* * *

Some things were so absurd that a person could not even get angry. Even an existing rage could swiftly cool.

Duke Sven was initially furious at the news that Knut had escaped, but his anger quickly subsided as a question occurred to him: How in the world?

“It appears that four men conspired to free him: Wid the bastard, the soldiers Skard and Arne, and Yorik, a servant.”

The captain of his bodyguard delivered the report with the gravest of expressions. The second young lord was dead, and the third had escaped his punishment.

Only now thinking things over with a cool head, Duke Sven asked, “Aren’t those the men who killed the Ballsack Opener?”

“They are. They also stole the weapon the Ballsack Opener used in life.”

“... Where did they flee?”

“According to the gate guards, they headed toward Gringen. And...”

“And?”

“Our inquiries in Gringen are still ongoing. Witnesses say that on the day the second young lord was murdered, they saw soldiers wearing the Margrave of Dunbria’s arms setting fires.”

“...”

Duke Sven felt not only his head but even his heart grow cold. So the margrave had been behind it.

It never occurred to him that he had punished Knut too hastily. If anything, he considered it a fortunate turn of events. It had allowed him to uncover all the spies.

“Of course. Killing the Ballsack Opener in less than a week... After all the years I struggled with him.”

He believed it was all because the margrave had been behind them. With a powerful backer supporting them, they had disposed of the Ballsack Opener in less than a week, intending to use that achievement to promote the third young lord as the next duke.

Nothing could have been further from the truth, but Duke Sven believed it. Given the circumstances, he could believe nothing else, and the thought chilled him to the bone.

But had Winslow’s bastard been the margrave’s lackey all along? Could Winslow, too, have betrayed him long ago?

One suspicion naturally bred another, and Duke Sven’s suspicions spread. They extended beyond Winslow to the earls of Windale and Devi. There was practically no end to them.

Then his true nature rose from the depths of his heart. His cowardice, just as Valeri had described it.

“Captain, what do you advise?”

The captain of the bodyguard did more than provide protection. Although there was a separate officer in charge of military affairs, it was the captain who commanded the knights, the core of their fighting strength.

“Send the margrave a challenge and summon your forces.”

Sending a challenge meant declaring war. Traditionally, a war began with a challenge to the opposing lord or king, inviting him to fight.

Kings did not actually meet kings, nor lords other lords, in single combat, but that was the form it took. Of course, occasionally—very occasionally—they did fight a duel.

The problem was that Duke Sven knew nothing of waging war and had no confidence in his ability to do so. He was suspicious, exploited others, and sometimes lost control of his emotions, but he lacked the nerve for a fight in which everything was at stake.

[“If you weren’t a duke, my lord, you would be a man incapable of anything.”]

For some reason, his second wife’s words crossed his mind. He bit his lip without realizing it. His pride as a man and his cowardice clashed fiercely within him.

Then, as always, his impulse to evade responsibility and foist it onto someone else reasserted itself.

“Summon Gunnar.”

“Yes, my lord.”

A short while later, his eldest son, Gunnar, entered in answer to his summons. His eyes were badly swollen, as though he had been crying over his brother’s death.

Displeased by the sight, Duke Sven glared at his eldest son and spoke.

Gunnar was known for being rather stupid. He had no intellectual disability; he was simply somewhat dim. If he had one strength, it was his height, powerful build, and natural physical strength. In that respect, he was the very image of a Nord.

“The margrave is behind this.”

“...”

“Have you nothing to say?”

Gunnar hesitated before answering.

“... If you mean to entrust this to me, wouldn’t it be better to handle it yourself, rather than be disappointed and scold me again?”

“You worthless fool!”

Infuriated by his eldest son’s exasperating response, Duke Sven grabbed the nearest object and hurled it at him. It was an inkpot. Black ink splattered everywhere, staining Gunnar’s clothes.

“All you do is blubber like a little girl! Can’t you think of beating the margrave like a man?”

