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Chapter 2: The Mercenaries
Before Orville began his tale, he pulled a necklace from his pocket—a simple brass chain polished smooth, with a beautiful crystal pendant hanging from it. Etched delicately on the pendant were the words: Freya.
He held the necklace up for the young girl to see and said, "This was something she carried with her at all times. Her name likely comes from this, though in truth, it belongs to her mother, Your Highness."
"Her mother?" The girl cradled the necklace in her slender hand, her expression unchanged.
"Everton's wife. She died seventeen years ago during that turmoil."
"Then this girl must be Everton's only heir?"
"Precisely."
"If Lord Orville is here recounting this, I assume the girl has successfully escaped danger. Is that correct?" the princess asked.
"In essence, yes, but the process was rather unusual," the middle-aged man replied coolly, nodding once. His brow twitched slightly as if recalling something amusing.
"Huh?" The princess raised an eyebrow, her silvery-gray eyes glinting faintly.
"It primarily concerns the young man involved."
"So we return to him again?"
"Not entirely. But throughout the ordeal, he played a peculiar role. It may sound like a trivial statement now, but their escape was riddled with unpredictability—there were moments so dire even I struggled to intervene. Many wouldn’t believe how precarious things became, yet somehow, he managed to pull through every time."
Orville paused, a cold smirk tugging at his lips. "To put it bluntly, compared to certain incompetents, that young man might just be the sole reason Madara tasted defeat in this campaign."
"Oh?" The princess's eyes brightened further.
"And there’s more—he acquired something remarkable along the way," the older man added, nostalgia creeping into his tone. "But forgive me, Your Highness; allow me to leave that detail shrouded in mystery for now."
"Now you’ve piqued my interest even further. A young man who earns such praise from Lord Orville himself? What manner of person could he be? Alas, time grows short. Please, begin your story."
With a curt nod, Orville stepped back and proceeded to recount the events of that fateful night…
…….
The sharp, melodious whistle cut through the air, reminiscent of a nightingale’s song—but Freya knew better. This was no serenade; it was a warning. Turning swiftly, she spotted four or five unfamiliar figures closing in on her. She realized too late that her earlier actions had drawn unwanted attention.
Without hesitation, she shoved aside Roma’s distant relative and bolted toward the house. Behind her, the pursuers quickened their pace, but Freya was already inside, slamming the bedroom door shut and overturning a cabinet to block the hallway.
The pounding began almost immediately, each thud reverberating in her chest. Her heart raced as she scanned the room, spotting the window. Steeling herself, she braced her arms over her head and leapt through the wooden lattice frame.
Though protected by The Half-Body Armor of the Wind Sovereign, the impact still sent jolts of pain shooting through her arms and forehead. Rolling to absorb the fall, Freya scrambled to her feet in the alley behind the street. Looking up, she spotted Su stumbling toward her from the other end of the narrow passageway.
But Su’s face was deathly pale, as though she’d seen a ghost.
"Su—" Freya called out, but her voice caught in her throat.
Above them, countless pinpricks of blue light converged toward the center of the sky. At first, Freya didn’t comprehend what they were, standing frozen in confusion. Then realization struck—arrows.
Arrows tipped with soulfire, crafted by Madara’s skeletal archers. Memories of Buchi flooded back, and Freya shouted a warning before diving to shield Su beneath her.
The rain of arrows descended mercilessly, pelting rooftops with deafening cracks. Thin tiles shattered under the weight of Madara’s specially forged conical bolts, and screams erupted within the houses. Beneath Freya, Su trembled violently—though Freya herself wasn’t faring much better. Her face drained of color, her pulse hammering erratically.
Several arrows struck the swirling green feathers of wind surrounding her body, deflecting harmlessly outward. Unaware that The Half-Body Armor granted three points of protection via its ethereal wind barrier and two additional points from the armor itself, Freya believed death loomed imminent. Eyes squeezed shut, she remained steadfast, shielding Su despite her terror.
After what felt like an eternity—but was merely a minute—the barrage subsided. Slowly, both girls opened their eyes, trembling as they exchanged glances. Fear lingered deep in their gazes.
“Sk-sk-skeletons… outside,” Su stammered, struggling to breathe.
Freya froze, then felt a chill settle over her. Madara’s forces had entered the city. She hadn’t doubted Brandon’s warnings, but she hadn’t expected them to arrive so soon. Only now did she understand why he’d been so insistent about timing.
