Chapter 4
The Dwarf of the Snowy Mountain (1)
The farther north the carriage traveled, the more a faint glow gathered around the windows, even at night.
Kaspar’s expression grew more relaxed in turn. The cold outside counteracted the fever poisoning his body, making him feel considerably lighter.
“Brrrrr. It’s freezing.”
Jacques, the lord’s retainer accompanying him, seemed to hold a different opinion.
Wrapped in a blanket, he trembled violently.
“We still have two days left, yet it’s already this cold. Just how frigid will Wintersteel, ruled by the Ice Queen, be?”
“The Ice Queen?”
When Kaspar showed interest, Jacques turned toward him in mild surprise.
The boy had spent the entire journey reading books, but perhaps he was still a boy after all.
“The Ice Queen is the title given to ELician, the ruler of Wintersteel. Despite not yet being twenty-five, she is revitalizing Wintersteel through her brilliant mind and skillful governance. It is a title bestowed upon her out of respect.”
“ELician…”
Kaspar’s eyes widened in admiration.
He still possessed no desire for power or status, so rather than envy, he simply found her remarkable.
At the same time, a question occurred to him.
“Is it acceptable to use the title of queen so freely?”
Jacques grinned.
“Many people thought the same as you. They wondered whether the emperor might become offended and issue a furious rebuke. But he did nothing.”
“Why?”
“That is what everyone would like to know. There are a couple of theories, though. The first is that ‘Ice Queen’ was accepted because it was originally the name of a mythical being from northern folklore. The other is…”
“The other?”
“…That she truly possesses imperial blood.”
Kaspar’s eyes widened in surprise.
The likelihood that Jacques’s story was true might have been slim, but tales of mythical beings and imperial blood were more than enough to fascinate a boy raised in a remote mountain monastery.
“Would you like to hear more?”
Jacques had also grown tired of the silent journey, and he did not dislike Kaspar’s reactions.
He therefore decided to share a little more information.
“Present-day Wintersteel, under ELician’s rule, is prospering unlike ever before. It amassed enormous wealth by supplying the empire with rare northern resources at high prices, then used that wealth to attract more people.”
Clatter, clatter.
A lively conversation unfolded inside the carriage as it raced through the snowstorm.
“Mercenaries and knights flocked there as well. As that virtuous cycle continued, several elite forces tempered through real combat emerged. The finest among them is the Frost Guard.”
“The Frost Guard?”
“Yes. They are currently the strongest knight order in Wintersteel. They number only twenty, but every one of them is a monster capable of fighting a hundred men. Of course, their commander, Rosaline Belcatia, is considered an even greater monster.”
“That sounds like a woman’s name.”
“She doesn’t merely sound like one. She is a woman.”
“She is?”
“Rosaline Belcatia, the Sword Saint of the North. Her elder brother, Diego Belcatia, was the previous commander and was renowned as a swordsmanship prodigy. She defeated him using the very swordsmanship in which he took such pride and claimed his position.”
Jacques continued telling him about the Black Griffon Knights, regarded as second only to the Frost Guard, as well as the Platinum Mane Knights and several others.
“And you should see how beautiful Marsina of the Platinum Mane is—”
“Aren’t there any stories about mages?”
“…Mages?”
Jacques extended one hand from beneath his blanket and scratched his head vigorously.
He looked at Kaspar, who had interrupted him.
“Thanks to you, I understand that the knight commanders are remarkable, but I would like to hear more about the mages.”
“…What a peculiar boy. Even if you have an aptitude for magic, you are still at an age when you should be more interested in swords and women than elderly mages.”
“Was I being rude?”
“No, not at all. Let me think.”
After pondering briefly, Jacques began speaking.
“I suppose I should explain the Magic Towers first. You at least know that they are places where mages of similar disciplines gather to study and refine their magic, correct?”
Kaspar nodded.
“Wintersteel has five Magic Towers in total. Most towers, such as the Imperial Capital Magic Tower, are named after the region in which they are located. Wintersteel’s towers, however, are named after the branches of magic they study.”
Jacques counted them off.
“The Metal Magic Tower, the Flame Magic Tower, the Nature Magic Tower, the Frost Magic Tower, and the Darkness Magic Tower.”
“Metal, flame, nature, frost, and darkness…”
“The highest-ranking mage in each tower is called the Tower Master. Even among those five, however, there is a slight hierarchy. If I remember correctly, the Frost Tower Master currently stands at the top in Wintersteel, while the other four are more or less equal.”
