WeTried Translations
Translator/Editor: ZERO_SUGAR
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◈ Ode of the Brave ◈
Chapter 98
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The Church of Judgment no longer existed. There might still be believers somewhere in the Empire, lingering like ghosts, but at least the Church's temple was gone.
What had happened at the Church's temple was not widely known. Only a small number had survived, and they did not speak much about it.
What was certain was that Hellawman, Count Palatine of Kelbron and commander-in-chief of the campaign, had died in battle. His body was so horribly mangled that recovering it had been difficult.
Perhaps he should have been honored, but there was no opportunity for that. The matter was handled quietly within his family.
The Fifth Prince, Bellator, loudly proclaimed that he had avenged the previous Emperor and, as the next Emperor, secured his legitimacy. Yet it did not have as much effect as expected.
Kings, dukes, margraves, and other powerful figures were not the sort to be easily swayed by symbolism.
They moved only for real, certain gains. Or when faced with a force capable of causing serious losses. Besides, each of them was already busy keeping their own vassals in line.
The Second Prince, Lotharius, was still alive. He was first in the line of succession.
The eldest son had died young, and the Emperor's grandson had needed to become Crown Prince. As a result, Lotharius had been kept in check and made a count after leaving the imperial capital early.
He had no political foundation in the capital. He kept to himself and was not especially sociable, so he had no clear support from the vassals either.
Little was known about what kind of person he was. In short, he had little besides legitimacy.
The Fifth Prince, on the other hand, was second in the line of succession, but he had a solid political faction in the capital. His support among the vassals was unclear as well, but at least he made efforts to win them over.
The Emperor was elected by princes with voting rights. Unless there was a special reason, tradition had always chosen someone from the Nibelinger family, the house of the first Emperor. In truth, however, any noble with a title was eligible to be elected.
In other words, the prince-electors had to gather and hold an election. But there was no Crown Prince, and the Second and Fifth Princes were in conflict. No one knew who would be elected.
Put simply, one of the two princes had to die. Even if they did not personally crave power, that was the fate of those born as the Emperor's sons.
Outlaws still ran rampant throughout the Empire. Some places were perfectly peaceful, while atrocities happened every day in others.
The rebellion in the Kingdom of Adelorne was not easily put down either, and the war dragged on.
That was the kind of world it was. Historically, it was nothing special. It was the sort of chaos that broke out whenever people had nearly forgotten it. But for those living through it, it was a tragedy.
For several years, a strange stability continued, like peace but not quite peace. The Emperor's seat could not remain empty forever, yet for the time being, it did.
In the midst of that, Ricart and his friends went their separate ways after the campaign against the Church. They had not drifted apart in their hearts. They simply wished to walk different paths.
Was it truly nothing unusual for friends to take separate paths as they grew older? Was that not how everyone lived?
The imperial family granted Volka unclaimed land somewhere in the east at a low price. It was a place whose right to self-rule was recognized, much like a knightly or monastic domain. Perhaps it could be called a clan domain.
The imperial family provided nothing except the land. Keeping it safe and bringing order to that untamed territory rested entirely on Volka's shoulders.
A few people followed Volka to the end, and Boribori went with him.
Boribori was finally able to shed the tiresome epithet Fivefold Dismemberment. People now called him the Black Sword.
As a Sword Master in both name and reality, he became known as the guardian of the Viola Clan and a master of the sword.
Using his connections in Ernberg, Volka borrowed and bought whatever he could, then stubbornly started over.
It was difficult, dangerous, and busy work, but it was meaningful. He no longer belonged to the guild. It was wholly his. No, it belonged to everyone.
And new life was born to Volka and Delphi. Unlike themselves, who had been abandoned, they loved and blessed the new generation.
Ice bought an old abandoned monastery and ran an orphanage with Daisy, the prophetic nuns, and the surviving children.
It was called the Mikela Sword Order. It was not merely a place to worship God, but a kind of armed monastery.
Ice was its only armed monk for now, but he taught the children the sword.
Ice was called the Sword of Purity, or the White Sword. He was said to stand as an equal to Bori, the Black Sword.
“Praise God, and be brave before love.”
That was the order's motto, and it saw protecting the weak, especially children, as its duty.
They too struggled because of a lack of funds, but every day was meaningful.
There was something deeply fulfilling about seeing the children's bright smiles and watching them grow year after year.
Those who had been abandoned each built, or were building, families and faith in their own ways.
And Ricart...
God's language was silence. It did not need words to tell people that the seasons had changed. The melting snow, budding sprouts, creatures waking from hibernation, and warm sunlight were enough.
God showed everything. People simply chose not to see.
But some people had no time to look back at the fresh spring. Life was simply too harsh and difficult.
This was especially true of those driven from their homes by the tyranny of violent lords, corrupt priests, and outlaws.
Unless they had relatives elsewhere, settling in a new place was not easy. It was an age particularly hostile to outsiders.
