The Dirty Night

Because it was too late at night, the Lord and the Tribunal of Judgment decided to descend to the Village of Soria and stay for one night.

The villagers already knew what had happened earlier that evening at old Yondalf’s house, located at the top of the village.

Though it was late at night, the villagers cleared out the town hall and the slightly better homes, slaughtering geese and goats to prepare a meal.

They were only afraid that this spark of misfortune might jump to them, despite their deep faith, so they tried to offer the best hospitality possible to the Lord and his retinue.

Well-roasted meat, oat bread, and soup simmered with turnips, potatoes, and mistletoe were served in earthen bowls.

Yodel tore some bread, wrapped meat in it, and took a bite. Though he frowned slightly at the coarse taste, he soon forced a smile and praised the villagers.

“To receive such fine hospitality from you—I am most grateful as the Lord ruling this Duchy.”

“W-we only pray that you do not take offense at the humble welcome of our poor village.”

The sight of the village headman trembling and bowing his head pitifully made one feel pity.

Yodel gave an order to his attendant. The attendant rose and soon brought back a pouch of silver coins.

“I bestow this as reward for your hospitality—see that you do not lose your faith, nor your loyalty to the Duchy and to me, its Lord.”

“How could we not? We will do everything so that you may rest comfortably here.”

After sending away the village headman and residents, as Yodel and the Tribunal continued their feast, Morten quietly rose and headed toward the outskirts.

“Hm…?”

Seeing this, Fynel tilted his head, stopped eating, and quietly followed.

Morten left the village, heading toward the birch grove where Yondalf’s house stood. At the edge of the woods, he lingered for a while, then sat on a tree stump.

“There’s nothing unusual, so you don’t need to hide and watch, Captain of the Guard. Or rather, my dear Fynel.”

Hearing his own name called so familiarly behind his title, Fynel stepped out from behind a fir tree.

“You looked troubled, so I was only worried.”

“I know. You’ve always been more than a loyal commander—you’ve been my comrade…”

“And your lieutenant, too. Always struggling with a young, hot-headed knight-commander.”

“Indeed, that was so.”

“Being alone together in such a secluded place, it feels like old times. You may treat me comfortably, Sir Morten.”

“Is that so? Very well. I thank you for saying that.”

Morten looked around for another stump where he could sit facing him, but finding none, Fynel simply smiled as if it were fine and sat casually on the grass before him.

Morten smiled at the wildflowers blooming on the ground, remembering the old days when he had just become a knight-commander at a young age, and Fynel, his lieutenant, struggled to rein in his hot-blooded temper.

“Are your forehead and shins all right?”

“Ah… It has been a long time. I cannot even remember when last a blade came this close to my body.”

“Since you crossed blades with that heretic earlier, you seem to have been lost in thought.”

“Hahaha, are you trying to play the High Priest’s errand boy?”

“What a dreadful thing to say. Do you not trust me?”

“It is because I trust you that I can jest so.”

At those words Fynel smiled faintly. In truth, Morten deeply trusted him.

“I recall twenty years ago, when I was but a squire, pouring silver into the eyes of the priestesses by command. That faith—so pure, so untainted, when first embraced…”

“Is it not still the same even now?”

“Mm… Honestly, I cannot say it is. It is not a matter of shallow or deep faith. Rather, a more fundamental question.”

“A fundamental question…”

“Have you ever tried to recall when you were very young? Around six or seven, up to perhaps ten years old.”

Fynel tilted his head, lost in thought.

If he were six or seven, that was more than thirty years ago for Fynel. Even his first enlistment in the Guard at sixteen he remembered only in fragments; memories from six or seven were little more than scattered pieces.

“What I am about to say—can you take it merely as the drunken rambling of one intoxicated by the bright moon?”

“Do you still not trust me?”

“It is that troublesome of a matter.”

Fynel rose and placed his hand on the sword at his waist. Morten quietly watched the gesture.

Clang~!

The blade, catching the moonlight, flashed brightly.

“…!!!”

But Fynel, having drawn the sword, raised it toward the sky, then slowly lowered it at Morten’s feet.

“Speak your mind freely. I will hear it all. And when you are done, if you wish to take my head with that sword, then you will have no cause for worry.”

“You’ve struck home… Forgive my rudeness. It was not mistrust of you, but unease at the weight of the tale.”

Morten smiled faintly, picked up the sword, and returned it to Fynel.

“So then, Sir Morten, why did you ask about childhood memories?”

“When we were that young, the hymn we always recited before bed—the ode to Olrun.”

“…!”

At the word “Olrun”, Fynel’s face stiffened. He glanced about unconsciously to see if anyone had overheard, while Morten calmly continued speaking.

“On feast days, a priestess would come and tell us the stories of Olrun and Manafreya—of gods and heroes who fought dragons and giants. And then everyone would dance around the boxwood tree, singing hymns to the sound of flutes.”

“I remember. And surely, after the festival ended, everyone would…”

“Yes. The children would brew mistletoe, mix it with honey, and share it. The adults drank mead carefully prepared at the full moon. After that, they pressed their lips to each other’s foreheads: to the men, saying, ‘A strong heart like the warriors of the gods’, and to the women…hmm, what was it?”

