Gun of Ashes

”You can’t save him. He’s lost too much blood; his death is already set in stone.”

A hateful smile surfaced on Froki’s face as he stepped down from the large boulder.

”There’s still a long distance from here to the village. This supply pack is only enough for one person... in fact, it’s not even enough for one, given how long the road is, and the wind and snow,” Froki said. ”If you use it on Lancelot, the result will merely be that his death is delayed by a few minutes, or perhaps tens of minutes, and you, for lack of supplies, will probably freeze to death here in a few days.”

”Shut up!”

Bola roared. He struggled to stand, one hand clutching the supply pack, the other slinging Lancelot’s shoulder over himself. Bracing his weight, he staggered forward.

”Abandon Lancelot, walk out of here bearing your hatred, bring the story of this place back to Ingwig—or cling to your laughable morality and try to take him with you... which is to say, die here together?” Froki went on. ”Actually, that option is worth a try. Who knows, maybe you’ll run into the Hunter in the village? Then the two of you might both be saved.”

”Do you want to gamble, Bola?”

”Shut up! Shut up!”

Bola hurled curses at Froki again and again as he dragged his wounded leg, forcing himself to carry Lancelot forward. For a moment his mind went blank; all that was left was the act of moving on.

Move forward, find that village, and everyone will live.

As if he could no longer feel the pain and exhaustion in his body, Bola carried Lancelot onward, wading through deep drifts of snow, forcing each step.

”Bola!”

Froki shouted again. He raised his hand high; he seemed to be holding something. Then Froki set that thing down on the boulder where he had been sitting earlier.

This time Froki did not linger. He turned and walked into the depths of the forest. His condition was far better than Bola’s, not to mention that Froki carried no burden at all. His pace was swift; in the blink of an eye he vanished from Bola’s sight.

Footprints Froki left behind were stamped into the snow. Bola followed those prints closely. He did not know the way; he could only follow Froki like this.

Cold, exhaustion, pain... one after another, these negative forces settled over a mortal’s will, driving Bola into madness and despair, until finally he went completely numb. Just as he’d managed to claw his way back to clarity, his awareness began to blur again, his vision grew hazy. So as not to lose his direction, Bola could only lower his head, watching Froki’s footprints, forcing himself onward.

Forward, keep going forward.

His body also began to go numb. In the end Bola could no longer feel the existence of his own feet; he could only vaguely see that the two feet were still attached to him, still bearing his weight, still moving him forward.

Forward.

Still forward, ceaselessly forward.

The act of going forward stretched into an eternity. Through that long stretch of time, Bola struggled to keep thinking, to keep himself conscious.

Why must he take Lancelot with him? When he could barely protect himself, why was he so determined to save him? Was it only because Lancelot was his superior? Or was it as Froki said, that some notion of benevolence and morality was at work, sustaining Bola, allowing him to be a ”righteous” man.

A man shrouded in glory and sanctity, harboring justice in his heart.

So he could not abandon Lancelot. He had to take him out of here; this was not only for the justice in his heart, but also to save Lancelot’s life.

But... but Bola was so tired—so tired that for one brief moment he even wanted to die right then and there. If he died, he would no longer be plagued by all this, would no longer have to run himself ragged for the lives of others and for justice...

As long as... he died.

His trudging figure faltered. Bola collapsed; Lancelot’s body fell on top of him. He went down into the snow, almost completely swallowed by it.

Ah... it was finally over, this long journey.

As death approached, Bola felt very calm. He accepted it serenely.

No—rather than acceptance, it was more like escape: escape from these damned choices and realities, ending it all like this.

Yes, end it like this.

And then... Bola stood up.

He looked at the shadow his own body cast at his feet, his face full of bewilderment.

Wh—why? Why had he stood up again?

Bola didn’t understand. He clearly had no strength left, yet he had still gotten to his feet, and then he started moving forward again. The calm on his face twisted, and at last he shouted, voice filled with hatred:

”Froki Willgardson!”

A voice thick with resentment and fury rang out. Bola clenched his teeth and pressed on. His legs began to wobble, trembling without stop, yet he still kept moving forward.

There are some things that cannot be compromised! Some things that cannot be forgotten! Some things that cannot be forgiven!

Bola could not die yet. He had to bring Lancelot out of here alive. He had to carry the story of what had happened here back to Ingwig. He had to sharpen his claws and, in the not-so-distant future, come back here in a larger, stronger Iron Armor ship and exact vengeance on the turncoats.

Kill Froki Willgardson, tear him to pieces!

The roaring fire of rage granted Bola unimaginable strength. He lifted his head, hoisted Lancelot, and strode forward. But he soon stopped again, all the anger and hatred in his heart vanishing in an instant.

A boulder lay across his path like a city wall.

This was the rock where Froki had lingered before; nearby were the footprints where he’d walked into the forest.