Chapter LXXXII – As we forgive those who trespass against us. (Patreon)

61st of Summer, 5859
Town Square, Azdavay

There was nothing of much note happening in the town square. “Nothing of much note” would normally be, as the combination of words imply, be nothing of much note. There were people going to-and-fro, workshops selling their goods on the sidewalk, and a general rush to everyone’s walk as they tried to quickly get out of the summer sun’s way, nothing that Shakira hadn’t seen before in her previous years visiting Azdavay in summer.

“This place was full of doomsday preachers a few days ago…” muttered Shakira while making her way through the square. She had a ridiculously large-brimmed straw hat on her head to keep the sun out of her face, though that didn’t stop the sun from irritating her. Her only wish was to finish her work for the day and coop herself into a nice, cold room, so she joined the others in hastening her steps. Thankfully, years of adventuring had given her the necessary endurance to not collapse from fatigue there and then.

Shakira’s destination was one of the gates of the city, the same one from where the slaves had first escaped back a season ago and also the same one that the fugitives had entered back in with their army a few days ago. She remembered the panic in the city the day that the slaves had made their exodus, the bloodshed and the environment and mistrust that came after it. Every day there would be news of a plantation being burnt down, of small caravans returning with all their goods being forfeit, of an army of savages gathering to burn down Azdavay any day… Now that these “savages” had arrived however, things were way too normal. Shakira sometimes doubted whether or not she was still alive, whether she had been killed fighting in the initial arrival of the fugitives and now she lived in an otherworld.

Yes, that must be it, or so she thought with her brain simmering under the summer sun, she had died and this was another world very similar to her old one. That was a much simpler explanation compared to thinking that the entirety of Gemeinplatz might have been wrong; there was simply no way that the entirety of Gemeinplatz had the wrong idea about the “savages”, simply no way that a civilization of millions was uncivilized enough to enslave such civilized peoples, simply no way that she had adventured to keep this uncivilized civilization’s gears turning.

With her arrival at the gate, Shakira was greeted with smiles by a group of darkskins of the League. “Morning, miss.” They were accompanied by a company of pack animals and goods which needed to make their way inside. Such labor was divided into many parts, and Shakira had been tasked with delivering spearheads to workshops inside the city. These spearheads would be finished by turners who’d construct shafts for them, and Shakira would also deliver these finished spears to the camp.

The members of the League seemed to hold respect for these laborers helping them in their efforts, hence the warm greetings she was receiving. “Morning.” Normally she wouldn’t even have to reciprocate the greetings of a bunch of darkskins, but she had found herself in another Gemeinplatz. She had even heard that one of the leaders of these darkskins was one “Lady Orange”, which the idea of a darkskin being a “lady” was one that had made Shakira laugh the first few times she had heard it. Once she had seen Lady Orange cast a spell at night however, a spell illuminating the entirety of the camp in one go, and she had decided that making mockery of this lady wasn’t a good idea for her continued wellbeing. Especially as Lady Orange had been the one to make the ambush in Mount Curry possible, and Shakira prayed that her involvement wouldn’t be found out lest she join the noblemen in being hung off a tree. “Where’re the spears?”

“Here.” pointed out the freeman towards a pretty large crate, around half the size of a person. “These were a pain to carry…” he muttered under his breath.

Shakira simply took a few steps towards the box, clasped it between her two hands, and with only a “hup” coming out her mouth, she had the box carried on her head without breaking a sweat. Carrying a large box was nothing compared to carrying an enormous, oversized sword as she usually did. The freemen were impressed, so much so that one of them clapped, and Shakira bid farewell to them with a wave of one of her hands. She made her way back to the town square, to a small street that branched off it which had a bunch of craftsmen who were all members of the Turners’ Guild.

