“Would you face me in my final battle?”
He wanted to remember old times once more before departing on his journey.
To Lawrence, entirely aware that he had a long way to go before becoming a merchant who could turn anything and everything into money without a smidgen of compassion, it was a heartwarming request.
“I am at your service.”
Fried stood straight up, looking at the radiant sun.
In spite of the armor being in fair condition as a whole, it was unsurprising that the straps and leather portions had rotted with mold growing on them and had to be replaced.
Happily, Fried had fingers as skilled as any craftsman; he made straps out of leather in no time at all, and repairs proceeded apace.
During that time, Lawrence drenched linen in oil and used it to polish the helmet, armor, and gauntlets.
There were blade marks and dents all over the place. In particular, the helmet bore dents that one would think must have been instantly lethal, helmet or no.
Fried himself said with a hearty laugh, “It’s strange, why didn’t I die from all that?“
That often seemed to be the case for those who survived in this world.
When one died, it might be from a sharpened stick thrust into them by a child in some village.
“Let’s see, how about this?”
It was well past noon when the binding of the last leather straps was complete.
As the sheep and Stöckengurt ate grass side by side in the barn in neighborly fashion, he could hear Paule making vivid calls from the back side of the fort from time to time.
The suit of armor, marks from battles past engraved in it while simultaneously polished to a sparkle, looked fine enough that even Lawrence, who walked the path of a merchant, got a little worked up inside.
How could you sell something like this?
It was enough to make him think even that.
“I’m not sure I can wear it, but…”
That was what Fried said as he and Lawrence gazed upon the suit together, but it was very obvious his voice rang false.
He wanted to wear it, so there was no avoiding it, but he was no doubt a little embarrassed at doing it in front of Lawrence.
“Let’s see, now comes the weapons. There were swords and lances in the treasure room so I’ll get some. What would be best?”
As Lawrence asked, Fried thought it over a bit before replying.
“Bring one sword and one lance, then.”
“One of each?”
“Aye. I’ll take the sword. Would you take up the lance?”
He had only heard of young knights with robust physiques swinging swords on horseback while wearing heavy suits of armor, for it was far more sensible to use the lance on horse-back in most cases, charging while bracing it.
But Lawrence went to the treasure room and carried back a sword and lance just as he was told.
As he entered the courtyard, wondering if these were fit even for mock combat without being touched up, there was a single knight of small stature before him.
What sent Lawrence into shock was not so much that Fried had put on the heavy suit of armor by himself – shocking as that was – but rather what he looked like.
The small-built Fried’s upper body looked very fine with the suit of armor over it, but what he straddled was not a tall horse, but rather a sheep, calmly eating grass all the while.
“Behold my beloved ram, Edward the Second!”
Edward the Second made a “baa” with an annoyed look.
Likely, Fried himself grasped that his body was at an age where it could support neither the endurance nor the skill for riding on horseback.
But riding a sheep, let alone in that outfit, was all too comical.
As Lawrence laughed, unable to help himself, Fried let out a hearty laugh as well, saying in a loud voice, “Give me my sword!”
“I am Fried Rittenmayer under the Scarlet Eagle of Count Zenfel.”
Gripping the sword in his right hand, Fried touched the hilt against himself around his chest, holding the sword’s blade up as if about to touch it to his forehead as he made a mighty shout that filled the fort.
As he made circular motions with his sword without a hint of hesitation, even as he was clad in a heavy suit of armor, it seemed his body had not forgotten how to handle a heavy sword even now.
“Raise your lance, young man!”
And then, Fried shouted.
In a hurry, Lawrence awkwardly raised the head of the unwieldy lance.
The next moment, Fried seemed to smack Edward’s rump with his left hand.
As Edward raised a cry that Lawrence thought was more like a shriek, he ran forward like a surging wave.
Lawrence stood still in surprise; as Fried passed by his flank, he deftly struck the shaft of the lance with his sword.
“What’s wrong, young man? Losing your nerve?”
Fried grabbed the base of the confused Edward’s neck, over-bearingly steering him in Lawrence’s direction.
A gentlemanly old knight straddling a fluffy ram; yet he looked good enough to make one laugh.
“My sword versus your lance. Let us make clear here and now who the goddess of victory favors this day!”
Edward ran as if trying to escape the baggage on his back.
But he was just a sheep.
His hooves suddenly slowed to run rather ponderously in Lawrence’s direction.
Fried raised his sword high overhead, staring straight at Lawrence’s eyes all the while.
Even worked up like this, he was not brought to tears from nostalgia; he had a gentle look on his face.
Lawrence thrust the lance toward his wide-open torso. Fried swept it away, disposing of it and transferring to an offensive stance with the grace of a far younger man. Suddenly, Edward’s patience seemed to snap; he lowered his head and charged with all his might.
Fried, his balance thrown off from the sudden acceleration, lurched backward due to the weight of his armor and sword. The tip of Lawrence’s thrusted lance struck his head; with light resistance, it broke from the base on up.
