System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 104
The morning sun had just risen, and the breeze that blew down the main street still carried a bite of cold.
Roy pushed through the surging crowd and came to the east side of Ellander, to the red-brick, green-tiled Bakery. The door stood open, and Old Hark sat upright on the long bench in the yard, staring at the sky as if lost.
Only a single night had passed, yet the old man’s once sparse, dry hair had taken on broad swathes of gray and white, his body bent and stooping, all the vigor of youth gone; his expression was utterly dazed.
It wasn’t until the boy stepped up and stood before him that his murky eyes regained focus.
“You’ve come, Master Roy...” His voice was as weak as a dying man’s, “wait a moment, I’ll fetch your fee right away.”
“No need to hurry...” Roy followed Old Hark into the kitchen and only then noticed a “Closed” sign leaning by the door, not yet hung. The oven that normally burned from dawn till dusk was cold, implements lay neatly to each side, and the whole place had the forlorn air of a shop about to shut for good.
“Is everything taken care of with Barshel? Need any help?”
“You’ve done enough,” Old Hark said weakly, moving slowly to a rack and lifting down a bulging money pouch, “I’ve cleaned his body, gone to the sheriff and filed the report, detailed the cause and course of the accident, now we only await burial.” He offered the pouch. “This is the agreed payment, please count it.”
The boy took the pouch and weighed it in his hand; it seemed a little heavier than the agreed 150 Crowns.
He did not count the coins, instead stuffing the pouch into his breast and studying Old Hark’s face. The man’s eyes were rimmed with bloodshot veins, the skin of his face sagging into deep grooves and greasy folds; he had clearly not slept a wink all night.
“When is the burial?”
“Tomorrow ... I bribed the mortuary men, I want the boy to stay at home one more night ... to look at him a little longer.”
The boy nodded.
“What will you do now, will you keep the Bakery going?”
“I—” Old Hark suddenly choked, lost control and covered his face as he sobbed.
Roy shook his head at the sight; he recalled the words he hadn’t finished yesterday. It was time to give the old man a reason to keep living.
“There’s something I didn’t get to tell you. When I inspected the body last night I found a wound on Barshel’s right flank made by a sharp weapon; by my experience it was a stab from a steel sword, though it didn’t strike any vital organs.”
Otherwise, even with the spider web sealing the wound, Barshel would have bled out from internal injuries long before.
Old Hark’s shoulders trembled at the news, surprise creasing his face—his son, killed by a Metamorph Spider, why would there be a sword wound?
Roy watched his expression and asked, “When your son was near death, wracked with pain, he mentioned two strange words, do you remember them?”
“Emily, White Rose ... I don’t know who Emily is, but White Rose—” Old Hark murmured, then suddenly looked up, his lips trembling. “Do you mean the Order of the White Rose of Ellander stabbed my boy? But they have no business with him.”
“The motive is unclear.” Roy paused, “it needs further investigation.”
“In any case, your son died because of the Metamorph Spider.” The boy worried the old man might rush off to confront the order head-on; judging by his temper yesterday, it was not impossible, “Don’t act rashly. I think ... even if Barshel has gone to the next world, he would want you to live on.”
“Thank you for your concern. Old Hark has lived in Ellander more than twenty years, I know how entrenched the Order of the White Rose of Ellander’s power is. I won’t be foolish and walk into their trap ... the boy is gone, this old man will not be as rash as yesterday.” Old Hark drew a long breath and clenched his fist. “But as his father I have a duty to find out where that wound came from, to get justice for him, by my own means.”
Anger lit his eyes, an ember burning in the aged face that suddenly gained a spark of life.
“I’ll help you.”
Old Hark shook his head, resolute in refusing the Witcher’s offer. “Yesterday my heedlessness nearly got you killed. Let this old skeleton bear it this time.”
“What do you plan to do?” Roy felt disappointment, then relief, and did not press further.
This matter concerned the Order of the White Rose of Ellander and would be hard to resolve quickly. His current priority was the Trial of the Grasses.
Only as a full Witcher would he be fit to trade strength with the Knights.
“Since Barshel is gone, what use are the savings I’ve kept from running the Bakery for decades? In a city like Ellander, few people truly don’t crave coin...”
“Even a White Rose Knight, who mouths honor and virtue as his life, will turn base before Crowns and Oren.” Roy understood as if a curtain lifted.
“Safety first, Old Hark, you must measure yourself and not overreach. In two days I’ll be at the Temple of Melitele for a while. If your investigation runs into trouble or you find anything, contact me.”
“I will. If I need Master’s help, you’ll be the first I call.”
...
The boy left the Bakery slowly.
Mulling over the order, he wandered the streets and, before he knew it, found himself at Ellander’s central square, beside the fountain crowned by a woman’s statue.
The square swarmed with people.
A hundred or so men, women and children formed a ring; above the din, the sound of drums rang loud.
Relying on his Agility, Roy slipped through the crowded bodies and reached the center.
Then the sight before him brightened his mood: familiar faces, unseen for a week, were giving their all to the performance.
Corin, bare-armed in a sleeveless leather jacket, chest and arms corded with muscle, circled the crowd waving a torch lit in his right hand. He drew in a deep breath, his chest and cheeks swelling, and blew once toward the flame—bright fire lanced through the air like a straight burning sword and held as such for a full ten seconds.
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