Chapter 38: Stolen Goods

  That night, Ethan was woken by the smell of blood emanating from his own body.

  He had already taken a bath and changed his clothes. But as he lay in bed, drifting into a drowsy half-sleep, he immediately caught a whiff of the thick, metallic stench that had lingered in his nostrils earlier that day. The sounds of breaking bones, tearing flesh, and goblins’ dying screams echoed faintly in his ears. Waves of sensation—like the feel of his knife sinking into living bodies—washed over his hands, mingling with the smell of blood and surging into his mind.

  During the life-or-death fight, this feeling had plunged him into a primal, beastly frenzy: I don’t want to die, so you must die. But once back in this peaceful setting—after eating a carefully prepared meal, discussing matters calmly with others, and lying in the softest bed at Bracada’s finest inn—once he truly felt like a human being again, these bestial memories only made him sick. Human and beastly instincts could not coexist harmoniously in his body; their clashing and repulsion left him feeling nauseated.

  Ethan got up, left his room, and went to the inn’s backyard, hoping the wind would clear his head.

  The lights and noise from the tavern up front still buzzed on. In the backyard, dry air swept in from the west. Ethan breathed in the scent of this frontier highland, and his mind seemed to clear a little. He let out a contented sigh—until a retching sound suddenly cut through the wind.

  Not far ahead, a man was bent over, one hand braced against the wall, the other clutching his stomach as he vomited into the dirt. He retched violently, as if trying to heave up every last thing inside him. Even when there was nothing left to spit out, he still gagged, tears and snot streaming down to his lips, mixing with saliva and dripping onto the ground.

  Finally, he seemed to exhaust his last bit of strength. He swayed to his feet, and the light from the tavern painted his face a dull red. Weariness had turned his masculine features into a sorry, haggard mess. Ethan recognized him as Rodhart.

  Rodhart saw Ethan too. He splashed water from a nearby horse-trough onto his face, wiped it with his sleeve, and looked somewhat revived.

  "First time killing someone?" Ethan asked. He knew many warriors reacted this way after taking a life for the first time. He felt uneasy too, but nowhere near as badly as Rodhart. "Strictly speaking, they weren’t even human."

  Rodhart took a breath and shook his head. "I’d never even killed a chicken before today." He had killed at least a dozen goblins with his own hands. After a long silence, he spoke: "I grew up listening to tales of heroes in battle. I always dreamed of charging across the battlefield, surrounded by clashing swords and flying sparks. Back when I studied swordsmanship and combat at Knight School, I’d daydream about stabbing enemies, cutting off a general’s head with one strike. For years, these were just vague ideas in my head—I’d gotten used to thinking of ‘killing’ as just a word. Today, I finally did it with my own hands… but…” His face turned pale.

  "Never mind enemies—they were just goblins. But the moment I remember they can speak human language, that they live alongside humans in many places… they’re half-human, in a way. I didn’t care when I was tense, but now I can’t sleep. I keep seeing that sword I thrust in today, the blood spurting out, the feel in my hand of something that could speak, just like me…" He grimaced in pain, as if about to vomit again.

  "Killing isn’t easy," Ethan said, stepping over and patting him on the shoulder. "You’ll get used to it. And you have to—if you don’t want to be killed yourself." Without realizing it, he was repeating the words others had once told him.

  "Thank you for your advice," Rodhart said, his formal tone making Ethan uncomfortable.

  "I used to only imagine justice, heroes, and battle in my head. But in reality, I’ve learned they’re just things prettied up in stories. I naively believed in justice, and it got the villagers killed. I thought I’d be a warrior hero, but now I know killing is too hard for me." He looked at Ethan sincerely. "It’s from you that I learned what attitude you need to survive in reality. You saved me and the villagers, and today you solved a situation I thought was hopeless. I truly admire you—you’re a hero in the real world."

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  Ethan felt the tavern’s fire was too bright; even the faint light spilling over made his face burn. He wanted to say something humble, but found there was nothing to be humble about. So he only said: "Actually… I was just doing what I wanted to do." Suddenly, he remembered the hearty dwarves he’d often seen in Kalendor, how they befriended people. He copied their manner, holding out his hand and saying: "Enough talk. If you don’t mind, let’s be friends."

  Rodhart froze, then smiled. He reached out and shook Ethan’s hand.

  "Can you do me a favor?" Ethan asked.