Fried collapsed straight behind, both arms wide as he fell from Edward’s back.
It was all over in an instant.
The great crashing sound woke Lawrence from his reverie; he hastily cast aside the lance’s shaft and rushed to Fried’s side.
“Mr. Fried!”
As Lawrence ran over, Fried was staring straight at the sky.
What surprised him was that Fried was still gripping his sword.
That he was not getting up was likely due partly to the impact he had taken to his back, but just like in the story, he probably could not get up on his own power.
As Fried looked at the sky, he spoke in a dramatic voice.
“H-has heaven finally forsaken me…?”
Fried’s gaze slowly shifted to look at him.
“But if there is compassion in you…”
And with his left hand, Fried drew from his hip the dagger he had used previously.
“… would you deliver the final blow?”
This dagger was a little different than the ones traveling merchants like Lawrence employed for their daily meals. being more martial.
The dagger was sharpened along some parts; turning the crest on the hilt to him was likely an action similar to how merchants exchanged daggers when making formal written contracts.
As a noble knight, he was obligated to be noble even in defeat.
With his entire body covered in armor, slicing his neck off with a sword or impaling his chest with a lance were not realistic outcomes. Using a dagger to thrust through the gap between helmet and armor was the most logical option.
From the gravity in Fried’s eyes, it did not look like he was joking.
Bewildered, Lawrence yielded to superior force of will and accepted the dagger.
And when he beheld the blade, longer and thicker than that of an everyday tool, he swallowed.
His liege was no more; even bandits ignored him; when the privileges ran out, the people of the monastery would no longer bring necessities in. This was already a fort forgotten by all of the people of the world, home to an aging knight who had exposed his treasure room to a traveling merchant and who had a ram for a steed.
Suicide was considered indecent.
Then why not do it by another’s hand?
Lawrence looked down at Fried.
A moment after he gripped the dagger hard to cover up the shaking of his hand…
… he noticed the words etched into the blade.
“God grant me mercy.”
His gaze was stolen by those words carved into the blade as if they were pulling him in.
Even if a knight’s pride would not tolerate defeat, it did not mean he wished for death. If he could not beg for his life with his tongue, he need only write words to that effect on the dagger meant to finish him.
Perhaps this was a culture born from the gap between honor and one’s true feelings.
Exhaling, Lawrence’s expression slackened as he slipped the dagger under his belt.
Upon seeing this, the strength in Fried’s neck suddenly failed him; with a clang, he looked up at the sky.
His expression was not that of peace of mind, but relief.
“So I have been granted mercy, have I?”
“Yes. By a merchant.”
Fried’s lips twisted and he made a sigh.
“Then I should call myself a knight no longer. ’Twas a good, stirring fight.”
And so, the old soldier Fried finished his preparations to leave the fort.
The rain had already stopped at some point as he finished the story.
Holo was in Lawrence’s arms, resting against him and not moving in the slightest as he embraced her from behind. The sweet scent of Holo’s chestnut hair rode the wind along with the wetness of the just-lifted rain, tickling Lawrence’s nose.
Maybe she fell asleep?
Just as he thought it. Holo’s body made a small burst of motion inside his arms.
She seemed like she was going to sneeze as he noticed the bonfire had grown much smaller.
“… Nn!”
He thought Holo was murmuring something, but she was simply making a large yawn.
Within his arms, Holo stirred and spread herself larger as the wisewolf opened her mouth toward the sky.
After making a yawn worthy of a king of the forest, she lazily half closed her eyes as she crawled to the pile of kindling and reached out with her hand. On cue, the tail that had been between Holo and Lawrence that whole time struck Lawrence’s face as if on purpose.
He wondered if her yawn had been a way to cover up tears.
Holo herself had been asked to stay in a field of wheat, and so she had for several centuries, long after the person asking it had passed away and the locals had forgotten.
“So… this place has been deserted ever since?”
Midway, Holo cleared her throat as she spoke, as if she had not raised her voice in quite a while.
“I believe so. On one hand, Mr. Fried did say he had some regrets so would try to find someone he could push the deed and rights to the fort onto, but it doesn’t look like that worked out very well.”
After all, the two things that kept territorial disputes going were that barren land remained barren forever and fertile land was limited.
Even though this was an iron law of the world, seeing it first-hand did make one feel a bit desolate.
Without any warning, Holo tossed kindling into the bonfire, sending sparks dancing far and wide.
“Perhaps ’tis the way the world flows, so to speak.”
Holo spoke in an oddly candid tone as she rose to her feet and looked at the sky.
“There is nothing that does not change. All we can do is appreciate that which is right before our eyes. Something like that?”
If that is what Holo, who had lived for centuries, said, Lawrence, having lived a couple of decades and change, could say no differently.
But Wisewolf Holo of Yoitsu seemed slightly embarrassed to have only come up with that line after several centuries of life.
She turned toward him, made an awkward smile, and said… “I’m hungry.”
Lawrence made an exasperated smile as he brought out bread and sausage. Eating at night like this was more of a luxury than breakfast, but being tired from speaking so much, Lawrence was hungry, too.
