The Lord of the Rust Mountains (Complete)

by Kanata Yanagino

  “Gus, was this Blood’s...”

  “Mm. He was the one taking care of the armory. These are the weapons of the warriors who once joined us in taking on the High King. There are also some good-quality weapons here that were just left in this city by unknown owners. In any case, Blood said he couldn’t bear to leave them to rust up and get covered in dust, so he brought them in here and gave them regular maintenance.”

  Now it made sense. All the various types of weapons Blood had brought out from somewhere for my training when I was young probably came from here. As I looked around at all the weapons in this new light, many of them did look kind of familiar. Hmm, except—

  “When I fought Stagnate at the bottom of the temple hill, the skeletons that rose up had rusted weapons and stuff.”

  “Yes. Most of those were nothing special, just ordinary weapons picked from the city to bury alongside them. It was Blood’s idea. He said a warrior always needs some kind of weapon, even on the way back to the eternal cycle. Did you notice that hardly any of them were wearing armor? That’s why.”

  Gus added that the mithril mail I was wearing, which I’d gotten from one of the skeletons, was something that particular person had requested be buried with him.

  “Oh! Then... I should—”

  “It’s fine, it’s fine, keep it. It’s not worth worrying about at this point. Just think of it as a compensation fee for the trouble his corpse caused.”

  “You just do things any old way, don’t you?!”

  But I couldn’t relinquish it at this point. I faced the graveyard at the bottom of the hill and prayed. I have to take this mail. I’m sorry...

  Gus laughed loudly. “Well, I’m sure he’ll forgive you. It’s for Blood’s son, after all.”

  “What kind of person was he?”

  “His name was Telperion. Silver-string Telperion.” If I remembered correctly, that elegant-sounding name was Elvish. “He was born in the Forest of Erin.”

  “When the glittering silver bowstring sings, there is no enemy who does not fall.” A voice drifted like a cool breeze. It was Menel. I looked over, and saw that he was gazing upon a glittering silver bow and smiling. “I’m from the same place.”

  ◆

  “Ohh, so you’re from the Great Forest of Erin.”

  “Pretty much,” Menel replied curtly.

  Gus had the eyes of someone looking at something long lost. “Your silver hair—do you have a blood connection to Telperion?”

  “Distantly related, but both part of... Ithil... Silvermoon Branch... uh...”

  “Is it what in human society we would call a lineage?”

  “That’s the one. Huh. Surprised you knew that.”

  In elven society, a clan with shared mythology was called a Trunk, and a lineage that could be traced back to the family relations was called a Branch. Each of those was prefixed by a name in some way associated with the beauty of nature. I’d learned this from Gus.

  “Telperion once stumbled over the translation for the same word.”

  “Huh.”

  “So what kind of person was this Telperion?” I said while peering at the pieces of gear Menel was looking at: leather gloves, a bow with a silver string, and several strangely shaped mithril arrowheads.

  While I was looking at these, Gus thought for a moment, then said, “He was incredibly conservative and proud. A very elvish elf. He used to fight a lot with Blood back when they’d only just met.”

  “Ahh...”

  Despite how he looked, Blood was a man with quite a lot of common sense. However, he could definitely be quick to anger, and if he ran into the typical elf that you heard about in the stories, an argument was all but certain.

  “Telperion was descended directly from the head of the Ithil Branch,” Menel said. “Noble blood. Wouldn’t surprise me if he had a high opinion of himself to match. Probably annoyed the crap out of anyone who had to deal with him.” He shrugged his shoulders.

  “Why did someone noble like that go outside the forest?” I asked.

  Menel hummed.

  “Why don’t you tell him the story?” said Gus, smiling wryly. “When a warrior inherits a famous weapon, it’s an ancient custom to talk about its history.”

  Telling the history of the weapon—Blood had said the same thing when he’d passed Overeater down to me. Menel’s expression turned a little bit complicated, and then he started to speak in a clear voice.