“Good morning, gentlemen.” saluted Shakira as she left the crate full of spearheads to the turners. They were too focused on working to even take notice of their visitor, and Shakira used this opportunity to take a break under the shade of the workshop. She had visited the turners a few times before, mostly when she needed a new handle for her sword. Many more adventurers came to them for similar reasons as well, and the Turners’ Guild was pretty large and advanced for a small town like Azdavay. They had impressive belt-driven lathes powered by the sweat and tears of apprentices turning cranks while their masters (not the slaveowner kind of master) worked to carve the wildly spinning wood into something usable.

Watching the lathes turn was mesmerizing, even dangerously so if one valued their time. It was like magic, so much so that especially good woodworkers would be called lignumancers from their ability to manipulate trees. With their ability to take a run-of-the-mill block of wood and reveal something completely new from the inside of it, it truly felt like magic to an observer like Shakira. There wasn’t much time for diving into thought however, so Shakira exited the workshop after taking a few of the finished spears to deliver to the camp.

On her way out, Shakira noticed a familiar figure amongst the passersby… what was her name again? The passerby saluted Shakira before she could remember her name. “Good morning, Miss Shakalaka!”

Shakira breathed a sigh of relief upon realizing that they had mutually forgotten their names. “Shakira.” She cleverly avoided mentioning the other’s name.

“I’m sorry!” The passerby of a name that began and ended with the letter “a” laughed to hide her embarrassment. “It’s a bit longer than something like ‘Azra’, so I had forgotten it…”

“Right, Azra! Azra, right?”

“Yes, I am?”

A brief silence, very much awkward despite its short length, followed by the two sides unsure whether to bid farewell or try speaking again. The silence broke after half a minute. “…so, are you going to the camp?” asked Azra, seeing the spears in Shakira’s hands. They had ended up walking together towards the camp.

“Yes, I’ll be setting off to Casamonu tomorrow with them.”

“Oh, I’ll be coming along as well!” Azra turned to proudly display a fine steel sword sitting in an engraved leather scabbard. “I used the last of my money to get this.”

“Huh? ‘Last of my money’? How much money did you have?”

“I had a lot after I sold some of my spare clothes a couple days ago. You see, my family owns a printing press in Casamonu…”

“A printing press?!”

Shakira looked at Azra in a new light. Not only was she rich, but she was the daughter of a printer… She herself had never seen a printing press, nor was there one in Azdavay. Paper was common enough, sure, but printing presses were highly regulated in Gemeinplatz, so much so that Shakira wasn’t even sure if she had ever seen a print in her life (not that she could understand writing to distinguish it). Her family must have been close to the imperials to even have such a privilege, and that was the important part that she got from this brief exchange. Such a young girl having much more wealth than her pissed off Shakira somewhat, but she did her best to hid her mild disdain.

“That’s the response that most people give when I say that.” added Azra, looking somber. She didn’t look to pleased with her prestigious heritage.

“I- I see…” Shakira found a question to rail the conversation back. “How did they let you in though? I thought they weren’t accepting mercenaries.”

“I went to the Hero directly and told him that I wanted to join the holy war against the Demon King!” replied Azra with much excitement in her voice. “He agreed to let me in once he learnt that I was literate, though I haven’t told him about the printing press yet.”

“Are you sure you want to… you know, you seem to be off the well-bred sort. I don’t think you really need to-”

“Stop right there, Miss Shakira.” Azra raised her hand to block Shakira from muttering anything else. “I’d rather die by the sword than live while the Demon King ravages this realm!” She was quoting something she had read a long time ago. “A noble adventurer like you will understand what I mean.”

Shakira wasn’t noble, nor was she much of an adventurer at the current moment, nor did she understand what Azra was meaning. She shrugged at her fanciful notions. “Sure…”

“You shall remember this day when the Demon King is slain and these days of yore are recorded into legend!” declared Azra with her sword pointed at the sky, which caused a few bystanders to pause and stare at the lunatic brandishing a weapon inside the city.

“Eh, I’m not so sure.” replied Shakira, pausing as she approached the camp. “We’re here now. I’ll be on my way to drop these off.”

“And I’ll be on my way to report to the Hero!”

Thus Shakira and Azra parted ways for the moment, both in a Gemeinplatz that Shakira felt was very foreign to her.