As Rhoen passed through the corridor, the slanting sunlight streamed in, casting half his silhouette into the light.
The training ground occupied the packed-earth courtyard in the center of the castle.
Karl had divided the recruits into two groups: one practiced formation drills while the other trained their sword strikes.
Commands echoed through the courtyard, mingling with the constant clash of weapons.
Just as Rhoen was about to step onto the field, he heard the clatter of armor plates behind him.
Karl jogged over, carrying a bulky, gray bundle in his arms.
“Your Highness.”
Rhoen stopped and turned around.
Karl held the bundle out to him.
It was a suit of chainmail, though the rings were clearly mismatched.
It looked as though it had been pieced together from several different sets, with the seams reinforced by noticeably denser links.
“The blacksmith and a few apprentices worked through the night to finish it,” Karl said, a trace of exhaustion hidden beneath his steady voice.
“The craftsmanship’s a bit rough, but it’ll protect you well enough.”
He turned the mail shirt over.
Several leather straps had been fastened around the shoulders, and the chest had been noticeably reinforced.
“You’ve never had armor that actually fit you,” Karl continued, lowering his voice slightly.
“This one was stitched together to match your build.
Give it a try.”
Rhoen took it from him.
After tugging his coarse tunic into place, he pulled the chainmail over his head.
It caught briefly on his shoulders, and he gave it a firm tug downward.
The shoulder width was perfect, and the hem reached the middle of his thighs.
Once it was on, he rolled his shoulders and tested the movement of his arms and shoulder blades.
It didn’t restrict him at all.
“It’ll do.”
Rhoen patted Karl on the shoulder.
Beneath his great helm, Karl’s jaw seemed to move slightly as he let out an obvious sigh of relief.
“Go on.
Keep the camp secure.”
Karl clenched his fist and thumped it against his breastplate before turning toward the keep.
…
Fifteen recruits stood in two neat rows in the courtyard as Rhoen stepped before them, his gaze lingering on each man for a moment.
Everyone had been issued longswords.
They were old weapons dug out of the armory, carefully sharpened, though the blades were still riddled with chips, and their grips were wrapped in coarse hemp cloth.
The spears, on the other hand, were brand new.
Their designs varied wildly—some had double-edged spearheads, others triangular points—but every one of them gleamed with a razor-sharp edge.
The leather armor looked pitiful, yet it was intact.
It had come from all sorts of different sources.
One recruit still had an old sword slash across the leather on his chest, the cut nearly half a finger deep.
Rhoen withdrew his gaze.
“Check your equipment.
Tighten every leather strap.
If the cloth wrapping on your sword grip is loose, replace it now.
Don’t wait until we’re in a fight to tell me you can’t hold onto your sword.”
A wave of rustling swept through the ranks.
Standing at the end of the line, Miko unwound the hemp wrapping from his sword hilt and carefully wrapped it again.
Rhoen watched until he finished the last turn.
“Move out!”
…
When the company passed through the castle gates, Rhoen rode at the front on horseback.
Erwin and five bodyguards rode at his sides, while the fifteen recruits trailed behind in a crooked line.
The roads of Velen were anything but easy to travel.
The muddy road had been churned into a complete mess, and the air carried the acrid scent of something burned, though no one could tell where it was coming from.
After following the river west for several kilometers from the camp, they came upon the charred remains of a village beside the road.
Calling it a village was generous.
All that remained were a few blackened roof beams and a section of earthen wall that had yet to collapse.
Someone lay beside the roadside.
More precisely, a corpse.
The body wore dirt-gray homespun clothing and no shoes.
Its face was buried in the mud, while its hair was tangled together with the filthy water.
Rhoen brought his horse to a halt.
Erwin walked over and stood beside him in silence for a while.
“Starved to death.”
His voice carried a dull numbness.
“This is common in Velen.
That’s not why people call it ‘No Man’s Land,’ but it’s certainly one of the reasons.
Most of those who try to flee collapse somewhere along the road…
and those who stay behind don’t fare much better.”
The company continued onward.
…
After nightfall, they made camp in a clearing deep within the woods.
Erwin sat beside the campfire, holding a bowl of hot soup in both hands.
He didn’t drink it.
He simply held it there.
Across from him, Rhoen sat sharpening his sword with a whetstone.
Erwin finally broke the silence.
“Before I came to Velen, I thought I was about to do something truly meaningful.”
Without looking up, Rhoen continued sharpening the blade.
“To record the war.
To witness history.”
Erwin lowered his eyes to the bowl in his hands.
“When I was at the Oxenfurt Academy, I spent countless hours in the library reading old military chronicles.
I’d imagine the sound of war horns, knights charging enemy lines, banners flying from the city walls.
Back then, I thought war was something worthy of being written about.”
“And now?”
Erwin gently set the bowl down.
“Now?”
“I just want to forget all of it.”
Rhoen turned the sword over and held its edge toward the firelight.
He narrowed his eyes, examined it for a long moment, then gave a satisfied nod.
“Then why did you stay?”
Erwin looked up, his gray-blue eyes fixed on Rhoen, as if trying to confirm something.