  “Silver-string Telperion. He was a master of the bow; he had fellowship with the fae; he flew like the wind across the plains. His flute whistled elegant and bright. He could recite countless traditions and legends from memory, and even among the wise elves, few could match his wisdom. So they say.”

  Menel recited well. He was clearly familiar with this, even if not to the same level as Bee. The sound of his voice had started to draw the others around as well. He was good enough to make money off this—in fact, he seemed to have been doing all kinds of work before, so maybe there was a time when he earned money through telling stories.

  “Telperion had a friend. A kid who was born the same year as him—rare for elves, who don’t have many children. They grew up together as foster brothers. The foster brother wasn’t as talented as Telperion, but he had passion and a dream.”

  It was a dream of one day going to the outside world.

  “The foster brother talked about his dream, but Telperion couldn’t understand. All things pure and beautiful are in the forest—why would he want to go to the corrupted outside world? Telperion and his foster brother got on well, but when it came to this, they always argued, apparently.”

  Speaking eloquently, Menel continued. “But the foster brother died. They were hunting beasts that had trespassed into the forest. They took down one, but then Telperion was attacked by a second that they didn’t realize was there. And the foster brother shielded him, even though the day he’d leave the forest, the day he’d dreamed of for so long, was just around the corner.”

  It was a sudden death, with no last words.

  Menel dropped his tone slightly. “Telperion held his corpse and let out three long, sorrowful screams. The screams echoed around the forest, lingering long after they had ended, and the fae are said to have shed tears at the sound.”

  There was a mystery-filled atmosphere about this story of the past, told in a storehouse lit by magical light as weapons with history surrounded us.

  “And after Telperion spent seven months in mourning for his friend, he decided to set out on a journey. Shrugging off opposition from his elders, he donned his friend’s chain mail and took his silver-stringed bow in hand.”

  Without having any idea what good there was in the outside world—

  “He went in search of the indefinable ‘thing’ his friend had dreamed of.”

  ◆

  After getting that far, Menel looked back at Gus. “That’s as much as I know. That, and he died hunting the High King. The elders in the Forest of Erin mourn Telperion’s death even now. I heard it enough to make my ears bleed.”

  “Hmm...”

  “This is perfect, actually. I was thinking about asking you this anyway, Gus the Sage.”

  “Gus is fine.”

  “Old Gus, then.” Menel fixed his jade eyes on Gus and asked, “Did Telperion find the ‘thing’ he was looking for?”

  Gus smiled when he heard that question, with eyes that seemed to look off into the distance, as though recalling a very nostalgic memory. “Mm, he did indeed. Telperion certainly did discover something wonderful!”

  “I see.” There wasn’t much of a change in Menel’s expression, but his mouth turned up at the corners slightly. “That’s good. Glad to hear it.”

  Menel didn’t ask anything more—not about Telperion’s answer, nor about the person himself. Instead, he lowered his eyes and fell silent, perhaps in prayer, then put on the gloves and took hold of the mithril string shining silver.

  Gus laughed. “All that aside—Meneldor or whatever, c
an you handle that? Mithril strings are a good match for fae, but it’s said that an average archer will lose fingers.”

  “No problem.” He changed the string over to his own bow and drew it back a few times. The bow bent back like a full moon, and the string sang a beautiful note as it was stretched to its limit. Gus listened nostalgically to the bow’s prelude to battle.

  “See?”

  “So... aren’t you going to let it go?” I said.

  “N-No, you idiot! Dry-firing damages the bow, don’t you know that?”

  “What?! Really?!”

  I didn’t use bows, so I had no idea. Ah, but now that I thought about it, that would mean that all the energy that would be used to fire the arrow would instead go into the bow. Yeah, that didn’t sound very good.

  “I can’t believe the stuff you don’t know sometimes when you seriously know pretty much everything else.”

  “It’s how I was educated.”

  “Don’t try to push the blame onto me, boy.”

  Al and the others listening to us laughed.

  “Uh, guys,” Menel said, “we don’t have the luxury of using time like elves. Quit looking at us and go find a weapon you think you can use. Go on!”