  "I’d go through fire and water for you," Rodhart replied.

  The next day, Ethan had Rodhart escort Chris back to the capital. He stayed in Bracada—there was something truly important he needed to do here.

  The problem was how to do it. That was what plagued him. Was he supposed to storm the orc fortress alone and steal the book back? He remembered clearly how, half a year earlier, a handful of orcs had massacred their entire group on that mountain. The difference between ogres, werewolves, and goblins was like that between lions and mangy dogs. Charging in recklessly would get him killed a hundred times over.

  Wracking his brain for ideas, Ethan thought of Lord Bolgan. That man’s big head seemed to hold more sense than it looked. He decided to ask for his help—though he couldn’t tell the full truth. Instead, Ethan showed him the letter of appointment the bishop had given him, claiming the book was a vital church relic that must be recovered.

  Unlike other officials, the church’s name seemed to hold no sway over this man, who lived by practicality. This was evident from Bracada’s landscape: the entire city had only one shoddy little church, no better than the inns. Some priests even had to live in inn rooms, listening to the noise of prostitutes and drunks while performing their sacred duties.

  Even so, Lord Bolgan did his best to help Ethan—he was personally concerned about the orc fortress rumors too. They captured a few goblins and interrogated them secretly, but got no valuable information. These ordinary goblins knew little about the orc fortress; it seemed only the leaders of their clans were in the know. The goblins planned to rob as much as they could here, then flee to the fortress to escape imperial troops. The loot they’d stolen had already been gathered and secretly sent there long ago.

  After the interrogations, they returned to the town hall office. Lord Bolgan frowned and paced back and forth, his bushy, broom-like eyebrows standing over eyes that always looked fiercely glaring—making even his worried contemplation seem menacing.

  "This absurd rumor about the orc fortress seems to be true. If something this ridiculous can be real, let’s dare to reason and imagine based on what we know. Maybe we can see the whole picture more clearly." He suddenly looked up at Ethan. "What do you think they’re stealing money for?"

  "To use it, of course," Ethan said, thinking it was a stupid question.

  "Exactly! To use it!" Lord Bolgan praised Ethan’s obvious answer. "Before we confirmed this rumor, we never thought deeper. We just assumed they robbed and extorted like other bandits—for money. But we forgot: these are their last heists before escaping human society. They won’t dare show their faces in the empire again. So the only reason they’re still so interested in wealth is… that the orc fortress uses gold and silver as currency, just like our human society. Going further— the fortress they’re building isn’t a den of beasts, as we imagined. It’s an orderly community, similar to ours."

  "People are too used to seeing orcs as mindless beasts. But in many ways, they’re just as intelligent a race as we are—only their culture is different, which makes people misunderstand them. So even though it sounds like nonsense, it’s entirely possible for them to build an orderly fortress."

  Ethan nodded. He believed this—he had seen orcs of different races wearing fairly sophisticated weapons and armor. They couldn’t have made those themselves; they must have traded with humans who could. Which meant this plan had already been in motion at least half a year ago. Such a massive scheme, hidden from the entire empire…

  No, not entirely hidden. At least he and the duke knew. The duke had said it was a military secret, that the empire was handling it and couldn’t share details. But looking at the current situation, it was clear this wasn’t the empire’s doing… A strange, vague doubt crept into his mind, but it clashed with the good impression the duke had given him. The conflict left him agitated, and he forced himself to stop thinking. He turned to Lord Bolgan. "So what if that’s true?"

  Lord Bolgan threw up his hands, shaking his head and sighing. "It’s good news for you. Terrible news for me. For me—no, for all of Bracada—if a new orc nation suddenly appears to our west, the first thing hit will be trade with Western kingdoms. This city’s economic lifeline will collapse. Worse, if the empire goes to war with this orc nation, Bracada will be nothing but a military outpost." Lord Bolgan’s face twisted into a fierce, worried grimace.

  "But it’ll be easier for you. Orcs won’t care about a church relic. Just find their fence—where they sell stolen goods—and you can buy the book back for a few gold coins."

  Ethan nodded. The man’s pumpkin-like head really held weight. He let out a long breath—if the problem could be solved with a few gold coins, that would be best. "Where do I find this fence?"

  "You’ll have to find it yourself. The thieves we’ve arrested lately might have clues. There are smart men among criminals—someone must have thought of selling stolen goods."