Chapter 829 — The North
Blade of Dawn · Page 1 of 4
Magic-powered vehicles bearing the imperial emblem crushed their way across the permafrost of the Far North, still stubbornly frozen, the music of wheels and engines breaking the silence of the wilderness; vehicle after vehicle, loaded with men and supplies, rolled along the Imperial Highway—a road that had only just been entirely rebuilt—winding across it into a dark brown river of iron.
The contours of the northern mountains grew ever sharper on the horizon, and the clear, high blue sky hung like a curtain behind the ranges, glittering in the light of the Giant Sun.
Through the carriage window, Byron gazed at a landscape utterly unlike that of the south, at the ranges sheathed in ice and snow; across from him sat the Duchess Victoria, quiet as an ice sculpture.
Byron had been ordered north to build up the Empire's coastline on that land at the far northern edge of the continent, and at the same time to act as the Empire's representative in receiving guests from the Holy Dragon Duchy. The Duchess Victoria, having finished her report at the imperial capital, was likewise returning north. Their paths happened to lie together.
The foreign scenery grew ever clearer before his eyes, and even a man of such blunt temperament as Byron could not help but marvel. "I never thought I'd one day set foot in the northernmost reaches of this country—and as a general, no less... Fate is a thing beyond all figuring."
Victoria, sitting opposite, looked over at the sound of his voice. "I hear you were once a mercenary who roamed far and wide, General Byron."
"Roamed far and wide..." Byron smiled and shook his head. "Back then, fighting off a few bandits and wild beasts in the woods and valleys around a town counted as being battle-hardened. Having visited two or three cities was enough to boast of having roamed far and wide. The wildest tales a pack of mercenaries ever spun over drinks in a tavern wouldn't amount to a single railway line of today's Tepor-Cecil. People in those days... ah."
The mercenary knight, nearing fifty and having lived through everything from the very bottom of society to the very top of the Empire, spoke with a trace of self-mockery, yet a hint of memory crept onto his face despite himself. "But then again, those dozen-odd years as a mercenary, I did meet no small number of interesting fellows. I remember I led a very small company back then, and in it there was a swordswoman named... Elaiza, or Elaina, something like that. Tough as any man, she was. A northerner. Said her family came from a place called Kazabole... To us in those days, that was practically another world, it was so far away."
"Kazabray," Victoria corrected. "Near Winterhold. That's no short way from the southern marches. How did your friend end up in the south?"
"Supposedly she traveled with her parents as traders when she was small, and the family caravan ran into bandits near Pompeii... or maybe it was the local lord's black gloves. The whole family died, only her and an old servant left. Then the old servant died too, and she drifted south somehow... That's roughly how it went, though no one knew if it was true. Mercenaries love to invent outlandish origins and histories for themselves—it's the capital they use to boast and to prove they're 'one of a kind.' In reality they're probably just ruffians who ran off from some nearby village, and that sword of theirs was pieced together from scraps bought off some down-and-out old veteran."
Perhaps she had never heard such a story from the "lower depths," or perhaps she had taken some interest in the "mercenary" trade—a profession now sliding into decline these past two years—and the tales behind it, for Victoria actually showed a flicker of curiosity. "You became a knight later. What of your comrades from back then? Did that swordswoman ever return north?"