Chapter 148 - Waiting for Winter (2)

The grand audience chamber of the Palais de Royal was in turmoil. No, calling it turmoil was generous. It was a rather ludicrous piece of theater. A handful of royalists and the rival factions of the counts were all keeping up their hollow performances.

"Your Majesty! An urgent dispatch reports that Count Grandmartel has crossed the border into Saint Matilene!"

"We must open the gates! Count Grandmartel merely marches with righteous men seeking to protect this country's royal house. Opposing them would be folly!"

"You wretch! Hold your tongue! Look at what these so-called righteous men are doing! The grain is withering in the fields at harvesttime! Your Majesty, punish them for their crimes!"

"House Vermontfort has reportedly begun mustering troops. Your Majesty, you must go to Pervogne! Saint Matilene cannot withstand the traitors' army!"

The king watched his ministers with dry eyes. More than half of them wanted to drag him from his throne.

The machinery of treason had begun turning the moment the Lord Protector left. Not one of these conspirators stood with him. Not even his own worthless sons.

"Your Majesty, from all that I, your son, have observed, Count Grandmartel is a loyal servant without equal. His forces are intended solely to weather this country's turmoil..."

"What madness is this?! Your Majesty! Give the command, and I shall go to Pervogne myself and return with Count Vermontfort's forces to defend Saint Matilene!"

Open the gates and welcome the traitors.

No, bring in the traitors from another region.

No. Wait for the Lord Protector.

Better to flee abroad and march back with a foreign army.

Countless voices filled the royal presence, yet every one of them wanted this country dead.

The king pressed his brow. Amid the clamor of his court, he alone sat in quiet solitude.

How little his scepter weighed. He had built his royal authority by killing the righteous, executing patriots, and slaughtering loyal servants.

He had cut down his brother and sold his niece. All to preserve the authority of this country's crown.

Without it, this country was finished. A king's strength did not itself embody a nation. But among these serpentine nobles, if even the royal house lost its authority, this land could never endure as a single country.

They had lost too much in the war against the demons. The moment the nation's strength hit rock bottom, every noble who had managed to preserve his own power became a potential rival to the king.

It was a trap with no escape.

Aubert III, the aged king of Thilles, raised a hand wrinkled and weathered by the years. At last, his ministers fell silent. This, one might say, was the only authority he had left.

Their gazes hurt. Not concern for their king's safety, but naked greed for a trophy to carry to the next ruler.

Not even a handful of his servants remained here now.

And the old king, who had endured a long war and kept his throne—the old man once called the Lion King of Thilles—no longer had even a shred of will left to fight.

"If we resist, can we hold?"

"Your Majesty! Count Grandmontfort is no trait—"

"Enough. Tell me. If we call for aid, who will lend us a hand? Krasilof has only recently emerged from internal strife, Kallion lies across the open sea, and Droan is farther still."

Such was the situation of every nation counted among the great powers of the United Kingdoms.

The alliance could not save Thilles in its immediate hour of need. As for the troops within Thilles itself, matters were worse.

Half were in Count Grandmontfort's grasp, and the other half were scattered throughout the land. Even if he ordered a muster, they could not reach the capital before the traitors.

What, then, was he to do? How could he stop the dagger already racing toward his throat?

The old king lamented. So this truly was how his country would end.

Had it been a country doomed to collapse the instant the Lord Protector was absent? Had none of his many ministers seen it coming? Or had they seen it and taken the conspirators' side?

What had he spent his whole life striving for? Had it all been for this hollow royal authority?

"Your Majesty. The young lord of Etakrich requests admission to court."

"How dare he! Does he know where he is?!"

"Does the brat imagine himself his father?"

Such language was decidedly insolent in the royal presence. Agitated nobles rose to their feet and began denouncing the duke for his absence.

Before the king could lament any further, the thick doors of the audience chamber were flung open.

BANG!

"How dare you!"

"Do you mean to commit treason? You stand in the royal presence!"

"I know."

STEP, STEP.

Oscar walked along the chamber's long carpet. The nobles shrank before the pressure he slowly unleashed.

It was unmistakably the presence of someone who had reached the realm of superhumans. Someone whose killing intent alone could squeeze a person's throat shut.

Others here had attained that level. Yet none dared stand in his path. Cowed from the outset, the nobles faltered and sat back down.

"Your Majesty. Oscar de Etakrich, knight initiate of the Eastern Order, stands before you."

SHING.

The sword slid slowly free. It blazed white beneath the audience chamber's mana lamps. Everyone present knew that blade.

The Grand Duke of Etakrich's sword. The symbol of military command and the sacred treasure of the Eastern Order. And its presence here meant...

"Has the Lord Protector... fallen in battle?"

At the king's groan, an uproar erupted among the nobles. The despair of the royalists mingled with the joyous cries of the House of Nobles.