“Haven’t you told me time and again that the margrave’s Highlanders are fearsome, Father, and that we must never underestimate them or let down our guard?”

“How dare you talk back! I’ve gone to such lengths to make you my heir, and you can’t even take what I’m handing you! Is that all you have to say? Are you going to give Knut the dukedom, then?”

“... I wouldn’t really mind giving it to him...”

A sudden pain seized the back of Duke Sven’s neck, and he nearly collapsed. The captain hurried over to support him.

Only after taking a long while to calm himself did Duke Sven speak again. He no longer shouted.

“Vengeance. A noble must take vengeance to be worthy of the name. If I do nothing after this, not only my authority but that of our house will be dragged through the dirt. If you truly mourn Guttorm’s death, lead the army and hold the margrave accountable. Once you have taken Gringen, I will conduct the negotiations.”

Authority, or pride alone, was not enough reason to wage a war. There had to be a tangible gain, and that gain was Gringen.

Duke Sven had wanted Gringen for a very long time. It was close to Torvik, produced gemstones, and was a key transport hub on the river to the northwest.

Yet instead of acquiring Gringen, he had spent well over a decade plagued by the likes of the Ballsack Opener.

That was partly because the Ballsack Opener was so formidable, but also because he had been unable to dispatch a proper force for fear of provoking the Margrave of Dunbria.

Now, however, if he went to war and mobilized his army, he would have to take all of Gringen at the very least. That would make the venture worthwhile by his reckoning. His mind worked well when it came to such things.

“But Father, what if the Margrave of Dunbria isn’t behind it? What if he didn’t kill Guttorm?”

Gunnar’s question actually struck at the heart of the matter, but to Duke Sven, the idiot was spouting ignorant nonsense again.

Clutching the back of his neck with one hand and pointing at the door with the other, Duke Sven squeezed his eyes shut.

“Out. Get out. Unless you want to see me die, just get out.”

Gunnar quietly left the room, looking crestfallen.

In a way, he might have been the greatest victim among the three brothers of the ducal House Viðing. He had endured the duke’s contempt and abuse the longest.

Knut had suffered particularly horrific treatment, but that did not mean Gunnar and Guttorm had lived free of fear of their father’s displeasure.

Perhaps they were the ones who had suffered his cutting verbal abuse longer and more persistently. Had Gunnar been dim from the beginning? Had Guttorm always been so vile?

In any event, Duke Sven sent a challenge to the Margrave of Dunbria. Then he issued a summons throughout the duchy of Eldeira.

The earldoms of Winslow, Windale, and Devi, the Viscount of Krischer, even Belfort’s soldiers and the frontier knights—everyone obliged to answer their liege lord’s call received the summons.

The horns of war rang out across Torvik.

Valeri and his friends had brought no fewer than four horses, so traveling by boat was out of the question.

They had to travel overland to Gringen, taking a long detour west around the wetlands.

Once he had recovered his senses, Knut took the remaining horse, sharing it with Yorik.

Yorik kept looking behind them, apparently anxious about pursuit.

But they had escaped around midnight, and Knut’s absence had not been discovered until morning. It had taken several more hours to establish what had happened. By then, it was already too late to pursue them.

“You don’t need to worry about pursuit. The road is the problem,” Valeri said.

And a problem it was. Uneven, rocky terrain stretched as far as the eye could see.

There was not a single tree. Even grass was scarce, with only sparse patches of something like moss clinging to the rocks.

Few people traveled this way because the terrain was so rough. It was not entirely without paths, but it was hardly somewhere they could ride at a comfortable gallop.

It was late afternoon. They had been fleeing without sleep since midnight and were growing tired, though at last they felt somewhat safe from pursuit.

The five pressed on until evening, then camped when night fell. A dry wind blew constantly over the rocky ground, and they built their fire in a sheltered spot.

Fortunately, there was room enough for all four horses as well.