The Frost Magic Tower is the strongest.
“Will I be allowed to choose which Magic Tower I join?”
Jacques shook his head.
“They must first test your magical affinity, after which a suitable tower must agree to accept you. You will also have to pay an enormous admission fee and tuition. If you wish to avoid that, your only option is to learn from street mages.”
“Street mages?”
“Independent mages. They are people who cannot enter the Magic Towers for personal reasons.”
Jacques did not tell him—no, could not bring himself to tell him—that most of those “personal reasons” were far from respectable.
Criminal histories, the unauthorized study of magic, forbidden research, and other such circumstances.
Creeeak!
The carriage abruptly stopped.
“Hmm? What happened?”
“It appears that a battle is taking place ahead.”
The coachman’s answer made Jacques frown.
“Bandits?”
“I’m not sure. The snowfall is too heavy to identify them by sight. What should we do?”
A metallic rasp sounded outside as the coachman apparently drew his sword.
Most experienced coachmen were skilled fighters. They might not rival knights, but they were capable of dealing with two or three mediocre bandits or robbers.
“Don’t worry. Wait here for a moment.”
After reassuring Kaspar, with whom he had been conversing moments earlier, Jacques leaned his upper body out through the window and looked ahead.
Just as the coachman had said, they were surrounded by a vast field of snow beneath broad daylight, while a fierce blizzard obscured their view.
“Move a little closer. As quietly as possible.”
The experienced coachman guided the carriage forward while suppressing its presence.
Gradually, shapes began emerging through the snow.
“Dwarves?”
“There are Beast Walkers as well. It seems they attacked the dwarves’ carriage.”
As the coachman said, an enormous pit had formed ahead, with a dwarven carriage half-buried inside it.
Farther ahead, five dwarves wielding axes and hammers were fighting a group of Beast Walkers with animal heads.
“Help us!”
Had they approached too closely?
One of the dwarves must have noticed them, for his thunderous voice rang through the swirling snow.
“Humans, help us! If you lend us your aid, we will reward you handsomely!”
“What should we do?”
The coachman asked.
“What do you mean? Why ask something so obvious?”
Jacques clicked his tongue and pulled himself back inside the carriage.
“What is happening?” Kaspar asked.
“It appears that Beast Walkers attacked some dwarves. Continuing forward would be dangerous, so we will take the widest possible detour.”
“They were asking for help. Aren’t we going to assist them?”
“…Ha!”
There were approximately twenty Beast Walkers.
Jacques let out an incredulous laugh.
Beast Walkers were bestial humanoids found throughout the continent.
They possessed the heads and upper bodies of various animals—wolves, goats, rats, horses, and many others—and every one of them was savage and cruel.
Their strength matched their appearances and temperaments. They could tear ordinary humans apart with their bare hands.
“Our objective is to reach Wintersteel. I don’t recall our mission including anything about rescuing endangered dwarves.”
There were nearly twenty Beast Walkers.
That was not a force a single coachman could overcome simply because he knew how to use a sword.
Even if they generously included Kaspar’s magic in their calculations, it would not change anything.
—Humans, help us!
That was when—
Boom!
A dull explosion shook the carriage.
“What was that? What happened?”
“Something exploded ahead of us.”
Jacques barely maintained his balance by bracing himself against both walls, then leaned outside once more.
Despite another thunderous plea from the dwarves, he spoke coldly.
“Turn the horses around and take another route. It will delay us by several hours, but it cannot be helped.”
“…Understood.”
Even if the tide of battle changed, there was no reason for them to expose themselves to danger.
That was Jacques’s judgment.
Then his narrowed eyes caught sight of a Beast Walker with a rat’s head.
“A Rathead… They even have a shaman.”
Although wild instincts ruled the souls of most Beast Walkers, some possessed intelligence and could wield magic.
Ratheads were one such species.
“Graaargh! You treacherous bastards! You even brought a spellcaster!”
As if confirming Jacques’s assessment, a dwarf’s furious roar echoed through the storm.
Just as I thought.
Jacques became even more certain that avoiding the battle was the correct decision.
He had spent many years traveling with merchant caravans.
This was hardly his first Beast Walker attack.
They had attacked both when he traveled with small caravans and when he joined larger caravans that formally employed armed escorts.
They were truly infuriating creatures.
