Shadow Oath

Chapter 36: Hak

The moment Demion was about to ask Jedric to tell him more about the northern myths, the grand doors of the banquet hall opened.

Until now, the only doors that had been used during the banquet were the side doors. Those were the ones used by servants carrying food and drinks.

The doors Demion had entered through when he first came here had remained closed since then. They were too large to open easily, and the creaking sound they made was loud and disruptive.

Yet now, those very doors had opened.

An elderly man walked in.

His attire was strikingly different from the other Gerans. On one side of his head, instead of a hat or helmet, he wore the skinned head of a wolf. Draped over one shoulder was the fur of what seemed to be a bear, while the other shoulder was bare. His lower body was barely covered by a short leather garment that only managed to obscure his private parts—more "concealed" than "clothed."

The frail old man approached the bonfire on his thin legs, prompting the drunken Gerans to notice him and block his way.

If Demion noticed, there was no way the vigilant Triton knights wouldn’t. They immediately moved into positions, ready to draw their swords.

One of the elders shouted something. His voice was low, and he spoke in the Geran language, making it incomprehensible. However, Demion understood the title they called him by. Not just the elder, but several other Geran men shouted the same name.

“Hak!”

Demion vaguely remembered Jedric’s explanation.

Each Geran village has a shaman who represents its people. A male shaman is called a "Hak," and a female one is a "Hagra." Some villages have both, while others only one. In the village of Ellum, there were both a Hak and a Hagra. Among them, the Hak's name was…

“Maraka!”

They all shouted something at him—warnings, threats, or perhaps pleas to stop.

‘So, this is the sudden situation Father was worried about.’

Maraka didn’t resist the Gerans who tried to hold him back. If they pushed, he staggered; if they grabbed him, he let himself be shaken. The old man kept glaring at Demion across the bonfire.

Maraka reached into a pouch tied to his waist. When he pulled his hand out, it was full of powder. This caused the surrounding elders to gasp and recoil in alarm.

“Shadow! Protect the Prince!”

Until now, Terrdin had been quietly sitting near the central bonfire.

Even though he, more than anyone here, should have felt threatened by the Gerans, he had been the most relaxed, calmly eating his meal, listening to the elders’ conversations, and observing the banquet.

But the moment the shaman threw the powder into the fire, Terrdin jumped to his feet.

The powder ignited with a sudden burst, creating strange shapes in the air.

At first, it looked like a distorted sphere, but it gradually formed into a shape. It resembled a hand or perhaps a black-winged bird. It was clearly not the black smoke produced when cooking meat.

Raising his voice, Maraka pulled something else from his waist.

It was a dagger, with an unusual hilt. It was long and dark, making it hard to see, but it looked more like a thorn-covered branch than a blade.

The Hak slashed his palm with the dagger, then placed his bleeding hand into the pouch, chanting in an incomprehensible tongue. His bloodshot eyes seemed about to spill crimson tears.

When Maraka pulled his hand out of the pouch, it held a fistful of blood-stained powder. He transferred it onto the dagger and hurled it at Demion.

‘He’s throwing that dagger to hit me?’

Several of the Triton knights rushed into the chaos. One of them managed to grab Maraka’s hand and pin him down, but the dagger had already been thrown.

Clang.

The dagger fell to the floor.

That was all.

The throw had been so weak that the dagger barely made it past the bonfire, landing a few paces away from the stone chairs. It was far from reaching Demion.

Even if the throw had been stronger and managed to reach him, the dagger wouldn’t have pierced Demion’s armor. It was so slow that Demion could have dodged it easily had he focused. Still, the fact that it was coated with an unknown powder and blood made it unnerving.

The dagger skidded slightly across the stone floor toward Demion, only to be stopped by someone’s foot.

It was Shadow.

He picked up the dagger and naturally positioned himself in front of Demion.

The situation was already under control. Two elders restrained Maraka’s hands, shouting at him, while a Triton knight stood ready with his sword aimed at the old shaman.

The knights, having momentarily relaxed, grew even more agitated. They seemed ready to act on their own and cut down the shaman if necessary.

From the sidelines, where they had been drinking leisurely, the Geran men—particularly the Batu warriors—stepped forward. Knights and Batu warriors now tangled near the bonfire. While everyone moved with the intention of restraining the shaman, the commotion and the bonfire’s red heat made it seem like a fight was about to break out.

The banquet had lulled everyone into carelessness, but this place was like a hive where a single mistake could lead to disaster. The Geran warriors and the knights assigned to guard the prince were all young men eager to display their skills and strength to one another.

Demion shouted, “Everyone, stop!”

Ikahm also shouted at almost the same time, likely saying the same thing.

The Triton knights froze, and so did the Batu warriors. A fight had been seconds away from breaking out.

The two elders holding the Hak didn’t let go. Although his movements were restrained, Maraka continued to shout.

“What is he saying?” Demion asked.

“I… I don’t know,” Jedric replied.

“What?”

“He’s not speaking our language.”

At that moment, Ikahm shouted angrily. It sounded like someone’s name.

“Albo!”

Immediately, one of the Batu warriors stepped forward and seized Maraka by the nape.

As the two elders holding the shaman’s arms stepped back, the man called Albo pressed Maraka down against the floor, pinning him by his neck.

The shaman’s face was smashed into the stone floor, his breath halted.

