Chapter Fifty-Seven: The Secret of the Dwarf

Veyd spread out the sketches depicting bodies, organs, and skeletons. He looked upward; the cave wall above was rough, marked with irregular patterns.

This cavern lay far from the town of Alvado, in a place rarely touched by human footsteps.

When they rescued the dwarf from the Icelandic soldiers, daylight still lingered. Yet the dwarf led them all in circles through the forest for hours, until the sun finally set, bringing them at last to this hidden sanctuary.

Old York—did he not find this secret cache built too far from town?

If Old York were to set out from Alvado and reach his clandestine warehouse, he’d have to climb for half a day along mountain paths, then search alone on the forest’s edge, lifting a stone heavy for his small stature.

At first encounter, Veyd hadn’t thought deeply about it.

But now, released from the tension of events, quiet settled around him. Alone with his thoughts, the oddities began to surface.

What could possibly need to be stored so far from civilization?

How “precious” must it be, that the dwarf would go to such lengths, sacrificing all convenience for secrecy and safety?

Veyd recalled the details he’d seen upon entering the cave with Old York: dust-covered alchemical apparatus, the vast emptiness of the cavern, numerous locked doors...

At last, his gaze lingered on the sketches.

A suspicion formed in Veyd’s mind. If it proved true, perhaps there was still a glimmer of hope.

…

The eighth day.

The villagers, newly awakened, sat on the ground and took from their packs dry, coarse black bread and jerky.

They tore strips from the simple roasted mutton or beef, pairing the rough bread with water, chewing with numb expressions.

Some struck their calves, trying to relieve the soreness and numbness that tormented them.

Inside the cave, only dim firelight flickered. Looking up, nothing but stone met the eye.

The cavern was vast, but with over a hundred people crowded inside, it felt suffocating.

An oppressive atmosphere spread unseen. Even the youngest children lost their vitality, clutching their relatives’ sleeves, hiding in their arms.

A hundred souls gathered, but there was no crying, no laughter, no conversation—only the dull sounds of chewing and swallowing echoed through the space.

Some, after rising, lay back down, covering their heads with clothing, hands pressed tightly over their ears.

No one spoke. Though they’d slept, everyone seemed exhausted, as if every ounce of strength to raise an arm or open their mouths had been drained.

After most had woken, the dwarf pushed open a door and stepped out from a room, walking over to Lucas.

Lucas looked as though he hadn’t slept all night. His hair was a tangled mess, his face shadowed with stubble, his back hunched, head drooping as he tossed another log into the cauldron.

“Porter, you look just like a filthy vagabond now,” the dwarf said.

“Ah, Old York.” Lucas glanced at the dwarf. “Did you sleep well? I have bread and jerky here—would you like something to eat?”

Lucas opened his sheepskin pack and took out his provisions.

“No need, Porter. York has eaten, York isn’t hungry.” The dwarf looked around. “Where’s that outsider? Where did he go?”

“Do you mean Sir Veyd?” Lucas scratched his head in thought. “Didn’t you take him for an appraisal? Maybe he’s still asleep? Did you give Sir Veyd a bed of his own?”

“York only gave him the key to the study.” York’s gaze shifted to the study door. “Perhaps… perhaps the outsider is still in there.”

“What’s wrong, Old York? You seem a bit off,” Lucas said.

“Porter, you’re the one who’s off,” York replied. “You don’t look like Porter at all. The Graypaw Porter I know always greets me with spirit.”

“Do I?” Lucas laughed weakly, the sound hollow.

York didn’t look at Lucas; his eyes remained fixed on the door to the study, weighed down by worries.

Who among them was not burdened by worries?

These surviving Tania folk faced a fate so cruel.

Anyone who confronts the gravity of life and death, nation and nation, is bound to be troubled.

Lucas turned back to the fire. York settled down beside him.

Though the dwarf sat, his gaze never left the study door, as if waiting for it to open.

When Lucas added the sixth log, the door creaked open a crack.

The wandering knight, stooped, holding a lantern burning a third of its oil, emerged from the study.

The dwarf stood and met the knight’s eyes.

“Good morning, Sir Veyd,” Lucas offered a greeting.

He didn’t even know if it was truly morning, but he said it all the same.

Veyd nodded in response, placing the study key in the dwarf’s hand.

The dwarf pocketed the key, turned away, and quietly glanced at his palm.

He lifted his head, his expression complicated, and asked, “Did you see York’s sketches?”

Veyd nodded.

The dwarf looked to Lucas and let out a long sigh.

“York has always feared someone discovering his secret,” the dwarf said. “So yesterday, I hoped you wouldn’t find York’s sketches. But you did.”

Lucas looked up in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“Porter, fetch that man called Bardell, and come to the study. York has something to discuss with you all.”

Lucas glanced at the dwarf, then at the wandering knight, still baffled by their cryptic exchange.

But seeing the knight nod to him, he got up and went to bring Bardell.

Veyd, Lucas, and Bardell followed the dwarf into the study and gathered around the small stone table.

The dwarf set down the oil lamp and drew a deep breath.

His face grew grave as he spoke suddenly: “The necromancer who came to Alvado is named Casimodo Wick. Twelve years ago, he was an apprentice mage at Thornwick Bay, northern neighbor to Tania. But after his mentor discovered his secret necromancy studies, he murdered his mentor. Since then, he’s vanished, fleeing and hiding across the land.”

“From what York knows, Casimodo Wick is a fifth-circle necromancer. His specialties are corpse poisoning, stitching, and corpse explosion spells.”

“If he has many corpses at his disposal, Casimodo Wick’s power can reach the sixth circle. In terms of professionals, he’d be equivalent to a high-ranking Silver, but no ordinary Silver could stand against him. A well-prepared necromancer can truly be considered a Gold-level professional.”

“Wait…” Lucas interrupted. “Old York, how do you know all this? Are you raving mad?”

“York is not raving,” Old York replied. “Fifteen years ago, York met Casimodo Wick. York corresponded with Wick for three years, exchanging letters without pause.”

“But… how did you know a necromancer?” Lucas was astonished.

“There’s nothing so strange about it, Porter,” Old York said quietly. “Because York, in secret, has also been quietly studying the mysteries of life and death.”