“Because I wanted to see,” he said after a brief pause, “what someone like you could accomplish on this land.”
“What kind of person am I?”
“The kind who doesn’t look at the dead lying in Velen as if they were just stones by the roadside.”
Erwin raised the bowl and took a sip of soup.
“I’ve been in Velen for several months.
Do you know what I’ve seen more than anything else?
Not monsters.
Not war.
People who’ve grown used to it.
People who don’t care about anyone else anymore…
and don’t even care about themselves.”
He set the bowl back down.
“You haven’t gotten used to it yet.”
Rhoen remained silent for so long that Erwin thought he wasn’t going to answer.
“I’m not a good man.”
His voice was barely above a whisper, almost drowned out by the crackling of the firewood.
He laid the sword aside and placed the whetstone by his feet.
“I just haven’t gotten used to it yet.”
Erwin looked at him through the flickering flames.
The firelight cast alternating bands of light and shadow across Rhoen’s profile, leaving his eyes buried in darkness and his expression impossible to read.
“Then don’t,” Erwin said.
“This damned world is the way it is because too many people have gotten used to it.”
…
By the coast, the sky had yet to turn completely dark.
A campfire had already been lit, its flames bent sideways by the sea breeze.
There were eleven men.
Most were bare-chested.
A few wore open leather vests with the buttons undone, exposing old scars crisscrossing their bellies.
Their weapons had been tossed carelessly onto the sand beside them.
One of them crouched by the fire, clutching a dice cup.
His face was pockmarked, and an old knife scar ran across the bridge of his nose, stretching from the corner of his left eye all the way to his mouth.
“Triple sixes!”
He slammed the dice cup onto the sand and glanced inside.
“Fuck!”
The others burst into laughter.
One of them gave him a kick.
“You still owe us from last time.
You haven’t even paid for the drinks you promised.”
“What’s the rush?
Once this job’s done, not only will I buy you all drinks…” He chuckled and jerked his chin toward the flat-bottomed cargo boat beached on the nearby shoal.
“There’s a girl in this shipment.
I caught a glimpse of her while we were unloading.
Damn, she’s a real beauty.
Couldn’t take my eyes off her.”
A bald man sitting across the fire spoke up. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
“Just one?”
“Just one.
So…” He shook the dice cup, the dice rattling loudly inside.
“Highest roll gets first turn.
And don’t kill her, got it?
We still need her alive to collect the rest of the payment.”
The bald man spat into the fire with a hiss.
“The last one wasn’t bad either.
Shame the old bastard ruined the mood…”
“Which one?”
“The village south of Oxenfurt.
The one before last.”
The bald man leaned back, supporting himself with both hands on the sand as the firelight glistened across his belly.
“Her old man blocked the doorway with some busted hoe.
He was shaking so hard he could barely stand.”
He paused, then let out a couple of amused chuckles, as though recalling something particularly entertaining.
“I couldn’t even be bothered drawing my sword.
Just kicked him once.”
As he spoke, he lifted his right leg to demonstrate.
“Crack.
Sounded just like stepping on a dry branch.
The old bastard hit the ground and still tried crawling back toward the doorway.
Hahaha!”
The campfire flared, sending a shower of sparks into the night.
The bald man licked his lips.
“He wanted to watch so badly, didn’t he?
So I let him.
I left him lying there while we took turns on his daughter.”
“The girl cried her eyes out.
The old man kept dragging himself across the ground inch by inch.
By the time I was almost finished, he still hadn’t managed to crawl over.”
He smacked his lips.
“Well…
these days the mines don’t even take old men anymore.
Hard enough staying alive in this world.
You could say I did him a fa—”
Before he could finish—
An arrow punched through his left eye.
The broadhead burst out the back of his skull, spraying blood and shattered bone across the beach.
His body remained frozen in its reclined position for an instant before toppling sideways into the sand.
Silence hung over the beach for about the span of a heartbeat.
Then chaos exploded.
“En—”
The warning never got past the first syllable.
Another arrow drove through the man’s throat.
His mouth remained open, but the air escaped through the gaping hole in his neck, leaving him unable to make a sound.
The remaining bandits finally reacted.
Some grabbed the weapons lying beside the campfire.
Others bolted toward the ship without even picking up a blade.
…
Hidden within the bushes lining the shore—
Rhoen crouched at the very front, watching the panicked figures scrambling across the beach.
Behind him, the Battanian Fian Champion had already lowered his bow.
The archer kept his head lowered, unable to meet Rhoen’s eyes.
“My lord…
I…
I’m…
sorry.
I just…
couldn’t hold back.”
His face remained hidden beneath the shadow of his helmet, his voice low and muffled.
Rhoen looked at him, his eyes darkening.
“It’s all right.”
“You don’t need to hold back.”
Among the fifteen recruits behind him, someone swallowed hard.
Standing at the very end of the line, Miko gripped the hilt of his sword so tightly that the muscles in his arm bulged with tension.
Rhoen drew his weapon and stepped forward.
His roar rang out like steel crashing against steel, cold, brutal, and merciless.
“Leave none alive!!!”