Despite possessing the intelligence of beasts, their instincts granted them an astonishing ability to evaluate the balance of power.
They bared their fangs only when they were certain they would win.
That was why I found it difficult to believe they would attack dwarves.
Dwarves possessed exceptional dexterity.
Their tremendous skill with their hands and arms usually distinguished them as craftsmen, but if they so desired, they could pick up an unfamiliar piece of metal and display combat prowess comparable to that of a competent human warrior.
Moreover, with their naturally sturdy bodies, low centers of gravity, and indomitable wills, dwarves were so troublesome that even bandits spat on the ground and avoided them.
If the Beast Walkers had attacked such formidable opponents first, they must have possessed something that gave them confidence.
I didn’t expect that something to be a shaman, though.
In any case, deciding not to help had been the wisest choice.
“Let’s take as wide a detour as possible.”
“…Yes, sir.”
The coachman also seemed uneasy about the presence of a spellcaster and turned the carriage around.
Good. We should be safe now.
Jacques wore a satisfied expression as he pulled his upper body back inside the carriage.
Then he froze.
Where did the boy go?
Jacques looked around the carriage, where he now sat entirely alone.
***
“Urgh!”
One of the dwarves groaned.
When the Rathead saw its prey stagger, it salivated.
Drool it failed to swallow streamed from its mouth and fell to the ground, but it paid no attention and urged its subordinates onward.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
Each time it struck the snowy ground with its staff, the muscles of its goat-headed subordinates swelled in response.
“More! More! More!”
The Rathead’s impatient cries rang through the blizzard.
It was growing anxious.
Its keen nose could sense the scent of the Whiteskins it had detected moments earlier gradually moving farther away.
Approximately three of them.
Whiteskin flesh was far softer and fattier than dwarf meat, giving it a rich, savory flavor.
It was a delicacy sophisticated enough to satisfy the Rathead’s discerning palate, unlike the garbage devoured by its wretched subordinates, who ate anything they could find.
And that delicacy was now escaping.
“Kill them! Kill them! Kill them!”
The Rathead shrieked irritably.
They had to finish this before those Whiteskins got away completely!
But the dwarves continued resisting fiercely.
Despite being struck by magic moments earlier, they had not fallen and continued fighting with burning determination.
At this rate, the Rathead truly would lose the Whiteskins.
It irritably raised its staff again.
Useless pieces of garbage! You cannot even deal with five of them without forcing an apostle like me to intervene?
It was about to focus, determined to aim properly this time, when—
“Wait!”
A voice came from somewhere nearby.
The Rathead raised its head.
A Whiteskin was approaching through the blizzard.
“…?”
Why is that thing coming this way?
***
Kaspar’s eyes were brimming with delight.
His disappointment over being unable to use magic for the past several days melted away.
I couldn’t even show how much I wanted to use it in front of the lord’s retainer.
It appeared that those of high status feared having magic activated in their presence.
Kaspar had therefore suppressed his desire to cast spells and tried distracting himself with the books he had brought.
The Son of the Wind’s Travels Through the North.
A Guide to Wintersteel Even an Idiot Can Understand.
One Hundred Wintersteel Attractions You Must Visit Before You Die.
But there was no chance he could concentrate on such disorderly contents.
Just as his frustration was becoming unbearable, a bandit mage had graciously appeared before him.
Oh, was it a Beast Walker mage?
Either way, it made little difference.
Anticipation swelled within him at the thought of experiencing those memories and emotions once more.
Once he had drawn sufficiently close, Kaspar saw the rat-headed humanoid waving a stick adorned with a rat’s skull.
It was unquestionably magic.
Kaspar grinned expectantly.
…Hmm?
Something felt strange.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
His heart pounded.
It was the sensation of truly being alive that he had experienced on the monastery roof—the exhilaration he had felt while exchanging magic with a mage.
Its magic is different from the monastery mage’s.
Faint lines of light flowed from the empty eye sockets, nose, and mouth of the rat skull, forming a pattern.
That much was the same.
However, the strokes and shape of the pattern were markedly different from Alfred’s.
Compared to Alfred’s pattern, this one seemed cruder…and somehow more intense.
Fortunately, the letters engraved around the pattern were the same.
It had been like this at the monastery as well.
Letters had appeared over the magical pattern.
Although Kaspar had never seen or learned them before, he had been able to read them.
That was how he knew the name of the spell engraved within the pattern like its very essence.