“‘Wisdom and beauty like the daughters of Manafreya.’”

“You remember.”

“……”

It was a very dangerous story.

Ever since the foreign religion had entered this northern land, pushing out the traditional faith and culture to take their place, the names of the old gods and all symbols of them had been cast aside—erased, forgotten, deemed things to be destroyed.

If such memories of the past were spoken aloud as now, and overheard, they could be immediately denounced and bound to a stake.

“The Duchy of then and the Duchy of now—they have changed greatly.”

“Is that so?”

A foreboding crossed Fynel’s mind—that dangerous words might follow.

Though Morten told him to trust, Fynel wondered if it might be better not to hear this—for Morten’s sake. He had to decide whether to stop him here.

“Sir Morten…”

“No, it’s fine. To speak further—the weight and heat of that silver I poured still bind me in nightmares. Let me ask plainly: are we people who can go to heaven?”

“…All is entrusted to God.”

“Which god?”

“……”

“Between the Duchy then and now, which time do you think was better?”

“It cannot be judged so carelessly.”

“Fair enough. Let me change the question. Between the people then and the people now—which bore brighter smiles?”

“……”

“I’ll take your silence as answer enough.”

“Thank you for your consideration. It’s only that I worry about you, Sir Morten…”

“Do not worry—I am not saying I abandon our faith. Only that, when I look at its judgment and severity, I wonder: has this God, whom the Duchy and Nordenheim accepted, truly brought us peace and love?”

“Perhaps anyone would have such doubts.”

A short reply, but enough.

Morten looked at Fynel with a simple smile.

“I was only curious. And besides—earlier, when I drew my sword, I fought that heretic…no, that brave warrior, did I not?”

“Yes. It was a perilous moment.”

“Had the archers not struck his legs and feet, I would surely have died to his blade.”

“Is that not uncertain?”

“No. You know as well as I—men like us can sense an opponent’s ability even before blades truly clash. Once struck, you can feel whether your head will stay on your shoulders…or not.”

“Hahaha, honestly, it has been so long since I fought on such a battlefield that even that feeling has grown faint.”

“That is precisely it. Whether I died, or the warrior died—that fact itself matters little. When I drew my sword, for the first time in ages, I felt my heart pounding madly, my blood surging backward. The moment a warrior’s heart truly beats. How long has it been since then!”

Morten wore an expression of sheer rapture. Fynel looked at his profile with eyes mixed with admiration and envy.

“My rambling has gone on too long. Let us rise now.”

Morten rose from the stump and held out his hand to Fynel, who sat crouched. As he took it and stood, Fynel’s eyes turned toward the moon.

“Ah!”

“What is it?”

“The color of the moon!”

Morten followed Fynel’s gaze upward.

The moon glowed redder than usual—as if blood spilled on gold had spread, ominous and rising.

When the full moon turns crimson,

In the celestial soul borne by the last Oracle,

On the night when vile evil invades the nest,

It shall begin…

That forbidden old prophecy rose in both Morten’s and Fynel’s minds.

After staring long at the moon, their eyes met, and each knew what the other was thinking. But it was a thing that must never be spoken, nor believed.

Shaking his head as if it were nothing, Morten turned first and walked back toward the village.

“We both have had many wearying matters of late. Today especially so…”

Fynel’s steps followed that heavy back.

The best house in the village, that of the headman, naturally fell to the Lord.

Though it was hardly comparable to the fine, ornate beds of the castle, for the countryside it was decent enough—and upon it, Yodel was embracing a village maiden.

Unable to refuse the duke’s demands, the headman reluctantly chose a girl who had no betrothal yet and sent her to Yodel’s chamber.

Yodel pressed his lips to those of the plain, freckled country girl and rolled his eyes with delight.

“Hehehe…today has been quite a hard day. I, the duke, will favor you specially—you should count it an honor!”

Even as he took the village maiden, Yodel could not easily forget the image of Elin.

That freshness, that mystery—and though he loathed to admit it, something sacred about her.

His enormous frustration at not possessing her twisted into filthy lust, driving him to disgrace himself even here, in the very village that had welcomed them.

‘The priestess… She was truly beautiful.’

The image of Elin, limp in his grasp when he had choked her earlier, would not leave his mind.

After a while,

the weeping of the maiden beside him, exhausted and limp, grated on Yodel as he tried to rest.

“I wish to rest now—leave.”

With these cruel words, Yodel flung forward a small pouch of silver coins he had prepared.

Hesitating, the maiden picked up the pouch, her face wet with tears. Her twisted, pitiful expression only stoked Yodel’s fury.

“I said leave! Quickly!”

“F-forgive me! Please, Duke!”

Duke. In the end, it was his position that frightened her so. Even when wronged, she dared not resist, begging forgiveness instead, watching his temper.

‘Tch, really now…’

Burdened by guilt at his own vile act, Yodel reluctantly spoke.

“What is your name?”

“Kari… I am called Kari…”

“Very well, Kari. Take another pouch with you.”

The maiden snatched up the second pouch Yodel tossed and hurried from the chamber.

“A tiring day indeed.”

Muttering idly, Yodel lay down his weary body and sought sleep.

And elsewhere, even more grotesque sins were unfolding.