Then a rumor spread among those with nowhere to go, those whom others rejected.
The Eastern Frontier. They said land was given freely there, there were no violent lords, and people saved themselves through their own faith.
More and more people believed those words and headed there.
There was a place where such people gathered, and guides there who led travelers to the Eastern Frontier.
It was difficult to tell whether they were swindlers. Even if they were, there was no way to seek relief, nor anyone to complain to.
Near the border between the central and southern parts of the Empire stood a settlement that was neither village nor city. It had simply formed where people gathered. It had no name. People merely called it the Crossroads.
There were a few shabby buildings and a broad stable. Most people simply lived in huts or tents.
A cemetery stood nearby, and the undertaker seemed to have the most profitable profession. The sick gathered near the cemetery to await death.
One family arrived in such a place. There was a broad, heavily bearded father, a mother who looked quite young beside her husband, an older daughter, and a younger son who looked seven or eight. A family of four.
They seemed to have a story, but that was nothing special here. There were as many stories that could not be heard without tears as there were pieces of trash along the roadside.
The father held a logging axe with its blade wrapped in cloth. He carried a heavy load of household goods on his back. His wife and young daughter carried loads as well, leaving only the youngest son empty-handed.
After looking around the miserable, barren place, he headed toward a building called Lily Lily.
It looked like a shabby inn, yet it served the role of a government office without being one. It recruited people bound for the Eastern Frontier and sent them out once enough had gathered.
The moment he entered, a foul stench hit him. The people inside were nothing but thugs, criminals, and prostitutes.
The father went straight to the bartender.
“I want to go to the Eastern Frontier.”
The bartender wiped a wooden cup with a filthy rag. They only briefly raised their eyes to look at the man, then continued wiping the cup as if dismissing him.
“Name.”
“Hartmann.”
“Former Church of Judgment?”
“No.”
“Criminal?”
“Yes.”
“What crime did you commit?”
“I killed a priest.”
“...So you're an outlaw.”
“No.”
The bartender set down the cup with a thud.
Then they looked at Hartmann and his family.
His wife carried a pack on her back. The young daughter and son clung tightly to either side of their mother's skirt and stared up at the bartender.
“Three adults and one child. Three silver coins and one copper coin.”
“There are two children.”
“Over ten, they aren't children here.”
The bartender pointed at the daughter with their chin.
Arguing here would not lower the price. It was by no means a small sum, but perhaps it was reasonable as the price of seeking a final hope.
Hartmann placed three silver coins and one copper coin on the bar. They were nicked and slightly misshapen.
The bartender pocketed the money, then indicated somewhere with their eyes.
“Those two over there. Riman and Yap will be leaving soon. And that old man in the far corner, Bremen, will take a little longer. Your choice.”
Hartmann looked over the people seated by the wall. Riman and Yap were young and somewhat armed. Judging by the people at their table, they seemed to have companions as well.
Bremen, on the other hand, occupied a table alone. Wearing a coif, the old man sat with his head lowered. It was impossible to tell whether he was asleep or not. A short sword hung at his waist.
Guides did not merely show the way. They needed enough skill with weapons to protect people to some extent on the journey to the Eastern Frontier.
By that measure, Bremen seemed the least reliable.
Yet Hartmann approached the old man. Not for any other reason, but because if Riman and Yap turned their blades on him, he would not be able to deal with them.
I’ll protect my own family. He only needed someone to show him the way.
When Hartmann reached the old man, Bremen slowly raised his lowered head and looked up at him. His dull white mustache was striking.
Bremen gave Hartmann's family a quick look as well.
“Know how to use that axe?”
“I've done nothing but swing an axe my whole life.”
“Not for cutting trees. Can you chop a person?”
“That is why I came this far.”
“...I see. Your name?”
“Hartmann.”
“I'm Bremen. I need an extra pair of hands, so help me out. There's a lot to load.”
“Before that, how can I trust you?”
Bremen was neither someone officially appointed by a lord nor part of a group with even the minimum reliability of the Adventurer Guild. He was simply a guide.
Bremen stared at Hartmann.
“Looking for trust in this day and age? Well, here you can only choose one of two things. Trust, or don't.”
Hartmann did not answer.
This time, Bremen asked him a question.
“I have one question as well. Nine out of ten people who head for the Eastern Frontier die along the way. Will you still go?”
Hartmann thought of his family. That alone kept the words from coming easily. But there was nothing he could do except nod.
Bremen slowly rose from his seat. He did not seem to have trouble moving, but he had the slow, creaking quality of an old man.
Thinking he would need to stay for a day or two, Hartmann rented a room. There were no empty rooms, but the bartender made one available by throwing out someone who had not paid their lodging fee.
The room someone else had stayed in was dirty and messy. Elia, Hartmann's wife, cleaned it up as best she could, set down the heavy packs, and caught her breath.