Pulling herself together, the future Valkyrie grabbed Su’s hand and yanked her upright. “Su, we need to go.”
“Where?” Su asked, disoriented.
“Away. We have to leave this place.” Freya’s mind raced. She finally grasped the immense pressure Brandon had been under. For now, she resolved to take one step at a time until they reached him.
“I need to return. My father’s still at the shop.”
“I’ll come with you.”
Su nodded.
Bonneau Market lay west of Ridenburg, near the Usson River, while the Copper Dragon Tales tavern stood along the main road between Bonneau and Traveler’s Bridge. The distance wasn’t great, but by the time Freya and Su arrived, flames engulfed the western gate, drawing a crowd onto the streets.
The evening had already been fraught with unrest: first, the fire at the noble council hall, then frequent troop movements. Rumors spread like wildfire among the townsfolk. Some believed Madara’s army had surrounded the city; others thought internal strife among the nobility was to blame. None suspected undead legions had infiltrated.
Pushing through the throng, Freya and Su found Retto, the tavern owner, and his patrons gathered outside, gawking at the inferno consuming the western gate.
Spotting her father, Su rushed into his arms like a fledgling returning to its nest. Retto blinked in surprise, patting his daughter’s back to calm her. Leaning close, Su whispered urgently in his ear. Retto’s expression darkened. He glanced at Freya, nodding in gratitude, then addressed the mercenaries clustered around him—many of whom Freya recognized as regular customers.
Retto clapped his hands together, drawing everyone's attention as the crowd quieted and all eyes turned to him. Amidst the murmurs, one cheeky voice piped up with a jest: "What's up, old Retto? Are you going to treat us to drinks because of the big fireworks?"
The crowd erupted into cheers at the mere suggestion.
But Retto responded. “Listen up! Drinking can wait for another day. Madara’s breached the city walls.”
At first, the declaration elicited blank stares. Several seconds passed before comprehension dawned, followed by stunned silence.
“For real?” Disbelief hung heavy in the air.
“Su told me,” Retto admitted. “She wouldn’t lie.”
Freya frowned. Discussing such news publicly risked inciting panic. Yet Retto either hadn’t considered this—or had ulterior motives. Given his character, the latter seemed more plausible.
It took a moment for the gravity of the situation to sink in. Finally, someone ventured hesitantly, “What do we do?”
Rather than fleeing or panicking, everyone present seemed focused on finding a solution. Observing their reactions, Freya realized the bond between Retto and his patrons ran deeper than mere commerce.
“Fight our way out!” one voice suggested.
“Yes, together!” another chimed in.
“But how?” came the inevitable question.
If Madara attacked from the west, logic dictated the eastern gate would offer safety. However, seasoned mercenaries understood basic tactics. Eruin sieges often involved encircling three sides while focusing assaults on one. Whether the attack aimed to ambush or besiege depended on strategy—and Madara’s objectives remained unclear. Were the undead here to kill, conquer, plunder, or achieve some greater goal?
Predicting the intentions of the dead posed a significant challenge against Madara’s forces.
Debate swirled, but no decisive plan emerged. Growing impatient, Freya hesitated before blurting out, “I—I think I know someone who can lead us out of the city!”
Her words silenced the crowd, drawing curious stares. Someone whistled teasingly. “Isn’t that the same lass from earlier?”
Under the weight of their scrutiny, Freya flushed. She hadn’t intended to speak up, fearing Brandon might resent her decision. Yet reflecting on his plight, she reasoned he sought allies—not obstacles. If these mercenaries could unite under a common cause, perhaps they stood a chance.
But how to rally them?
Doubt gnawed at Freya. Could she, a mere militia captain, command battle-hardened mercenaries? Still, she steadied herself. Worst case, she’d try and fail. Clutching her sword nervously to her chest, she waited.
Retto broke the tension. “This lass saved my daughter earlier.”
“And how can we trust you?” a skeptic challenged.
Freya drew a breath. “You can trust me because those guards chasing me weren’t acting without reason. We’re militiamen from Buchi, which fell to Madara two days ago. We barely escaped with our lives to warn Ridenburg—but the nobles ignored us.”
She paused, letting her words sink in. “Do any of you truly expect salvation from them?”
“Hardly. Those maggots.”
“Maggots indeed. To that, I’ll drink!”
“To drinking!” Voices echoed agreement.
“So you claim there’s a way past Madara’s forces?” Retto interjected.
Freya nodded firmly.
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