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Urich called Bachman to summon Sven. Admission to the Imperial palace was strict, but the requirements were laxer in the Swallow Residence since it was a place for outsiders in the first place.
Sven entered the palace with two other northerners from the mercenary squad. The northerners’ faces were full of distaste after going through the inspection before entering.
“Does the prince think we’re his lieges? Telling us what to do and all that. It’s pissing me off,” one of the northerners said in the northern language with obvious frustration. Sven brushed his beard and laughed.
“That’s enough. Our leader is Urich, and that’s who we were summoned by. Not the prince.”
“Right, and that Urich, where is he even from? He’s not from the north nor the south.”
The other northerners had always been curious of Urich’s origin. They were barbarians who had spent quite a long time with Urich now, so they knew that Urich wasn’t from the north or the south.
“Shut your mouth. If you really want to know, or you have a problem with not knowing it for some reason, go ask Urich yourself with your axe. That’s the way we do things.”
Sven said as he rubbed his stiff shoulder. He felt his body slowly rusting away. Sven was not a young warrior anymore, and with the way that he had been putting his body through trouble time and time again, his bones ached in the rain like a real old man.
The other northerners...
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