Chapter 146 - The Rebellion of the Three Counts (6)

Ivan had been dozing in the warmth of the campfire. He quickly circulated mana through his body. Fatigue was fundamentally a matter of the nerves, and forcibly stimulating them was a technique that soon made him forget his exhaustion.

Of course, it was no real solution. Mana alone could not restore the human body to full condition. Proper rest and caloric intake were essential.

But not now. It was not yet time to rest.

"Are you... all right?"

"For now."

The terrified Serte barely managed to take his hand off his sword hilt as he asked. Ivan nodded, his vision blurred.

Three days.

The battle with the taurus vanguard had lasted three days. Slaughtering a thousand tauruses in that time meant killing one every four minutes, all while facing the charge of a thousand of them alone.

Even the slightest injury along the way steadily eroded his ability to keep fighting. With no way to rest, he could only grit his teeth and fight on.

Struggling to hide his trembling hands, Ivan tore the cap off a healing potion. Once again, he poured it over the long gashes covering his body.

Flesh filled the wounds like clumsily stitched cloth. It was essentially no different from cauterizing a wound to stop the bleeding. He lacked even the minimum calories needed to heal.

But the pain helped drive back his exhaustion. He was still all right. His arms and legs still moved.

His face gaunt, he turned his gaze. He spotted a familiar knight—the one who had given him a sword several days earlier.

"I won't be able to return your sword. It broke."

"How many did you cut down with it?"

"At least fifty."

"Then it will leave a legend behind. I am honored."

The knight nodded to Ivan, then beckoned over his squire. Taking a longsword from the squire's baggage, he approached.

"I may kneel to none but my liege and my country. Will you forgive the discourtesy?"

"Discourtesy?"

"My honor can hardly outweigh your sacrifice."

With the most respectful military salute he could give, the knight offered the longsword. It was an unadorned cavalry sword, but forged from fine steel and superbly maintained.

As Ivan accepted it, the barons approached.

"We are returning to our domains. Will you join us? We must hold a celebration and reassure our people."

"No, I'm afraid not."

"Still busy, then? Yes, I suppose this was not the only order the Grand Duke of Etakrich gave you."

"That too, but it isn't time for you to rest yet, either."

Ivan swept his gaze over the barons and continued.

"Do you remember what I said before? That your life must be spent on something worthier."

"I do. But what could be worthier...?"

"You must save your liege. Surely mere demons cannot be the only foe worth staking your lives against."

He had to organize an army in the Grand Duke of Etakrich's name and save Matilene. It was essential, if only to bring all the turmoil that would follow the civil war under control in Gilles Vert's name.

As a foreigner, he could not resolve this country's tangled political situation in a single stroke. Even in Krasilof, that had barely been achieved with the Princess's absolute support and the desperate efforts of everyone in Counterintelligence Command.

The administrative vacuum that would follow, and the chaos it would cause, were beyond his reach as a foreigner. Any misstep could be seen as interference in internal affairs.

That was why he needed Gilles Vert's name. Gilles Vert needed to be a hero. He was one already, but he would need to be more of one in the days ahead.

'His standing must be so unassailable that no one can object even if he directly intervenes in the royal succession.'

Etakrich would save this country. It had to be done solely in Gilles Vert's name, not that of Ivan, a mere foreigner.

"... Our liege? What do you mean?"

"Saint Matilene is under attack. As the king's subjects, shouldn't you take up your swords?"

"Did you not say the Grand Duke of Etakrich was holding back the demons?"

"Why do you think the demons dared cross the Eastern Front at a time like this?"

Ivan mounted a horse a squire brought him and settled into the saddle. With his sword at his side, he swept his gaze over the barons watching him.

"Nobles of this country have conspired with the demons and raised their armies. With the Grand Duke of Etakrich absent from the capital, where do you think they would turn their horses?"

"Is that true...? B-but how could they dare...? If they have joined hands with demons, who would ever accept those traitors' seizure of the throne? Quite apart from this country's patriots, would the United Kingdoms stand by and allow it?"

"Well, we'll have to find out whether they have more plans in reserve..."

Would the United Kingdoms accept a throne seized through collusion with demons? Of course not. It was an intolerable betrayal.

Naturally, they would have prepared for that as well. He could not know now what they intended to do after their coup succeeded. Perhaps he would never know.

Because their rebellion had to end in failure.

Just then, a cavalryman rode up from the rear, alarm written across his face. He went straight to the baron and bowed.

"Troops are approaching from the rear!"

"What? From where? Have they finished mustering already? I thought they would need several more days."

"No! No, Your Excellency! They aren't our troops..."

Speak of the devil. Ivan gave a faint chuckle and waited for the cavalryman to continue.

"It's Count Guillaume's private army...! They bear the banner of the comital House of Autléans!"

"How many? How many men has he brought?"

"We have no exact count, but there are a full four thousand infantry... We haven't managed to count the cavalry!"

"He won't have come with good intentions, then."

Even if he had come with advance knowledge of the demon vanguard's infiltration, that was plainly excessive force.

Four thousand infantry, and at least four hundred cavalry if their proportions followed standard Thilles doctrine. All the more so considering the cost of mobilizing such a force.

It would be even more suspicious if he had mobilized to reinforce the Eastern Front rather than deal with these tauruses. In that case, there was no reason to divert his troops this way.

Marching directly toward Bertomont meant he already knew the demon force was here—and had an ulterior motive.

"When you spoke of forces allied with the demons, did you mean Count Autléans?"

"All three counts, including him."