The same applied to the pattern created by the Rathead.
Although written in a much cruder form, Kaspar could still read it.
What a relief.
Kaspar felt reassured.
Nothing would have been more regrettable than seeing new magic before him but being unable to acquire it.
Shall I examine it?
The name written upon the pattern was—
The pattern suddenly scattered.
Green energy poured out like smoke and gathered into the shape of a claw.
The claw swung at Kaspar.
Boom!
“What the hell are you standing there gawking for, human?!”
A nearby dwarf threw himself in front of Kaspar and blocked the attack.
“You stood dazed in front of a shaman! Do you want your body torn to pieces? Tch!”
The dwarf who had shielded him spoke angrily.
His thick iron shield had been reduced to a mangled wreck after blocking a single attack.
Had Kaspar taken the blow directly, he would likely have been torn apart.
Having been completely absorbed in the magical pattern, Kaspar finally came to his senses.
Flames spread across the Beast Walkers’ bodies.
Despite the fierce blizzard and freezing cold, the fire refused to go out and continued consuming them.
“Groooargh!”
A mage?
Before the startled Rathead’s forces could react—
“Savage Claw.”
The same green claw the Rathead had used for its offensive spell now formed beside Kaspar.
It was far larger than the Rathead’s version, with each claw nearly the size of a human torso.
It swept through the Beast Walkers.
Chunks of flesh scattered across the snow.
The Rathead stared blankly.
That claw… How did that Whiteskin use it?
“Please tell all the dwarves to close their eyes.”
“…What?”
“It will be bright.”
Kaspar raised his hand.
“Light.”
An enormous burst of radiance exploded across the pure-white snowfield.
“Screeeeeech!”
“Grooooargh!”
The already searing light reflected off the snow and ice covering the surroundings, amplifying to a terrifying degree.
Even the remaining Beast Walkers who had escaped injury took the light directly in their eyes and rolled across the snow in agony.
Only the Rathead remained standing.
“Screech! Screech! Screech!”
Its instincts had warned it in time, allowing it to turn its head away, but it had still failed to evade the light completely.
Its eyes felt as though they were burning.
Yet the horror in its heart overwhelmed even that pain.
How dare a Whiteskin imitate the authority granted to me by the Voice?
[Kill.]
“Grrrk…”
A faint voice whispered in the Rathead’s tightly shut ears.
[Kill, kill, kill. Kill that Whiteskin.]
The vicious voice singled out the Whiteskin in particular.
[Kill.]
The Rathead opened its eyes.
Its pupils blazed with violent hostility.
Crack.
“Grrk… Grrk… Grrk…”
After hearing the Voice, the Rathead resolutely tightened its grip on its rat-skull staff even as its jaw trembled and saliva streamed from its mouth.
Its sense of duty to obey the Voice overcame its fear.
It squeezed the staff as though intending to crush it.
It was a chosen being.
It had been born with the ability to hear the voice of the Serpent God spoken of in the Beast Walkers’ legends.
It was fundamentally different from both the creatures born with nothing but the savagery of ignorant beasts and the other Ratheads who wielded crude magic with their meager intelligence.
It was a true apostle.
That status had allowed it to live without deprivation.
Everyone in the tribe offered food to their apostle.
Even when famine and plague swept through the forest, it had never gone hungry.
Such was the position of the Serpent God’s apostle among the Beast Walkers.
And now, the Voice that had granted it all those privileges had delivered a revelation.
[Kill.]
The Rathead agreed with the Voice’s will.
Gladly.
It too had sensed that there was something profoundly unnatural about the boy.
The thought of a mere Whiteskin imitating its abilities filled it with instinctive revulsion.
Hostility boiled within it.
[Kill!]
The rat-skull staff rattled as an ominous incantation began spilling from the Rathead’s maw.
“Hate Thorns.”
“Swamp Fireball.”
“Corpse Fog.”
Black thorns appeared in a row before it.
A pale fireball floated above its shoulder.
Poisonous fog crept from beneath its feet.
The Rathead wore a triumphant expression.
Each was a deadly shamanic spell possessing more than enough power to kill a lowly Whiteskin.
The boy must surely be terrified.
These spells were in an entirely different league from Savage Claw—
The Rathead’s mouth dropped open.
…He’s smiling?
“Screeeeech!”
Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting!
Die right—
“Savage Claw.”
Crunch!
The Rathead’s head soared into the air before falling onto the snow.