Under the Oak Tree - Chapter 201
Chapter 201: Side Story Chapter 7
Despite the mid-winter conditions, half a day’s walk with no rest left Riftan drenched in sweat. The relentless, dry wind had also caked him with dust. He would not be surprised if he were mistaken for a vagrant. Pausing at the inn’s entrance, he did his best to brush himself off.
The dirt was not the worst thing. What was he to do about the stench of the viscous monster blood that clung to his robes? There was only one inn in the walled village of Golden Sand, and its owner was particularly fastidious. Riftan furrowed his brow. The last thing he wanted to do was bathe in the inn’s yard in front of the maidservants’ prying eyes.
“What are you standing there for, Calypse?”
Riftan looked in the direction of the slurred voice. A bald man was smirking out at him from the wide-open window.
“I heard you hit it big in Devon. What happened to those good looks? You look terrible.”
The man waved his tankard and began whistling a lively tune. Frowning, Riftan ignored him and walked into the inn. As he had expected, the place was packed with rowdy mercenaries. The men had congregated back here after completing their respective commissions.
Guess I won’t be getting any peace.
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Riftan heaved a sigh and headed to the counter, where the mistress of the inn was folding laundry. She passed her beady eyes over him as he approached.
“You can never seem to return without being covered in filth.”
“Cut the nagging and give me a room.”
Muttering under her breath, the woman took a rusted key from a drawer and handed it to him. As Riftan began climbing the stairs, he heard her shout after him.
“I’ll have a bath sent up, so don’t you dare lie down before you’ve scrubbed yourself clean! I’ll charge you for the linen if you dirty the sheets again!”
Riftan gave a half-hearted wave with one hand without looking back. Like the previous raid, he had managed to avoid serious injuries. This time, however, he had sustained a bruise near his ribs from falling off a rock, and he had nearly dislocated his shoulder while chaining up a drake’s legs.
All Riftan longed to do was lie down. Rubbing his aching shoulder, he trudged to his room.
Eat and sleep. I’m doing nothing but that for a while.
He bumped open the door with his good shoulder. The room was sparsely furnished, with only a bed and shelf. After shucking off his bag, he untied his scabbard and propped it next to the bed. Finally, he slipped out of his tattered robe.
Freedom of movement was imperative during a monster hunt; therefore, his only protection was a wyvern skin breastplate, vambrace, greaves, and wrist brace. He removed each of these before pulling his tunic over his head. Black with monster blood, the garment was beyond saving.
Grimacing at the once-gray tunic, Riftan heaved a sigh and sank onto the bed. Soon, the innkeeper’s son hauled a wooden tub into the room.
“I heard you got back covered in muck again. Where’d you go this time? Did you really get six drakes on your own?”
The young man fired questions at Riftan as he unloaded towels and a stiff-bristled brush used for wiping down horses. Riftan picked up the brush with a scowl, muttering about being treated like a beast. The barrage of questions continued, and Riftan mused that the young man’s glinting, dark brown eyes were like a calf’s.
“What did you eat to get so tall? Is it true that you’re the third strongest of the Blackhorn Dragon mercenaries? How did you get so strong?”
Riftan irritably looked down at him. As far as he knew, they were the same age. It sometimes grated at Riftan that the lad treated him as though he were a soldier in his thirties.
With a sigh, Riftan tossed the innkeeper’s son a coin. “For the bath.”
It was also a way to get rid of him. Quickly catching on, the young man promptly left the room. Riftan pulled off his boots and trousers before lowering himself into the tepid water. Although the tub was small and already growing cold, just being able to bathe in clean water felt like a luxury.
Riftan shuddered as he recalled the events of the drake hunt that had dragged on for the past two weeks. Four years had passed since he had first joined the mercenary company. He had thought the worst was behind him, but this raid had proven to be beyond anything he had experienced. He scrubbed his face before fully submerging himself.
His weary mind drifted back to all the things that had occurred after leaving the Duchy of Croyso – being caught hiding in the wagon by one of the mercenaries, the subsequent beating, and how he, by some miracle, managed to convince them to take him on as an errand boy for their journey westward. The monsters they had run into along the way stood out even more vividly.
It was during one such encounter that Riftan had inevitably joined the fray and ended up as the Blackhorn Dragons’ new recruit. He had worked as a mercenary ever since, taking commissions for everything from trivial disputes to monster raids. His only stipulation was that it paid.
It felt as though he had aged forty years instead of four. It just so happened that his appearance was not exactly young either, and no one around him saw him as a mere lad of sixteen.
Riftan stroked his prickly chin and let out a sigh. He had already surpassed six kevettes (approximately 180 centimeters) in height. His legs ached at night as though he were still experiencing growth spurts, and his body had taken on a tautness as his shoulders broadened. Sometimes, he would glimpse his reflection and be taken aback at how unrecognizable he looked.
Growing meant inconvenience and discomfort. Aside from having to purchase new shoes and clothes, the biggest issue was procuring gear that fit him. In just four years, he had had to replace his protective equipment six times, as well as lengthen his sword to suit his height. It had been a huge drain on his purse. What galled him the most, however, was the subtle change in the way people treated him.
Riftan washed thoroughly, even scrubbing the back of his head to remove all traces of the muck, and stood up in the tub as soon as he was done. He dried off with a few careless swipes of a towel before rummaging in his bag. Once he was in somewhat clean clothes, he felt his mood lift a little.
He strapped his sword on and left the room. A hot meal awaited him downstairs, and he planned to have his fill before returning for a good night’s rest. Slowly descending the stairs, he was praying for a trouble-free evening when he heard an unwelcome voice call out across the room.
“Oi, Calypse! I heard you done a swell job in the raid. Never seen the captain with such a fat smile.”