A broad slab of rock jutted overhead like an eave, with rock walls on either side. It kept out the wind, but not its sound.

WHOOO...

Yorik set up a stand and placed a pot over the fire. They had brought all sorts of supplies when they fled, so food would not be a concern for a while.

He boiled water and tossed in whatever ingredients came to hand to make a stew. No, not quite whatever came to hand—Yorik did have his own method.

When it was ready, they ladled it into their bowls and drank. The slight sourness was a little off-putting, but overall it was not bad.

Already exhausted, they grew drowsy as the stew warmed their bellies.

“I don’t know if we’re doing the right thing...”

Skard lay back, cushioning his head on his arms.

“Do you regret it?” Arne asked.

“No. It’s just that I don’t know what lies ahead.”

Skard’s worries were perfectly reasonable. What had possessed them to defy the duke and free Knut?

Yet he was not blaming Knut, nor did he regret it, just as he had said. Now that he had actually left Torvik, the thought that he could never return frightened him.

It was where he had been born and raised. It was only natural.

“Is there anything you want to do, Skard?” Arne asked again.

“Well, if we start a mercenary company and it does well, I’ll be one of the founding members. Maybe I’ll end up with a high position and make a fortune. Then I’ll buy some land and live like a big shot. Drink all I want. Without a care in the world.”

It sounded like an ordinary dream. Days spent warm and well fed, quite literally.

“What do you want to be?” Skard asked Arne in turn.

“I just want to be myself. I don’t know what that means yet. Someone steadfast. Like a tree that’s grown thick and straight.”

“Isn’t that harder than mine?”

“Maybe.”

“What about you, Wid?” Skard asked.

“Well, I’m thinking I might become king, if I need to.”

“Hey...”

They all took it as a joke, but thought it excessive even for one. The king was not someone to speak of lightly. They could hardly risk saying the wrong thing and being barred from heaven.

“It’s not much different from your wish to live without a care. It just occurred to me. But think about it. What will you do if the king dies first?”

“Well, uh, won’t there be a succession war or whatever it’s called?”

“Then couldn’t I join someone likely to win, kill him at the end, and become king myself?”

Valeri smiled as he spoke. This time he really was joking, but no one laughed. Had it not been funny?

“Wid, watch what you say...”

Unable to stand it any longer, Arne spoke up beside him.

“It’s just us here. What about you, Knut?”

“Hmm... I think anywhere would be fine, as long as it isn’t here. The north feels a bit stifling. I’d like to go south and live there. And make toys. Well-made toys that are so much fun you lose track of time playing with them.”

In terms of the world as a whole, Astria itself lay in the north. Within Astria, places such as Eldeira and Dunbria were farther north still. The Nords had come down from even farther north than that.

“And you, Yorik?”

“I’m going to keep a diary. I’ll write until I’m a bent old geezer, then gather it all into a book. Isn’t that what history is? If someone reads it long afterward, they’ll know how we lived and what kind of people we were. I might not live like the Dragonslayer or those other great heroes, but I won’t be forgotten. Even if I’m no legend, someone called me lived. This is how I lived.”

“Hmm. If I become king, I think I could grant all your wishes,” Valeri said.

Arne immediately frowned.

“Stop talking about being king. You’re being far too irreverent. What if I can’t get into heaven just for listening?”

He sounded anxious as he admonished Valeri. Since Valeri had only been joking, his reaction made him laugh aloud.

“You said you wanted to be steadfast, and that’s enough to shake you? Just eat well and live well while you’re alive. Long live His Majesty the King, fuck it. Happy now?” Skard chided Arne.

Who knew which of them was right? They were all young men only beginning their lives.

Young men who had left the place they were born and raised, ventured into a harsh world, and taken on an enemy they could scarcely hope to defeat.

They ate together and dreamed together. Even if their dreams were different, they dreamed side by side.

For Valeri, that became something like a foundation for his heart. He wanted to see their dreams come true. How could people with dreams be so inspiring?

