Chapter 85: Knight's Salute
“Viscount Quentin, I have some confidential questions and would like your subordinates to leave,” said the Holy Maiden.
“As you wish, Your Highness,” replied the viscount. “Filippo, take everyone outside and guard the door. No one is to approach.”
The scribe bowed and led the guards and others out of the room to stand watch in the corridor.
“Please raise your heads, both of you,” the Holy Maiden said.
York and Bardel stood up again, though York avoided meeting the Holy Maiden’s gaze, keeping his eyes fixed on his toes after rising.
The Holy Maiden showed no reaction to the gnome’s odd behavior, speaking calmly: “On the nineteenth day of Winter Veil, the Church detected the presence of Duke Em’s demonic aura in the northern territories. Do you know anything about this?”
As she spoke, the White Wing Knight beside her unrolled a parchment bearing an ancient sigil – its lines deliberately broken and incomplete, with many gaps between the markings.
Certain words and symbols inherently possess mystical power. To avoid attracting demonic attention, the Church had kept this sigil incomplete.
“When connected, these lines form Em’s brand. Have you seen it before?” the knight asked.
Lucas nodded: “When retrieving the Mist Stone with that lord, we encountered a Demon Mother and her imps capable of unleashing terrible flames at Alvado. I saw this brand on the arms of some necromancers and Icelanders.”
“What hair color? Eye color? Clothing style? Approximate age?” the Holy Maiden pressed.
“A black-haired, black-eyed Thornvik man named Casimodo Vic. Said to be a fifth-circle necromancer, though I never fought him directly – only glimpsed him from afar,” Lucas answered.
“So it was him,” the Holy Maiden murmured thoughtfully. “He was actually a descendant of the Saint – an illegitimate child of the Thornvik royal family. His mother was just a lowly maid. To cover the scandal, the queen had his mother secretly executed.”
“As a child, he was secretly sent to Master Kelton’s mage tower. Given his magical talent, the royals hoped to train him as a mage. If successful, they planned to adopt him officially, restoring his royal status.”
“But twelve years ago, he turned to darkness, secretly killing numerous civilians to study necromancy. He murdered his own master Kelton, seized a merchant ship, turned its crew into undead to sail it, and fled to the northern seas.”
“If it’s him, then Em’s attention makes sense.”
“That Casimodo…” The viscount gasped in shock.
That incident had shaken all of North Tia. Thorn Bay was one of Thornvik’s most prosperous coastal ports – yet Casimodo’s corpse poison contaminated the entire bay.
Records showed over ten thousand died in Thorn Bay that day. Plague engulfed the city; the sea surface floated with poisoned fish belly-up.
Complete chaos followed – criminals ran rampant, merchants were robbed, homes invaded. Nearby coasts became plague zones. When Church aid and the lord’s troops arrived, the city had become a festering ruin, never recovering – now a den of lawlessness.
After this, Casimodo Vic was declared extremely dangerous – capable of destroying an entire city just by poisoning its water supply.
The viscount panicked: “Your Highness! We must have priests and alchemists inspect our reservoirs and groundwater immediately!”
He feared Purple Thorn Castle might suffer the same fate, but the Holy Maiden remained calm.
“Don’t worry, Viscount. Casimodo is dead. Before coming here, the Church learned of Alvado’s situation. Before dawn on the nineteenth, all the deceased there were released.”
She continued softly: “The necromancer was slain. For Em to interfere physically from the shadows isn’t easy. Em came to claim Casimodo’s soul and body – that flame demon likely had a contract with Casimodo. Only upon death could the demon use the pact to take the mage’s saint-blooded soul and briefly manifest. This matches Church intelligence.”
“Casimodo… dead?” The viscount gaped. “Who killed him?”
A fifth-circle necromancer – most terrifying in war! With corpses available, a necromancer becomes an army, endlessly raising fearless undead hordes.
They strike from shadows, grinding enemies down through minions.
And Casimodo had Icelandic warriors and demons aiding him! Who could kill such a mage? Did the Holy Maiden herself intervene?
“Casimodo is truly dead,” Lucas answered the viscount’s unspoken question. “That lord who traveled with me beheaded the mage and freed the dead souls.”
Both viscount and White Wing Knight turned sharply to Lucas.
They’d assumed these people merely evaded Icelandic and necromantic forces by luck. But these words carried undeniable weight.
The Holy Maiden seemed most composed, though her lowered eyelids showed faint sorrow.
“Did the flame demon’s power destroy that lord?” she asked.
Lucas remained silent.
“What was his name?”
Viscount and knight leaned in. Such power couldn’t belong to an unknown – surely at least a Gold-rank professional, perhaps transcending ordinary limits.
Lucas turned and wrote two characters on wood with lead, just as that lord had written for him in snow.
Momentarily, Lucas recalled that night’s firelight, the simple four-panel stick figures in snow that had seemed so wondrous and amusing.
Finishing each stroke carefully, he turned back: “That lord couldn’t speak, but wrote his name in snow. I don’t know his surname or past, but he overflowed with compassion – not only redeeming the dead, but pulling us wretched souls back from the abyss with his noble spirit.”
Viscount and knight stared dumbfounded at the name “Wade” – searching their memories for any notable figure by that name, finding nothing. “Wade” was as common as “Lisa” or “David” – shout it in Purple Thorn Castle’s streets and seven people would turn.
No legends or deeds attached to any “Wade” – even knightly tales avoided such bland names.
Perhaps a long-retired northern hermit, living quietly until danger stirred him to dust off his sword.
Seeking no fame, just acting from nobility – slaying evil, guiding Tanians to safety here.
The White Wing Knight removed her helmet, chestnut hair spilling over shoulders as she saluted the name.
The viscount followed suit – once a knight himself, sworn to uphold virtue.
So many knights take vows – how few keep them?
The viscount knew he wouldn’t have sacrificed himself for Tanians or challenged Casimodo.
He’d have abandoned burdens, bringing only those who wouldn’t slow him.
Humbled by such deeds, grieving such loss, he bowed deeply in knightly salute.
Offering heartfelt respect for what he could never do himself.