Riftan clicked his tongue and turned to the voice. A lithe man with narrow, cat-like eyes was striding toward him wearing a genial smile. It was Samon, a mercenary whose favorite pastime was pestering him.
Not having the energy to shake off the man, Riftan ignored him and wordlessly took one of the corner seats. Samon pulled out the neighboring chair and sat down.
“D’you know what the fellas just back from the raid’ve been saying?” Samon said, smirking. “Been running their mouths about your madman antics, they have. That you’re unhinged.”
“Get me something to eat. Anything will do.”
Still ignoring the mercenary’s prodding, Riftan tossed a coin to a passing barmaid. The woman gave him a coy smile over the tray of liquor bottles she was carrying before scurrying to the kitchen.
Riftan leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, the picture of indifference. Undeterred by the silent warning for him to get lost, Samon continued his yammering.
“Who woulda known that the runt who couldn’t even hold a sword would become such a big deal in just a few years? You’ve gotta admit, I do have an eye for talent.”
As soon as the barmaid returned with a tankard of ale, Samon snatched it up and took a swig. The man was clearly bent on pestering Riftan until he acknowledged him. In the end, Riftan opened his clenched mouth.
“Just tell me what the hell you want.”
“Always so impatient, aren’t ya?”
With a wide grin, Samon dropped a hefty pouch on the table. Riftan narrowed his eyes. The mercenary untied the leather straps with calloused fingers and loosened them to show the contents – gold coins engraved with the emblem of Lakazim. Riftan scowled.
“See this?” said Samon. “Gold, not silver. Twenty-three denar, and that’s only the down payment.”
Riftan eyed the man warily, his languid demeanor dropping away. “What ridiculous commission did you take this time?”
Such sizable compensation could only mean dangerous work. He wondered what kind of foolhardy assignment the mercenary was involved in. Samon chuckled at Riftan’s grave expression.
“I wager you’re the only runt in the world who would pull that face at gold.”
When Riftan did nothing but stare back, Samon continued to babble.
“No need to be so cautious. Just hear me out. They found a wyvern nest in Soron Valley, and the liege here and the lord of Nevron Castle are recruiting men for the raid party. They’re offering a denar for enlisting alone.”
Samon fished out a coin and held it up.
Riftan clicked his tongue. “Count me out. A denar for a wyvern raid? Do you take me for a fool?”
Just then, the barmaid came over and set a steaming bowl in front of Riftan with a small smile. Ignoring her subtle coquetry, Riftan picked up his cutlery and shoveled a spoonful of lamb stew.
It was clear that Samon had no intention of letting him enjoy his meal in peace. The mercenary’s voice grew heated as he said, “Weren’t you listening? This is just the down payment. They’re shelling out twelve derham more for each wyvern killed.”
“You’re making me lose my appetite.”
Of the dragon subspecies, wyverns were considered the most difficult to subdue. Although one could make quite the profit from selling the bones, skin, and magic stone, the creature was the devil incarnate while alive. A mere twelve silver coins for the head of such a high-grade monster was ludicrous.
Riftan dipped a chunk of bread in the stew, shoved it in his mouth, and kicked the mercenary’s leg. “I’m not interested.”
“You little-” Samon scowled before quickly collecting himself. “I haven’t finished yet! There’s a reason they’re paying that much!”
Riftan continued to wolf down the food. He intended to finish his meal and leave as quickly as possible. As if sensing Riftan’s plan, Samon began to talk more rapidly.
“There’ll be two mages in the party. And that’s not all – they’re taking siege catapults and magical devices! The lord of Nevron Castle is determined to get rid of those wyverns. All we have to do is stand back and watch until the cleanup job at the end.”
“Are you telling me they’re paying us all that to butcher dead monsters?”
“Pssh, all that? It’s nothing to a liege of a fief.” Samon tossed the pouch into the air and snorted as he caught it. “Many of Livadon’s northwestern regions are still Orthodox Church devotees. I wager our two lords don’t want to tarnish their reputations with something so immoral as hawkin’ off monster parts. They want us to deal with the seedy end of the hunt while they clear out those vile creatures in God’s name.”
A cynical smile crept onto Riftan’s face as he chewed a piece of lamb. It was clear now why these noblemen wanted to hire mercenaries. The carcasses of wyverns and other monsters of the dragon subspecies were practically goldmines, so much so that there existed whole mercenary groups who specialized in monster hunting. The nobility, on the other hand, could not openly engage in such sordid endeavors.
Riftan snorted. “So they want the ill-bred commoners to handle the dirty work?”
“No need to twist it that way. We scratch their back, they scratch ours.” With a smirk, Samon swung his arm around Riftan’s shoulders. “Think about it. A chance like this don’t come often. The coin might be lacking for a wyvern raid, but this party will be full of mages and regular soldiers. It’s a reasonable offer if you consider you won’t be sticking your neck out too much.”
Riftan stroked his chin, mulling it over. Taking apart a wyvern was a laborious task that would take four healthy men at least five hours. Still, a denar for a few days’ labor was not a bad deal. He finally bobbed his head.
“All right, I’m in.”
“You made the right choice.” Samon pulled a gold coin from the pouch and handed it to Riftan. “Your down payment. You better not make off with it.”
Riftan replied with a snort and got up from the table. He was about to head upstairs when a figure staggered his way before apparently fainting against him. It was the same barmaid who had kept shooting him coquettish looks. Riftan jerked away as if she were plague-ridden, causing her to tumble to the floor. She looked up at his cold rebuff in stunned silence.
Recovering from the shock of being pounced on, Riftan hurried away. A shout that distinctly sounded like “Bastard!” followed him up the stairs.
Why was he the one being called names? Was it not the woman who had thrown herself at him that was in the wrong? Scowling, Riftan trudged to his room.
