“What’s that?” The kids looked at me dubiously. The meaning wasn’t getting through. Well, they were children, after all.
“It’s ale,” I explained, as there was no easy way to describe “refined holy water.”
The doubt suddenly disappeared from their eyes.
“Oh, ale.”
“Yeah, ale.”
“He does like his drink,” said the older boy.
Looking at each other, the brothers obviously reached an agreement.
“All right, Hero! Follow us!”
The two young boys bolted from the house, taking off toward the mountains.
“Ah! W-wait!” their mother cried, but they didn’t even look back.
I bowed to the mother, then followed them.
Children really were rowdy, no matter the world. Despite their heavy panting, the boys raced up the steep slope behind the houses, their pace barely slacking. Were they not cold, dressed in their frayed and patchworked clothing? I myself was cold, even in my dragon rider’s flight suit.
“Over here!” one of them called to me from the top of a hill.
I caught up to find them standing under a great tree, a mat nailed into its trunk. The elder brother lifted the mat aside and shouted, “Old Man Badger! You have a visitor!”
So this hollow tree was the hermit’s so-called cave? Certainly not what I’d imagined. Perhaps a bear had once dug out this space to use for hibernation.
“If you don’t come out, we’ll smoke you out!” the kids screamed, and they began clacking rocks together, as if to strike a spark and start a fire. Oh, such little brats. This was how they treated their benefactor, who’d taught them the written word?
From inside a voice growled, “Shut up! I heard you, goddammit!”
The mat was flipped open. The old man who lurched out was just skin and bones, his hair wispy vestiges. The sack-like garment he wore could hardly be called clothing, and it just barely covered him.
“Run away!” the kids screamed, and they raced down the slope.
“Of course it’s Ciel’s brats again!” the old man grumbled. “Just when I was getting comfortable! Go away, brats! Don’t come again!”
Seeing the old man shake his fist and scream after them, the fleeing kids stopped below to look back and chuckle.
“Old Man Badger,” they yelled, “you have a guest!”
“I told you not to bring anyone!”
“He’s the hero!”
“Don’t be stupid! This man’s blowing smoke up your ass!”
“It’s true! He has a white dragon!”
“A white… Veralgon? It can’t be…”
It was then that the old man finally registered me.
“So you’re the hero who the temple called here?”
“For what it’s worth.”
The old man glared at me. His forceful, terrifying eyes seemed completely unsuited to his frail body, which looked to be on the brink of death.
“What’s the temple’s hero got to do with me? Did you come to arrest me?”
An ominous brand stood out on the man’s forehead—the mark of exile. Those who had been branded could no longer receive any protection under the law.
“I’m here to—”
“Yeah, I can tell… I’m not an idiot. Oi! You kids! Go home already!”
The kids had sneaked closer again, but the old man shooed them away. This time, the boys seemed to sense they were pushing him too far, and they turned back toward the village below.
“I get it,” he continued. “You wouldn’t have come on the dragon if you wanted to take me in. I can’t ride on them. So, you’re going to kill me on the spot.”
“No, just listen—”
“Then what is it? I’ve done as they ordered—I’ve stopped all my research into orcs! I haven’t written any of their words, and I haven’t even snorted my nose! What more could you want?”
“I’m telling you, I’m not here to punish—”
“For God’s sake, quit beating around the bush! Out with it, already!”
I sighed, then said, “I came to borrow your wisdom.”
“Wisdom? Ask the scholars, then. I left all the fruits of my research behind. No need to find me… You should be able to understand my work as long as you read the documents. Or can you not read?”
“I can read, but all your documents are long gone.”
When I said this, his eyes filled with suspicion.
“You really love beating around the bush. You plan to drag a confession out of me, then kill me! Ah, but there’s really no need for a confession, is there? Just kill a nameless old man, and no questions will be asked. Who’s to know? I’m sure Romwell has already told you all about me, anyway—that halfwit. Such an untrustworthy coward, and yet he’s so fixated on notions of loyalty. That’s why he won’t kill me, so long as I keep my word. How’s someone supposed to live like that, eh?”