Albo extended his hand toward the Triton knight and shouted something. It seemed he was asking for the knight’s sword.

The knight glanced at the prince, silently asking for permission.

Prince Demion, caught off guard by the sudden turn of events, looked to Jedric for guidance. Jedric quickly translated.

“Chieftain Ikahm says he will repay the Hak’s disrespect with death.”

Demion hesitated, gauging Ikahm’s reaction.

‘What am I supposed to do? Am I expected to pass judgment with the authority of a conqueror already?’

One day, as the ruler of this land, he would have to make such judgments. He was prepared for that, ready to act in accordance with the ancient laws of Triton, even if it meant executing the guilty himself.

But he hadn’t expected that moment to come so suddenly.

Nor had he expected it to come like this.

Demion realized he wasn’t the only one unsure of what to do. Even General Terrdin, who usually had advice ready, simply watched in silence. He too was uncertain.

Could such a thing be done during a banquet?

Should he stop it?

Or should he allow it?

On further thought, the chieftain had already passed judgment. The decision had been made. All that remained was the execution.

Should he comply? If he stopped it, it would undermine the chieftain’s authority. If he allowed it, the aftermath could be disastrous.

As Demion hesitated, Albo nearly wrenched the sword from the knight’s hands. That was when Charlon shouted.

“Stop!”

The banquet hall, which had been noisy and chaotic just a moment ago, fell into silence.

“What did that man say that justifies killing him?” Charlon asked, breaking the silence.

Demion, regaining his composure, also spoke up.

“What did that old man just say? Chieftain Jedric claimed it wasn’t in their language! And what was that powder he threw into the fire? I need to know what he intended before we talk about execution.”

When Jedric translated his words, Ikahm looked at Charlon and Demion with a face full of anger, then muttered something under his breath.

Jedric quickly relayed the message.

“He says it doesn’t matter. The fact that this man spilled his own blood and uttered words of a curse is enough to warrant his death.”

“I’m asking precisely about the meaning of that curse,” Demion emphasized.

Ikahm looked both angry and troubled at the same time.

Jedric hesitated to translate his older brother’s words, wearing a conflicted expression.

“The Hak spoke not in their language but in ancient words and the language of magic, so it’s difficult to interpret.”

‘Difficult?’ Demion thought to himself. It was probably nothing more than a curse against the conquerors who had taken over his village and killed their king.

Demion began to regain his calm.

“Make it clear in your translation that his words will not affect our negotiations, nor will Chieftain Ikahm bear any responsibility for them.”

Though still visibly angry, Ikahm couldn’t reject Demion’s request.

Ikahm spoke to one of the elders, who hesitated before carefully explaining something to Jedric.

After a long chain of relayed messages, the meaning of the curse finally reached Demion.

“The spirit of Mantum will haunt this banquet hall and descend upon the barbaric southerners who call themselves conquerors. This curse will kill you all. A bloody wind blowing from the north will engulf everyone.”

Demion, keeping his expression neutral, gestured toward the bonfire.

“And the act of cutting his palm and throwing the powder earlier?”

“It seemed to be a ritual to summon a vengeful spirit,” Jedric replied.

Demion snorted in disbelief.

“I don’t believe in such superstitions. What do you think, Lady Charlon?”

Demion had assumed Charlon might have been frightened by the commotion, but her expression was the calmest in the room.

“I’ve never seen anyone die just because of a bit of magic. We are conquerors who invaded this place, killed people, and trampled over them, even if we came under the guise of peaceful negotiations. It’s not surprising that someone would utter such curses. But killing a man for merely saying a few words isn’t justifiable.”

“Chieftain Jedric, I wonder if you can translate such beautiful words into the Geran language,” Demion said proudly.

Jedric conveyed her words as best as he could.

Ikahm questioned Jedric several times with a face full of dissatisfaction, asking, “Are you sure?”

Jedric translated quickly.

“Even so, we cannot let this incident go unpunished. Throwing a dagger at a guest during a banquet is unacceptable.”

“Then let me ask, what procedures do your people follow to punish such acts? Surely you don’t have a custom of executing someone without trial simply because they made a mistake?” Demion asked.

Ikahm responded, and Jedric translated.

“We hold a village trial to resolve such matters.”

“I’ve heard of this from Jedric. You’re referring to the village trials held in the square, correct? Then proceed with that.”

“We will hold the trial tomorrow at sunrise. We do not conduct trials at night. The gods must bear witness.”

“Same for us.”

Demion refrained from adding, “In our case, it’s because the judges go home at night,” as a joke.

“Very well. May there be a fair judgment.”

Demion spoke as if bidding them farewell in advance, as he had no intention of participating in or even watching the trial.

He planned to leave this place as soon as the banquet ended. Whether the trial was held tomorrow or next month was of no consequence to him. Nor did the outcome matter. As long as it happened out of his sight, Demion had no intention of intervening, even if the Hak, Maraka, was sentenced to death.

Once Demion made his decision, two Geran warriors, including Albo, escorted Hak Maraka out of the banquet hall. Maraka muttered something under his breath until the moment he stepped out, but his words were barely audible.

“A vengeful spirit summoned to cast a curse?”

Demion chuckled to himself.

“I don’t believe in such nonsense. If I paid attention to every piece of witchcraft, I’d never become the ruler of this land.”