As he drew his dagger and brought it to the sausage, Lawrence suddenly felt her gaze upon him and brought his face up.
As Holo looked down at him with a malicious smile, she said this:
“And how much mercy shall you grant, I wonder?”
For a moment, he did not catch her meaning, but when his gaze fell to his hands, he immediately understood.
It was Holo the glutton versus Lawrence the diligent, stingy merchant. The thickness of the cut of the sausage was a compromise between their mutual interests.
Holo was demanding mercy in the form of thick sausage; Lawrence was asking for her to be merciful in not eating any more of it.
With the blade still resting on the sausage, Lawrence did not look toward Holo as he opened his mouth.
“Are you telling me to stop being a merchant?”
He positioned the blade for a shallow cut of sausage.
Just as it seemed a little more pressure would tear the thin skin, Holo spoke to him with amusement.
“When that happens, I shall finish you off myself.”
Then, as Holo squatted in front of Lawrence, she gently took hold of the blade and moved it into position to make a cut of sausage twice as thick.
Right before his eyes, her large amber eyes bore a mischievous look.
Surely even Fried the knight would have surrendered.
Lawrence put his strength into the hand that held the dagger.
“Ohh, God grant me mercy.”
Holo smiled in satisfaction.
A building quickly fell into ruin without human hands to maintain it. Surely a person’s smile would soon falter if there was no good food to maintain it. That was especially true for this wisewolf.
Amazed at the excuses he made to himself, Lawrence sliced a thick cut of sausage and offered it to Holo.
Whatever happened, someday the end would come, and they would part.
If that could not be avoided, he at least wanted to keep a smile on her face until that moment came.
“O Lord, grant thy mercy to this foolish traveling merchant.”
As Lawrence muttered, the reflection of the moonlight gave the dagger a dull glint.
End
Gray Smiling Face and Wolf
Mr. Lawrence and Miss Holo were arguing again.
The cause was not allotting Miss Holo enough meat in her stew for supper.
For his part, Mr. Lawrence said he was subtracting equal to the dried meat she had snatched and eaten. For her part, Miss Holo said, “You have some nerve, do you have any proof,” and so forth.
In fact, Miss Holo really had snatched and eaten the dried meat. During the time Mr. Lawrence had gone into town, checking the state of the place and speaking to people at the inns, I had witnessed with my very own eyes her sitting on the bed, casually eating the dried meat while grooming her tail.
Even so, Mr. Lawrence had no way of knowing that; so when pressed for evidence, he was at a loss for words. I thought if I said I saw the whole thing, the circumstances would have been turned on their head.
I did no such thing, because I thought it might have been some kind of scheme of Miss Holo’s.
After all, she was a wolf god known as the wisewolf who had lived centuries.
Miss Holo pressed even harder. “Any proof?”
With an unpleasant look, Mr. Lawrence drew in his chin and said, “None.” After glaring at Mr. Lawrence fo
r a while, Miss Holo snorted a “hmph” and turned aside. Afterward, she declared it her natural right and pulled a handful of dried meat out of the pouch.
I had witnessed this kind of back-and-forth many times ever since they allowed me to travel with them.
Though arguments could begin based on a few words and on the slightest of misunderstandings, there were also many cases like this where Miss Holo was clearly at fault. At first, it made me very nervous, but lately I had become quite accustomed to it, so I just turn away from them ever so slightly and think little of it.
This time, too, Mr. Lawrence made a sigh and Miss Holo turned away in annoyance. Perhaps Miss Holo did not recognize what she was doing as bad behavior. Even though I think that if thoughts between you differ, you should just talk things over properly, for some reason, neither of them did.
But even though their gazes were averted so as to not look at the other, I felt like they were closer to each other than before the argument, maybe because they were both leaning forward a bit.
It was a sight I did not see much of in my village.
When in town, there were multiple options for supper, like a tavern or the dining hall of an inn, but Mr. Lawrence wanted to eat in his room at the inn as much as possible.
When eating in the room of an inn, it was usually cooking using ingredients he had procured for low prices that he brought to the dining hall to be cooked. If you asked him, he would say it was cheaper that way. He would also say, even if there was not enough and he asked for extras, he could still keep expenses down that way.
He would add with a strained smile that this was particularly important since he had someone with him who ate and drank her fill.
As if Miss Holo knew why Mr. Lawrence did not go to the dining halls or taverns to eat, she drank her wine as if it was precious. When eating in a room and finished drinking her allotted wine, she never got any more, no matter how much she sulked like a spoiled child. All Mr. Lawrence did was open his water skin and present it to her without any expression.
When Mr. Lawrence and Miss Holo argued, they did not shout and throw things at each other like I often saw back at the village; they just suddenly stopped talking. They did not meet each other’s eyes, behaving like there was no one else there. Back in my village, when people had an argument, it was like both people concerned had started a fire, and as a rule, the neighbors did not approach until it had burned itself out, since valuable things always seemed to get broken.
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