I simply couldn’t follow his rambling rant. Who even was Romwell? Could that be the name of the rat-faced head priest? Considering this man’s circumstances, I couldn’t blame him for doubting me. I had an idea, though, about how I might gain some trust. I held up the glass bottle Worion had given me, and the hermit’s rant abruptly halted.
“This was entrusted to me by a certain high-ranking priest. Please, take it.”
“Th-this is…”
He snatched the bottle from my hands, popped the cork, and took a good whiff. Then, he resealed it with shaking hands, and glared at me again.
“Do you know what this is?”
“It’s distilled alcohol. I heard it’s valuable. I sampled one sip when it was given to me.”
“You fool! This is no ordinary spirit. This is from the first ten barrels Saint Horun ever brewed.”
“Who’s that?”
“You tasted it without even knowing who Saint Horun is? Your ignorance is staggering! You should be ashamed of yourself! Well then, listen up. Saint Horun was the name of the scholar who devised a way to distill this drink from ale. The contents of this bottle were made using his perfected technique, which means it has been over eighty years since this noble holy water was made. I know for a fact seven barrels had run dry before I came here, and I doubt even half of the rest remains. The barrels don’t leak, but for some reason the liquid in them disappears bit by bit over time. I’m sure God is stealing it. Yes, I’m sure God is a terrible drunkard. If he weren’t, he wouldn’t have shaped the world so crudely!”
I couldn’t get a word in. Had this gift not been to my advantage, after all?
“Oi, the guy who gave it to you… No, don’t say it. It was Worion, wasn’t it? Good grief, I used to think he was smart, but he turned out to be a fool. He should have savored this on his own, for however many years it lasted. Does he not understand it won’t last a night if he gives it to me? And you, don’t you find it strange? A priest as noble as I was, exiled for supposedly defacing a statue of God’s while in a drunken stupor? What idiotic charges, but no one dared question it. Worion knew the circumstances, and even he went along with it. Who do you think I am? But first of all—”
His words suddenly ceased, and he held his hand out to me…a filthy appendage covered in dirt and grime. I reached out to shake it, only for him to smack my hand away.
“No, you creep! I’m telling you to get me a cup! Or do you want this poor old man to drink straight from the bottle? I get it… You really are here to kill me!”
“I’m not. Give me a moment and I’ll find a cup.”
I rummaged through my bag but came up empty-handed. The cup I’d thought I had must be with the camping gear I’d left at the dragon house.
Left with little choice, I picked up a nearby stone around the size of my fist, while the old man watched me curiously. Holding the stone in my left hand, I projected a knife-sized spear of light from my right hand. A spear of light could cut almost anything, and with it, I hollowed out the rock into a cup. It was crudely shaped, but beggars can’t be choosers.
The old man’s eyes widened. “Huh…you can project a spear without using any magical implements.”
I was happy for the opportunity to demonstrate my hero’s special abilities. Maybe now I’d earned a little respect?
“Romwell must like you quite a bit.”
Hm? What did that mean?
“What’s with that face? He never told you? The art of wielding magic without the use of blessed equipment is only passed down to a select few of the Knights Templar. It’s not too difficult, once you know the trick, which is precisely why it’s only taught to those who have sworn absolute loyalty to the temple and proven their devotion. If just anyone who possesses mana could use magic without tools, the temple would lose much of its reason to even exist. The nobility would be outraged.”
I’d never heard about any of this.
I said, “This ability wasn’t given to me by the temple. When I was summoned to this world, God gave me the gift of mimicking any magic I witnessed.”
The old man’s eyes lit up.
“What an ability! Oh, I’d love to research it. So how do you go about copying magic? In the first place, how does that…” He suddenly quieted down again, his body appearing to wilt. “Eh, it’s impossible for me to research now. Anyway, it’s absurd. God gave you the ability to imitate magic? It would be more believable to just admit Romwell entrusted you with the skill. I can see you really are the hero, however, so what does the hero need from this sinful priest?”
I could finally get to the main point. What a long journey!
“I want to borrow your wisdom. Please teach me the language of the orcs.”
The hermit gave a scornful laugh. “I see. And what would you do once you learned it?”
How was I supposed to answer that? Honesty was probably the best policy.
“I intend to negotiate with them, and hopefully achieve peace.”