet he still could not bring himself to do it. He hesitated as though he stood at some momentous crossroads. That was what made it so hard.

At last, the trying shift came to an end and dusk fell. The night guards arrived to relieve them, and Arne returned to the citadel.

Inside, preparations for a feast were in full swing. Today was the grand feast—not one held in the castle on the hill for the duke and duchess and a select company of important guests, but a great gathering in the citadel courtyard for the entire household.

That alone meant some two hundred people. With outsiders included, there might be even more.

Servants and household guests alike slaughtered and gutted pigs, hauled great casks of drink, arranged tables, built a large bonfire in the center, and set up smaller fires throughout the citadel.

Some people wandered about in ridiculous costumes, apparently preparing to show off their talents, while a bard practiced, plucking his lute.

By the time Arne returned to the barracks, washed, and changed, he could already hear people singing loudly outside.

When he emerged again, many of the city’s high-class whores and elaborately dressed women had arrived. This was the center of power not only for the city but for all Eldeira, and they came of their own accord, without needing an invitation.

As darkness deepened, drink and meat were carried busily about. The fires blazed ever more fiercely, seeming to awaken the dark instincts lurking within human beings.

“You heard? A bastard’s coming soon. You know, the Bastard of Winslow.”

One of the soldiers seated near Arne spoke. He was talking not to Arne, but to his own companions.

“Bullshit. Rumors are always exaggerated. Punch him in the jaw and he’ll drop like anyone else.”

“Right. If we have to, we can all jump him. Nobody can beat a whole gang.”

“Fuck, have you got no pride?”

“Nope.”

“Heh heh. Idiot.”

With the subject of the rumors absent, they tore into him among themselves, tearing into their meat and drinking as well.

“Anyway, still no room in the annex?”

Skard put the question to his lackeys.

Within the ducal household—or rather, Torvik Citadel—there was effectively a social hierarchy all its own. The duke and his family lived in the castle atop the hill. Below them, important figures lived in the annex; everyone else occupied lodgings shared with servants, or the barracks. Ordinary soldiers, Arne included, lived in the barracks.

The annex housed the duke’s advisers, knights, and honored guests. Some people with homes in the city came and went, but from the annex upward, the standard of living was on an entirely different level.

For the soldiers, a room in the annex was both a goal and a dream. The citadel was a small world unto itself, and living in the annex was a mark of high status in its own right.

“Something’ll open up soon, won’t it? You’re an apprentice knight, Skard.”

“Right. I bet there isn’t another apprentice knight your age in the whole kingdom.”

His lackeys were straining to flatter their leader, but that was not true. The kingdom had plenty of even younger people with absurd amounts of talent. Not that life necessarily went smoothly for all of them.

By now, the duke and his three sons were seated in the places of honor, laughing and chatting without formality.

It was not all eating and drinking. Now and then, someone with a grave expression would cautiously approach the duke with a private request, and he would talk with them, soothing them or laughing the matter off.

At one point, the duke called for his eldest son. He had been beside him only moments before, but was now nowhere to be seen.

Even after his father called, however, it took some time to find him. Only after a considerable delay did the eldest son come running from the distant garden.

The way he adjusted his trousers made it easy to guess what he had been doing. He was very tall and heavily built, but there was something rather dim about him.

The duke’s expression darkened at the sight of him. All around, the crowd lowered their voices, watching the duke’s mood. Even the bard’s fingers stopped plucking the lute.

“You called, Father? I mean, Your Grace.”

“How long do you intend to keep behaving like this?”

“What? Wh-what did I... Everyone else does it too... Agh!”

For all his bulk, the eldest son had been cowering. Then he suddenly cried out: the duke had seized his cock in a crushing grip.

“So you’ve done nothing wrong? Then this must be to blame. Let’s get rid of it.”

“W-wait! It was my fault! Mine!”

It was a truly disgraceful display for the eldest son of a ducal house. Sure enough, his followers were glaring murderously at everyone else, their expressions telling them to look away. Arne, too, fixed his gaze on his wine cup.

Just then, someone hurried up to the duke and whispered in his ear.

“Ah, yes. That bastard. He’s arrived? Good timing, with the feast underway. Lower the drawbridge. Why report every little thing as though it were some great matter?”

Opening the gates and lowering the drawbridge at night was a serious matter, so reporting it was, in fact, the proper thing to do.