"Vermontfort and Grandmartel as well?"

"Yes."

Baron Serte sighed and rubbed his face. Considering how many troops those three great nobles could muster, this was like throwing eggs against a rock.

Five barons were gathered here. Rural domains though theirs might be, even the largest force they could muster, calling up every tenant farmer in the busy farming season, would fall short of the army Count Autléans had just brought.

That was what it meant to be a great count. Worse, his troops would not be tenant farmers, but professionally trained standing soldiers.

Even with everything they had, they could scarcely oppose Count Autléans alone.

"Has the Grand Duke of Etakrich prepared some other strategy, perhaps? More reinforcements...?"

"No. Not to my knowledge."

"Then this country truly is finished. It weathered even that war, only to meet such a hollow end in my lifetime."

"It is too early to give up."

Ivan rode closer to the barons. Deep despair weighed heavily upon them.

Beyond a certain disparity in numbers, strategy became meaningless. All the more so against an army with superior troops and composition, overwhelming logistical capacity, and enormous scale.

This was the problem with civil war.

Even so, it was too early to give up. So long as he lived, he must not stop struggling. A trained agent ceased an operation only in death.

As long as he could fight, at any moment, the word impossible was never a reason to abandon an operation.

And so, instead, Ivan drew his pistol. Taking up the sword he had received earlier, he addressed the barons.

"If Saint Matilene can hold until the troops on the Eastern Front have weathered this, until the Grand Duke of Etakrich returns, we have not yet lost."

No. He did not even know whether Gilles Vert could return alive. The Eastern Front would not hold, and the Capital Defense Force had already burned to death in the dragons' jaws.

But the truth did not matter. All they needed was hope.

"If you stand and fight, you will surely die. If you take up your swords and ride with me now, most of you will not survive."

Ivan was not a gifted speaker. He knew that well himself.

But he had had many excellent teachers. The late king had been a master orator. Having always attended him at his side, Ivan could at least imitate him, however imperfectly.

And so he looked over the barons and knights weighed down by despair and continued.

"But if you give up, your country has no chance of survival."

"Would it have a chance even if we fought?"

"At least it would not be none."

"Even if it ends as nothing more than a futile struggle?"

"Then you will be buried with your country."

The barons' faces grew increasingly grim. Yet Ivan continued in the same calm voice.

"But if you succeed—however slender the chance, if you succeed—your country will be able to remember your sacrifice. As it endured the past thousand years, it will endure another thousand to come."

"..."

"Will you take up your swords for a war in which you will surely die? Or will you lay them down and leave to live as tenant farmers, spending the rest of your lives marking the anniversary of the country that died this day?"

"You will find it hard to survive this battle yourself."

"Was this one any different?"

Ivan gestured at the taurus corpses strewn everywhere. At his words, the barons fell silent and lowered their heads.

Facing a thousand tauruses alone, he must surely have been prepared to die. But why had this foreigner devoted himself so utterly to Thilles?

And while that foreigner still held the banner of resistance high, could they, this country's vassals, let their sword hands fall?

The knights bit their lips as they looked at Ivan. The sun had begun to set. Sunset hung at the edge of the sky, staining the horizon red.

Ivan drew his sword, looked back at the knights, and asked,

"Who among us can live forever? But everyone who holds a sword must choose. Whoever's hand brings your death, that death must come by your own decision. If you have no intention of fighting with your own arms, turn back. But if you do..."

He turned toward the sunset. With his back to the vast battlefield stretching toward the Eastern Front, he faced the far west, where Saint Matilene lay.

"Come, knights of Thilles. Let us go to die with your country, or to die for it."

The sunset burned red behind Ivan. Sunset was the most tragically magnificent light, revealing the end of the day.

Soon night would come. Deep, dark, and cold. But did night not promise the next day's sunrise?

CLANG!

SHING...

CLANG!

The knights drew their swords as Ivan finished speaking. Some lowered their helmet visors, some drew ragged breaths, and others kissed their blades and crossed themselves.

Baron Noire rode out before the knights waiting in silence and addressed Ivan.

"Lead the way. We will follow."

Thilles was a country of knights. It revered goodness, virtue, and knightly duty rather than individual valor.

Yet, paradoxically, the Hero had arisen in Thilles, proving himself through individual valor, but also through goodness and virtue.

The knights silently saluted. Toward the sunset. Toward distant Saint Matilene. And toward the back of Ivan, advancing before them.

A hero was not the strongest.

A hero was the bravest. One who never stopped, no matter the moment. Who never faltered before any duty.

A symbol of hope.

The horses moved. Slowly, at a walk. Then their hooves struck the earth at a trot, gathering speed into a canter.

And soon, a gallop. With all their strength.

Toward their capital. Toward Saint Matilene. So that the hope riding before them could reach it.

Back during the war, it had been said that a mounted charge by the knights of Thilles would not stop unless the riders died. It would be no different now.

Only death would halt their charge.

* * *

And at last, at that very moment, Isabelle's party reached Saint Matilene.

It was the fifth day since they had left the Bernina Mountains, and fewer than three days remained before Etouan de Grandmartel's rebel army reached the capital's borderlands.

Etouan's force, originally some twenty thousand strong, had forced every domain along its route into submission during its march on the capital.

The approaching army now numbered thirty-seven thousand. It marched on, having surpassed even the Eastern Corps' maximum capacity.

It was the largest single corps Thilles possessed at that moment.

By contrast, Saint Matilene's garrison consisted of twenty-five hundred standing troops and the two thousand remaining members of the Capital Defense Force.