The Return of the Iron-blood Sword Hound

Chapter 44: The Fiancée (2)

The fortifications of Morg came into view.

Huge earthen walls stood in a circle, dotted with wooden and iron watchtowers.

Camu and Vikir were walking around the fortress, talking about this and that.

"The barbarians are raiding the ruby mines and plundering the native slaves and crops. They're taking the slaves not to save their own people, but to sell them as slaves elsewhere."

"Exactly. There are many barbarian tribes, and they do not consider each other kin, so they would not hesitate to sell criminals of their own tribe or captives of other tribes into slavery."

"I see, and I'm glad I don't have to answer the stupid question of why barbarians fight amongst themselves."

Camu reached out and gestured to the mud wall in front of them.

"These walls were built by Earth and Iron mages for a month."

The size of the wall was enormous.

If ordinary people had built it, it would have taken a year, not a month.

It would have taken hundreds of men to build it.

Vikir moved closer to the earthen wall.

Then he saw something strange.

There was a grid of steel beams embedded in the hardened earth wall, but they were only visible to Vikir because of the holes in the wall.

The earthen wall was pockmarked with holes that looked like the surface of a biscuit.

Hundreds of them.

Vikir studied the size of the holes.

They looked to be about three centimeters in diameter.

"...The marks of the Balak."

Vikir's sharp eyes were identifying the enemy, the famous barbarian tribe beyond the Black Mountains.

Camu nodded.

"The Balak are the most troublesome. Their arrows carry a powerful aura, and many a man has been killed by them while standing guard at night. They can punch through an earthen wall two or three meters thick, so do you have what it takes to defeat them?"

"Even shield magic won't stop it. They fly so fast."

"Yes. That's why my uncle almost got himself in trouble once, not long ago."

The camel smirked.

Not long ago, he said, he'd been sniped at while searching for Mad King Adolf himself.

"I think the arrow pierced his shield, and it freaked him out. He was lucky to escape with his life, but his pride must have been bruised."

"Come to think of it, my lord," said Vikir, "you had a similar experience, and I heard that you had a scar on the bridge of your nose."

Vikir remembered the scar on the bridge of Hugo's nose.

Wounding Swordmaster Hugo and Class 6 Master Adolf, Balak's archery was indeed something to be wary of.

"It seems the barbarians have some talent. Who is it?"

"I think it's a woman, but she's too far away to make out her identity, and they wear black paint on their faces, so it's hard to memorize."

Camu threw up his hands in annoyance.

"Anyway. The Balak are the most threatening, even though they only number about three hundred, and the next most threatening, the Rococo, are ten times less numerous."

A warlike tribe, the Balak.

They are a nomadic, plundering, warlike barbarian people who belong neither here nor there.

They have been on the move for unknown reasons in the last seven years, and have come into increasing conflict with Baskerville.

The Morg, who have recently leased some of Baskerville's territory to develop ruby mines, are equally annoyed with Balak.

Camu looked out over the water on the distant horizon and spoke.

"The Morg have their fingers crossed, but... barbarian raids are so stealthy that it's hard to detect them. Besides, we have a gap in our vigilance about once a month."

"Gaps?"

Vikir asked, and Camu arched an eyebrow.

"The Morg are a matriarchal society, so women are overwhelmingly in charge. Even the wizards who stand guard are women."

"But what does that have to do with the gap?"

"Well, about once a month, .... Because there's magic."

"But you're mages, aren't you?"

Vikir asked, and the camo opened his mouth for a moment, then chuckled.

"You've got a bit of a stupid side to you, don't you?"

"...?"

"Okay. I like it. Bonus points for being a man's man."

It took Vikir a few slaps on the shoulder before he understood what the camo meant.

Just then.

"Booyo!"

In the distance, someone was looking for the camo.

A female wizard rushed to the cage and bowed before him.

"The hermitage's search party has captured a barbarian scout alive!"

A prisoner had been taken.

* * *

The one being dragged away in ropes was a man with brown skin and black hair.

From the tattoos on his body, Vikir could guess his tribe.

"You're from the shaman tribe, Rokoko.

I don't know how he ended up here, but his fate is already sealed.

Morg Camu.

She faced her captive with a fearsome aura.

"Did you get any information?"

The mages beside her cringed.

"We're not talking, for now."

"What about mind magic?"

"It doesn't work. The powerful spell makes it impossible to read their memories."

The camouflage turned away.

He walked over and stood in front of his captive.

"You raided Morg's fortress once before and took some slaves."

"...."

"Among those slaves was a Morg woman. She is my half-sister. Her name is Rose."

Camu glared at Rococo's captive with searing eyes.

"What did you do with her?"

The captive's tightly closed mouth slowly opened.

"?????."

At the word, the camo raised an eyebrow.

"Interpretation. Where is the barbarian returnee?"

But no one answered him.

They just glanced at each other uneasily.

One wizard spoke up apologetically.

"They were all killed or taken away when the barbarians attacked, Vice-Captain."