Hartmann followed Bremen and met the people living in tents outside. They were all planning to follow Bremen to the Eastern Frontier. They would be traveling together.
There was another man like Hartmann with several children, three young men who looked like thugs, and an unmarried mother.
Including the children, there were fourteen people in all. No one knew where they came from, what they had done, or what stories they carried. They had one thing in common. They wanted to live new lives.
They were awkward and wary around each other. Still, they helped organize one another's belongings, bought travel supplies, and quietly offered things when someone needed them.
A man named Geyser was around Hartmann's age. His wife had died, and he had three daughters and a son.
Surprisingly, he owned two oxen and three calves. Considering that livestock was the greatest wealth a commoner could possess, he was rich. Yet no one knew what story had driven him toward the Eastern Frontier.
Dalia, once a prostitute, held a newborn baby in her arms. She had no husband. Whether it was genuine or an act, she was intimidated by men and shy.
By the time Hartmann had roughly learned everyone's faces, organized the luggage, and familiarized himself with what they needed to do on the road, evening had come.
Elia, exhausted from the hard journey, fell asleep holding the children close. Then the door opened with a rattle. From the thud of footsteps, she knew it was a man, and she assumed it was her husband.
He lay down with the daughter and son between them. A moment later, the daughter called to her mother in a trembling voice.
“M-Mom...”
Only then did Elia open her eyes.
In the dim room, a filthy stranger was grinning at her. His hand was groping her daughter. A chill ran down her spine.
“Eek!”
The man covered Elia's mouth. He was the person who had been thrown out of his room for failing to pay the lodging fee.
“Keep quiet, you bitch. If you don't want to die.”
He pulled out a rusty knife. Elia was too terrified to make a sound.
Then the daughter broke free from his grasp and cried out.
“Father! Father!”
“You little bitch!”
The man grabbed the young girl just as she was about to open the door and threw her aside. A crash rang out.
He undid the belt around his waist.
“Disobedient children need a beating.”
Then the door flew open with a rattle.
As he turned around, a heavy sound split the air.
Whoosh! Thunk!
The axe blade struck directly into his head.
He collapsed helplessly with a thud.
Hartmann stood there, heavily bearded, his teeth clenched in rage. Only then did the young daughter burst into tears and throw herself into her father's arms. The corpse lay sprawled on the floor, blood flowing from its head.
“Father, Father...”
Hartmann held his daughter tightly for a long while. Then he grabbed the dead man's nape and dragged him outside. The body was not small, yet Hartmann dragged it with one hand. His thick forearms were like rough logs.
The rooms were not soundproof, and people in the other rooms heard the crash next door. They opened their doors and looked out.
Ignoring them, Hartmann dragged the body to the stairs and threw it down.
A loud crash echoed, and everyone in the dining room looked up.
Hartmann shouted in a booming voice.
“What other fucking bastard wants to touch my family!?”
People looked back and forth between the corpse and Hartmann. They were not frightened. It seemed like a familiar sight to them, and their expressions barely changed.
Bremen was among them. He stared silently at the corpse.
Hartmann returned to the room holding the bloodied axe. His wife was wiping up the streak of blood across the floor.
Hartmann held his frightened daughter and son close until they fell asleep again. He did not sleep a wink that night, guarding his family.
The next day, Hartmann's family left the Crossroads with Bremen. Their departure felt somewhat hurried. The ox cart wheels rattled along the road.
Unlike the other groups heading north, Bremen led them east. Finding that strange, Geyser asked him.
“Why are we heading east?”
“The road is rougher this way, but safer. We'll stop at Wertheim for supplies.”
“Safer? Is there really a difference?”
“The man who died last night belonged to a nearby bandit gang. If they seek revenge, we'll need protection.”
Geyser gave Hartmann a quick glance.
His killing had been justified. But it could still put them in danger.
“Who will protect us? If people like that existed, this place wouldn't be such a lawless hell.”
“How should I know? They probably just want to live quietly.”
“Who are they, exactly? The people who will protect us?”
“A young shepherd couple. Rather than them protecting us, if something happens, we can run to them.”
“What?”
“They started herding sheep about four years ago. In all that time, not a single sheep has been stolen. That means they aren't ordinary shepherds.”
“You chose this road just because of that?”
Geyser frowned. A shepherd, not even a retired mercenary. He clearly did not like the sound of it.
“And I saw it.”
“What?”
“I saw someone kill five skilled bandits with a single wooden stick.”
Geyser frowned even more deeply. It sounded like complete bullshit.
He too had avoided choosing another guide because he owned oxen. If the guides turned on him, he thought it would be hard to protect them. But now he was starting to regret his choice.
“What is that shepherd's name?”
Dalia, who rarely took the baby from her arms, asked.
Knowing that no matter what he said, these people would not believe him, Bremen let out a deep sigh.
“Ricky...”
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