The Outsider

Every autumn, after the harvest, the village would send the year’s rents and tribute to the lord’s castle. Dozens of villagers served in this duty over the years, and from their fearful accounts, Dean knew well that traversing these seemingly monotonous and peaceful mountains for a two-day journey was fraught with hardship and peril.

Along the way, the messenger, wishing to be friendly, explained everything in detail, laying out the dangers before Dean more vividly.

“You can’t take that path... It’s summer now, and the mountains can flood at any moment. That place will be swallowed by water before you have time to run.” The messenger, leading Dean on a wide detour, glanced back anxiously at the low valley below.

“Come on, let’s push a bit harder, go faster—must cross this mountain before sunset. This is a path trampled out by wolves; when night falls, wolves and even bears come out to hunt.” On a rare flat stretch along the slope, the messenger gripped Dean’s shoulder and hurried him along.

“Grab the vine! Don’t worry, pull hard! It won’t break… Since my grandfather’s days, every summer we check these vines and sometimes plant new ones.” As he tossed some kind of seeds, the messenger explained to Dean, who was already sliding down the cliff face.

“Phew... Finally, we’re here. We’ll spend the night here. Go gather some branches while I dig a pit… What are you doing? Put that down! Of course, you can’t just light a fire. Remember old Mason? He was burned to death here.” The messenger quickly tossed aside his digging stone and snatched the flint from Dean’s hand.

“Up, time to move. Drink some water now; we’ll eat the dried fruit once the sun is higher.”

“Look, see there? That’s poor Rock—just those few bones... Poor soul broke his leg and called to us as he fell... But the cliff was too steep; we searched half a day and found no way down. In the end? In the end... he must have starved. It wasn’t our fault—even the beasts can’t reach there.”

“This is the most dangerous place... Not now, but in autumn, those damned bandits—the rats who hide themselves—crawl out of their holes, clubs and hatchets in hand, lurking while the tribute is sent. Then they strike, rob, and even kill... They haven’t been around these last few years, but who knows? Maybe they’ll return someday... Those wretches never die out.” As they passed the gorge, the messenger surveyed the area, wary at every minor sound.

Mountains, dense forests, wolves, bears, bones, flash floods, wildfires, bandits…

Danger lurked at every turn of the arduous journey. Had it been the Dean of a few days ago, hearing only half of these tales would have sufficed to quash any thought of leaving his village.

But with his father’s analysis, the priest’s request, the villagers’ envy, and the messenger’s kindness and care, Dean—now a cattle hand, and future master herder—found his heart filled with courage and longing, no matter how exhausting or perilous the journey.

After crossing the last gorge, the path became much easier. The messenger relaxed and told Dean they were already near Aycliffe Village; there would be no more grave dangers.

When the sun reached its zenith, Dean crested the final hillock and before him spread a gently undulating plain, long and wide, cut into plots by winding streams. By the largest watercourse, between stretches of black, freshly tilled lord’s land, wooden cottages dotted the fields.

“Look, that’s Aycliffe Village—we’re here!”

As the messenger spoke, Dean noticed a thick column of black smoke rising from another hill nearby.

So, even before Dean from Floran reached the foot of the hill, two constables bearing sharpened wooden spears and four sturdy villagers with hefty clubs confronted them.

Dean was unafraid; the messenger had prepared him for such precautions, and he had seen similar measures in Floran before.

“Outsiders... *@&!）……” The lead constable stopped at a distance and shouted.

Except for a vague guess at the word “outsider,” Dean could not understand a thing. All he could do was watch as the messenger twisted his tongue, struggling to use a different accent, gesturing all the while, barely communicating with the equally strained constable.

Dean sighed softly; this was a major reason he’d been reluctant to come as a helper. Floran and Aycliffe were worlds apart, separated by two days’ journey of hardship and peril, rendering them almost entirely disconnected. For nearly a century, perhaps longer, only the lords on horseback or the village messengers ever traveled between them; ordinary villagers never met.

Over such a long time, as with other strangers passing through Floran, anyone entering a foreign village without a guide like the messenger would likely never leave.

Thinking of the years he would spend in this utterly foreign village, Dean’s heart trembled despite his mustered courage.

Fortunately, the priest had been merciful, allowing the messenger to stay with him for three days—three days in which Dean must quickly learn, at the very least, to guess a little of how the people of Aycliffe spoke.

At length, the constable finally understood the messenger, sending one villager away. Only after more waiting—Dean’s feet beginning to numb—did the villager return with another person in tow.

Dean noticed the messenger’s expression relax at once. “Pamela... ￥#&*（...”

Pamela, the messenger of Aycliffe—a lucky soul, her face beaming with unconcealed delight. Dean now understood why his own village’s runner grumbled so many times about “those scoundrels.”

Pamela’s arrival greatly eased the conversation.

Soon, Pamela led the way, with the messenger and Dean in the middle, and two spear-bearing constables and four club-wielding villagers following warily at the rear as they marched swiftly into the village.

The steward of Aycliffe was busy. After hearing the message from Floran, he said not a word but waved them onwards from the warehouse where he was inspecting tools.

The priest of Aycliffe was somewhat more at leisure. After reading the sheepskin letter from Floran’s priest, he looked up and addressed Dean.

“Gant says you’re the eldest son of a herdsman, skillful and well-mannered...”