"Then there is no one to translate his words?"

"For the moment, no."

It was an awkward moment.

Everyone had a puzzled look on their faces.

"I speak a little Rococo."

Vikir stepped forward.

Camu stared at him, wide-eyed.

"You can do that, too? What are you not good at?"

"Not very well. I just know the basic vocabulary."

Vikir stood in front of Camu.

Camu asked.

"Ask him where my half-brother is. The girl you kidnapped in the last raid. She has red hair, red eyes, and unusually white skin. She's about 12 years old."

Vikir nodded, then turned to Rococo's captive in front of him.

"?? ???? ?? ??????"

A short reply came back.

"???"

Vikir's expression hardened for a moment.

Then he turned to the camel and shook his head.

"He's dead."

At that, the faces of all the Morg turned grim.

He had expected death when he was kidnapped, but hearing it was a different story.

Then, Camu stepped forward.

She growled in a low voice at her captive.

"When this war is over, your language will be the language of hell."

Those were the last words the prisoner heard.

Camu said.

"The delegate from the Light Party is being treated now. The Delegate of the Dark Party is now inspecting the opposite estate, and I, Morg Camu, a member of the Council and Deputy Fortressmaster, will make the judgment here."

That was the end of the summary trial.

And now.

With a flick of his hand, Camu drew a circle of magic in the air.

Then.

...Poof!

A large iron skewer sprouted from the ground.

The iron elements hidden among the earth elements came together and exploded, and the skewer that formed impaled Rococo's prisoner in one fell swoop.

From groin to crown.

The prisoner struggled, unable to even scream.

He was nailed high up in the air, impaled on a metal skewer.

Flames began to crackle beneath him.

Crackle!

The skewer burns. In the blink of an eye, the camouflage had burned Rococo's captive to death.

All the slaves who saw it looked at it in fear.

It was the same with the people of Morgue.

Purr, purr, purr, purr, purr!

The sound of someone being skewered and burned to a crisp.

Black powder scattered in the wind along with the smell of burning meat.

In front of that terrifying fire, the camel smiled nonchalantly.

"Let's go."

She grabbed Vikir from beside her and they were out of there in no time.

Everyone around them could only stare after them with a faint sense of dread.

* * *

Meanwhile.

Back behind the earthen wall, Vikir was a little surprised.

Not that he was surprised to see a man skewered alive and burning.

Vikir had spent decades rolling on the battlefields before his return, and had seen much worse.

It was the expression on the camo's face that startled Vikir.

"...Blah, blah, blah!"

The camel had gone to a place where no one was around, and now it was crying.

His face contorted, his eyes red, tears streaming down his chubby cheeks.

Vikir's mouth was half open in disbelief.

Oh, my God, to see the weather goddess crying.

Of course, she had seen it when she was eight years old, but it felt very different now that she was 15.

'But I'm still 15,' I thought.

After staring at the crying camel for a while, Vikir finally spoke up.

"...Why are you crying?"

"Why would I cry!"

The camel screeched and looked around for anyone to hear.

Vikir closed his mouth for a moment, then opened it again.

"You must have been very close to your brother."

"I was. She was very protective of me, an innocent, good child, not fit for Morg."

After speaking, Camu squatted down against the earthen wall.

They were about the same height, but somehow she seemed much smaller now.

Vikir thought to himself.

"Don't be so sad, he must have gone in peace."

When Vikir offered his awkward words of comfort, the camel snapped back.

"Who do you think you are?"

The question was a mixture of anger and sadness.

Vikir noticed.

The camel understood him.

"I'm a genius. I can't talk, so I can't listen."

"...."

"Tell me straight. Tell me if I heard right."

Vikir could only nod with a heavy expression at Camus' words.

Rococo's captive's last words hadn't been "dead.

"Eaten.

The Rokoko are a tribe of shamans and cannibals.

It is their custom to eat their captives.

Hearing Vikir's confirmation, Camu began to tear up again.

"...I'm sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't protect you. I'm sorry for you."

Camu cried and cried.

Vikir stood still beside her and remained silent.

Surprised that Morg Camu, the queen of red and black, of fire and skewers, would hide such a thing behind her mask.

...And after some time had passed.

Camu rose from her seat.

She dabbed at her cheeks with her sleeve, wiping away the dried tears.

She returned to her original cold expression.

She looked at Vikir, who stood off to the side.

"That wasn't so bad."

"...?"

"I would have killed him if he'd shown any flimsy sympathy."

There was no way a lowly threat from a fifteen-year-old girl was going to have any effect on a hundred-year-old man who'd seen it all, but Vikir gave a grim nod anyway.

...Whatever.

Sometimes it's comforting to just be there.

Not knowing what to do with a 15-year-old girl who was crying, staying still had paid off this time.

Next, Camu patted Vikir on the chest.

"No time to mourn, boy. We need to recover and get revenge as soon as possible."

"...."

"Come with me. There's something we need to do together."

The camo sounded quite determined.

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