Would it be wrong to become king simply to see those dreams realized? Did he need some other grand reason? He did not know.

The campfire burned as the night deepened. They took turns keeping watch.

As time passed and the sky slowly lightened before sunrise, they all rose and filled their bellies with dried provisions.

They traveled steadily, but it was evening again before they finally reached Gringen.

The first news they heard there was that war was coming.

The Duke of Eldeira had sent a challenge to the Margrave of Dunbria. Everyone was saying it.

Valeri was inwardly somewhat surprised. He had never imagined that a coward like Duke Sven would go so far as to start a war.

He had expected the duke to threaten his life with that characteristic persistence, whether by sending knights or hiring killers. War had not entered his calculations.

That did not mean he was worried. Before his return, war had been the decisive cause of the duke’s downfall.

There was something ironic about him starting one himself this time.

It could be seen as a consequence of Valeri’s actions, but in another light, it almost seemed like Duke Sven’s inescapable fate.

Rather than worry, he thought it might be for the best. A mercenary company’s worth lay in its fame and reputation, and no opportunity was better than war for making a name.

Besides, if anyone asked Valeri what he did best, his answer would be war, above all else.

Once a summons went out, gathering everyone could take a month at the earliest, or more than a year at the longest.

Valeri judged that they had time before then. If they seized Gringen, they could become a small but crucial factor capable of deciding the course of the war.

After the war ended, perhaps... they would go south. That was something to consider when the time came, but perhaps only then would he finally be ready to search for his mother.

So Valeri thought.

Late that night, Valeri found his attention lingering on Yorik as they unloaded the horses together.

He gazed at the utterly ordinary young man, then abruptly asked, “Yorik, how about writing a legend instead of a diary?”

“What?”

“You said you wouldn’t get to live like the Dragonslayer or the other heroes. If you could live like them, would you?”

“Haha...”

Yorik merely gave an awkward laugh. It sounded far too distant and fanciful.

But for a moment, he did consider it seriously. Then he answered.

“If someone the world threw away carved his legend into it, that would be a pretty satisfying revenge.”

Yorik had been abandoned in a gutter at birth. He did not even know who his parents were.

“Well, look at you...” Arne murmured to Yorik.

He had thought him nothing but an ignorant hoodlum, but after learning a little reading and writing, he was speaking like a poet. Honestly, Arne was impressed.

“I wondered why anyone bothered learning letters. Looks like it’s worth it.”

“Anyway, what are we calling the company?” Skard asked.

“Gringen’s specialty is frogs. How about the Frog Company?”

Skard and Arne both scowled at Yorik’s suggestion. The place was famous for gemstones, too, but he had passed over rubies, emeralds, sapphires, and everything else for frogs? Just what they should have expected from a hoodlum!

But before they could object, Valeri agreed.

“I like it. It sounds a little ridiculous, but let’s make it so no one dares laugh at it.”

“... You’re not seriously settling on that, are you?”

“I’m for it. Frogs are cute,” Knut chimed in.

Three against two.

“But, young master...”

“Then it’s settled. From now on, we’re the Frog Company (The Froskar). Knut, Arne, Skard, Yorik, and I are its founding members. One day, the entire kingdom will know the Frog Company, and merely hearing our name will make people tremble. I swear it by the dead gods.”

With that declaration, Valeri went straight into the inn.

Arne and Skard stood there, stunned by the absurdity of it. Afraid they might take it out on him, Yorik hurried inside after Valeri.

Knut went in as well, leaving Arne and Skard standing there looking rather bereft.

“I actually had a name in mind...” Skard said regretfully.

“What was it?”

“The Widowmakers.”

“... Aren’t frogs better than that...?”

“What did you have in mind, then?”

“The Ballsack Opener’s Slayers.”

“Maybe frogs are better...”

And so the mercenary company had its name: the Frog Company. Whether they would write a legend, as Valeri had said, remained to be seen.