  “I’m decided,” Reystov said, unfazed. “Don’t want one.”

  ◆

  “You don’t want one?” Menel said in disbelief. “They’re all pretty good weapons, brother.”

  “Yeah, it’s a hell of a sight. But I don’t care how well a weapon performs, if I ain’t used to it, I can’t trust it,” Reystov replied pointedly. Gus and Ghelreis nodded in understanding.

  “I guess.” Menel still sounded doubtful.

  “Umm...” Al was tilting his head, so I decided to say something.

  “Right... This depends a lot on your style. Menel’s style is tactical, I guess—he makes use of whatever’s around, so he can be more flexible with his weapons. He can always borrow the power of the fairies, after all. So long as he can disrupt the enemy with his feet, staying at medium-to-long range and attacking from there, he’s happy with anything.”

  Even if Menel had to go defenseless through a wasteland with monsters roaming around everywhere, he’d probably do just fine by picking up rocks or something and calling to the fairies for help.

  “In contrast, Reystov’s specialty is close-range fighting. When your thing is battles at a risky distance where a single moment can make the difference between kill or be killed, you can’t help being insistent about some things. It’s not like he can’t fight with a makeshift weapon, but he’s specialized for his current one.”

  Reystov optimized his weapon for his body and his movements and made sure that he could unsheathe it in a split second if anything happened. He became one with his weapon. His modified sheath, the sturdy handle, his neatly trimmed nails—all of it was for that purpose.

  “So he can’t swap his weapon for an unfamiliar one at the eleventh hour,” I concluded.

  Reystov nodded and agreed. I could use pretty much anything as well, but when it came down to it, my mindset was closer to Reystov’s, so I understood well how he felt.

  “Boring or not, I want to fight with a weapon I’m comfortable with,” he said.

  Al blew out a puff of air, seemingly impressed at how Reystov could say that so firmly with all these incredible weapons in front of him. “That’s amazing.”

  “That said, ah... Reystov. You know what you’re up against. Are you sure?” Gus sounded apprehensive.

  “Doesn’t bother me. But—”

  “But?”

  “Gus the Sage, I want to borrow your skill with the Signs.”

  “Oh?”

  “If you could carve some Words into my weapons and armor just so much that it still feels basically like what I’m used to, that’d be great. I could get used to a small change like that in a few days.”

  “I see. Alright, let me have them a moment.” Using psychokinesis, Gus took Reystov’s sword and leather armor. He took them apart effortlessly and examined them closely from all kinds of angles, beginning with the sword. “Hmm. It’s ordinary, but... northern-style equipment, I see.”

  “Yeah.”

  At the foot of the Ice Mountains in the far reaches of the northern continent of Grassland, there was a group of warlike folk who continually forged steel in a canyon where freezing wind blew. They constantly fought against the evil gods’ minions coming down south, and they specialized in blades with the cold, crystal clarity of ice and robust, practical construction.

  “Blood preferred the wider swords of the south. I haven’t seen a northern one in a while. Hmm, it’s a good sword. Well-used and cared for, even though it has been worn down somewhat.”

  Swords couldn’t be used endlessly. If you gave them a proper sharpening, you would lose an amount of steel about the size of a small ring. Repeated enough times, the weapon would become thin and eventually either bend or break. However, at times, names given to swords survived longer than others, in just the same way as the names of old heroes—like Blood, Mary, and Telperion.

  “One day, they will speak of this as ‘Reystov’s sword’ and not as an ordinary one.”

  “Yeah.” Reystov nodded. “Hope so.”

  ◆

  After that, Al and Ghelreis upgraded their weapons and armor as well.

  “Hmm. I will take these.” Ghelreis chose metal armor, a large shield, and a one-handed mace. The armor was large and rounded, and I got the impression that it was specialized for glancing off attacks. The shield was also large and sturdy, and I could tell that it must have belonged to a famous dwarven warrior. And the mace, which was diamond-shaped, had a number of protrusions called flanges and looked like it would pack an incredible amount of blunt force.