What mattered most to everyone, however, was the duke’s mood. When he was pleased, he might spontaneously bestow rewards or promotions. When displeased, he might find some needless fault and punish people for it.

In any event, thick chains rattled outside as the drawbridge descended and the gates opened.

Beyond the moat, a dark silhouette appeared in the distance: a rider on horseback, slowly entering the citadel.

CLOP. CLOP. CLOP. CLOP...

Every eye turned toward him. When he reached the light cast by the blazing fires, exclamations rose here and there.

“Oh!”

“Wow...”

He was so handsome that even seeing him, they could scarcely believe it. Perfection was not enough to describe his beauty; something beyond it seemed to have been added.

Platinum-blond hair swept back, a straight nose, sky-blue eyes. Those eyes passed over the gathering.

Arne, too, stared blankly at him, spellbound.

He dismounted and strode toward the central bonfire. Without kneeling, he bowed his head to the duke and spoke.

“I am Wid of Winslow. It is an honor to meet you, Your Grace.”

The duke had seemed drunk, but his eyes had sharpened before anyone knew it. He studied Valeri closely before speaking.

“... The rumors weren’t exaggerated. They fell short.”

“You are too kind.”

“But where is Ketil? You had someone traveling with you, did you not?”

“He is dead.”

“... What?”

If this was a joke meant to liven up the feast, the timing was poor. The duke had been in a foul mood over his eldest son until just now. But if it was not a joke...

“We camped for the night and were attacked at dawn. He was struck by two crossbow bolts, one in the neck and one in the arm. He did not die immediately, but he did not survive long.”

“... Your evidence?”

Valeri returned to Snow and brought over the bags hanging from the saddle, along with crossbows and other weapons. The bottoms of the bags were brown with dried blood that had soaked through them.

He dropped the bags on the ground, and human heads rolled out. Things that had absolutely no place at a meal.

“Ah!”

“Eek!”

Those unaccustomed to corpses—and severed heads in particular—gasped.

The duke recognized some of the heads. He was far from the only one; many others recognized them too. They belonged to household guests who had lived in the citadel.

Valeri also laid down the attackers’ weapons. One glance was enough to tell that these were weapons for regular soldiers, not some ragged bandits.

Indeed, the ducal house obtained its weapons from designated suppliers, so they were immediately recognizable as its own.

The duke studied them in silence, then turned to his eldest son.

“I-it wasn’t me! I swear! It really wasn’t!”

Next he turned to his fat second son. Unlike his elder brother, he made no fuss, merely shaking his head and speaking calmly.

“It wasn’t me, either.”

Last, the duke turned to his third son.

The third son wore a high-collared garment and looked to be about Valeri’s age.

His large, upward-slanting eyes gave him a distinctly feline appearance. He never took them off Valeri, and he did not answer his father’s unspoken question.

“...”

That made it fairly clear who was responsible.

Duke Sven’s face did not turn red or purple, but the way he sat motionless and silent made his anger plain to everyone.

The gathering was so quiet that even the sound of someone swallowing would have carried. Only the crackling bonfire and smaller fires broke the silence.

Then Duke Sven spoke.

“You have had a trying journey. Show him to the annex.”

He rose and climbed the hill toward the castle. His close attendants and sons followed, and with that, the feast was over.

Valeri stood beside the bonfire, waiting for someone to show him the way. The flames flickered like a devil’s tongue, bathing him in red as though licking at him.

Everyone stared and whispered. Their attention and murmuring should have made him uncomfortable, but he stood at ease, utterly unconcerned.

He wore a dark-blue gambeson, a short cloak pinned at his right shoulder, and a single sword at his waist.

His clothes were not especially fine, but perhaps because of his face, he somehow exuded an unapproachable aura.

Arne could not take his eyes off him either. The impression struck deep, as though it would lodge in his heart. He felt as if he were looking at a being on an entirely different plane.

“This way, please. I will show you to your rooms.”

At last, a guide approached Valeri and spoke. Valeri followed him toward the annex, and everyone’s eyes followed them.

Once Valeri disappeared from view, the whispers swelled into a hubbub.

“Fucking unreal.”

One of Skard’s gang spoke.

A room in the annex the moment he arrived? It was hard to accept, but the six heads strewn beside the bonfire kept their mouths shut.