  “Ohh, Sword-smasher Bavor’s set. You have discerning taste.”

  “There are many users of blades.”

  Some demons had outer shells that were hard and smooth. Blades weren’t very effective against enemies like that because the blade would slide and leave you open. If we needed to, both Reystov and I could perform stunts like using our swords to deal a blunt-force hit or strike at the joins in their shells. Even so, I was grateful to have at least one person with a blunt weapon.

  “Bavor was a wandering dwarven warrior, not part of any clan, but he had a playful personality. He was a master at bending and smashing blades of any kind, but he was friendly, you see. I don’t get on well with dwarves, but he could hold a friendly conversation even with me. He had that kind of wonderful warmth to him.”

  “Oh?”

  “He took part in the defeat of the High King. He called it revenge for the Iron Mountains.”

  As Ghelreis listened to this anecdote of a hero of his race, a subtle smile crossed his scarred face.

  I heard Menel’s doubting voice again. “Oh, come on, don’t you think that’s just a bit too heavy?”

  “No, I can handle it, I think.”

  I turned around to see Al holding a hefty halberd, tentatively and gingerly swinging it and pulling it in as Menel watched him. It had a pretty bulky construction and was made fully of metal right down to the handle.

  “Yes, it’s okay. I can swing it, no problem.”

  “Ohh! That’s some impressive strength you have to be able to swing that around.” Gus was blinking his eyes in astonishment. “Its former owner was Ewen the Immense.”

  I remembered hearing that name in Blood’s stories when I was a child.

  “Skill aside, he was Blood’s twin in monstrous power. He had a round body and was always smiling. He was a good guy. He wasn’t very fond of fighting, though. If things had been more peaceful, he might have been able to continue as a skilled farmer, who knows.”

  He’d had Blood’s back during the battle against the High King, plowing down the demons without end until he himself was ended.

  It wasn’t just Ewen the Immense, it was Sword-smasher Bavor and Silver-string Telperion, too—in fact, all these heroes that Gus was now spea
king of and that Blood had spoken of fondly in the past had lost their lives for the sake of the effort to defeat the High King. Each one of the hundreds of weapons and pieces of armor filling this armory had a story, and each of those stories was now concluded, the final period struck by war and death. Now only these arms still slept here in silence, with many stories that once mattered greatly to someone locked away inside them.

  I found myself in prayer, as if something had prodded me to do it. I felt like it would have been wrong not to.

  God, god of the flame, please, wherever they may go—

  I whispered. “Let there be guidance and repose.”

  When I returned from my transcendent state of prayer, Gus was smiling at me. It was a different smile from normal, a smile that seemed to say he was thinking fondly of his old home.

  “Hey, Gus?”

  “What?”

  “After I do something about the mountain demons and the dragon and come home again, can I bring this poet girl back here with me? She’s a halfling and she does get a bit excited... if that’s still okay.”

  “Sure, do what you want. I’d be happy to tell her any story she wants told.” Gus really was wise. He was very quick to understand what I wanted.

  “Thanks.” So many stories here had gone untold. I was sure that Bee would be very glad to retell them.

  “Say...”

  “Hm?”

  “By the way, Will...”

  “Yeah?”

  “Could that girl be...” Gus’s eyes shone expectantly.

  “She’s a good friend, but we don’t have the relationship you’re hoping for.”

  Gus’s shoulders drooped. For some reason, he looked terribly disappointed.

  ◆

  After that, we found some well-built dwarven armor for Al as well. This city was originally a place where both humans and dwarves lived, so there was plenty of armor for the dwarven physique.

  How was it that dwarves, a foreign race, had lived here? That had struck me as strange once or twice when I was training in the underground city, but now I understood. This lakeside city was a transfer point for trade with the Iron Country, which was why people and dwarves lived together here. Its ruins told of a prosperous city, big and wealthy to the point that Torch Port as it stood right now didn’t even compare. It must have been a place full of smiling faces.