Amid the clamor, Oscar quietly bowed his head.

"Give your command. It is not Gilles Vert's son who stands before you, but Etakrich, sword in hand."

"Can you shoulder this burden, sir?"

"Even if no one can do it, if someone must..."

Oscar raised his head to look up at the old king. Amid the uproar, the two shared a quiet silence.

With grave effort, his lips parted.

"Etakrich must always lead the way."

"I grant my assent. From this moment, you shall discharge your duties as Lord Protector."

"I obey Your Majesty's command."

Oscar rose with his sword in hand. His cold eyes swept the nobles. He walked toward the one shouting at the very front, veins bulging in his neck.

"You dare imagine yourself your father?!"

"No."

SHING.

Sword raised, he advanced.

"There is only one Etakrich standing here."

SLICE.

The noble's head flew limply through the air. It spun, staining the audience chamber's carpet red. As the horrified nobles began to retreat, Oscar spoke, sword in hand.

"Capital Corps. From this moment, protect your sovereign."

"We obey the royal command!"

Soldiers poured through the open doors. Roughly half of the Capital Defense Force, left behind by Gilles Vert, still remained in the city.

The audience chamber became a slaughterhouse. The lives of all the nobles belonging to the three counts' different factions hung upon a gesture from Oscar.

In the chamber strewn with blood and corpses, he quietly knelt once more.

"From this moment onward, I shall take full responsibility for Your Majesty's safety."

Such was the office of Lord Protector. Only death brought release from its obligations. And one Etakrich still lived here.

Thilles would not fall before he died.

The old king reached out and took a guard officer's sword. He staggered over to stand before Oscar.

SHING.

Cold steel touched Oscar's shoulder.

Without a word, the king tapped both his shoulders and held the blade above his head. A moment later, he staggered back and sank onto his throne.

"At least one loyal servant remains. I may yet die a king."

* * *

"Now, come on. It's not as if our date with death is set in stone. Heads up, everyone."

At Eugene's words, the party lifted their heads. Every face was haggard with exhaustion.

They had ridden for three days straight, returned to the capital, immediately staged their intervention at court, seized military command, and only just finished assessing their troops.

Having killed most of the high-ranking nobles in charge of military administration and operations, they faced a crippling administrative vacuum. After inspecting their forces with the officers still alive, it was hardly surprising that they had come back and collapsed.

But this was only the beginning. The enemy would arrive within two days.

Saint Matilene was the largest city in the country. Four thousand men would not even suffice to man its walls.

"What are we supposed to do? They could just knock and we'd have to let them in."

"We'd be better off taking what we can from the palace and leaving together."

"It's too early to give up. Boss is still alive."

"... What difference would it make if mister came?"

"He hasn't sent us any particular instructions yet, has he?"

Eugene spoke with conviction in his eyes.

"If there were truly nothing we could do, he wouldn't have sent us here alone or left us without a word. As long as Boss is alive, we should assume he hasn't intervened because there's still a way."

"Unless he suddenly descends from the sky with an army..."

"The Lord hasn't shared any details of Boss's plan."

Eugene's Status window still confirmed that Ivan was alive. So it was not yet time to give up. If Ivan lived, and he had not told them to retreat or flee this situation, there had to be another way.

Until they discovered what that way was, they should focus solely on holding out. That was Eugene's position.

"But how? We won't last once the siege begins."

"Let's abandon the outer city."

Oscar, who had been listening silently to Eugene, spoke abruptly.

"Are you mad? You want to fight in the streets?"

"We'll shelter everyone who hasn't evacuated inside the inner walls and abandon the outer city and the entire capital region. Deploying along the outer city walls should buy us about a day."

With a shorter stretch of wall to defend, four thousand men could cover it all. But with their supply capacity depleted, they could not sustain a long battle.

They could hardly hold out for days on end while feeding so many civilians as well.

"Let's try doing this Ivan's way."

"What?"

"Isn't that all we've learned over the break? Infiltration, survival, and..."

Assassination.

At Oscar's words, Isabelle fell silent. Viewed dispassionately, the Hero's Party had never been a force that commanded wars and delivered victory.

Strictly speaking, they conducted decapitation operations. They were closer to an infiltration unit sent to bring back the heads of the Demon King and the Seven Dragon Generals. Assassins, in other words.

So Oscar had no intention of taking military command and leading the army to victory. That was aside from the question of whether anyone could.

They were outnumbered by more than eight to one. Every supply route was in enemy hands, and this was not a battle whose prospects would improve with time.

But if they could personally behead Count Grandmartel, victory might not be beyond reach. The enemy was like the demon armies of old. The vassal lords had assembled solely under Grandmartel's authority.

"If we begin defending the inner city, they'll certainly try to take control of all of Saint Matilene. Not destroy it."

Unlike a demon army, Grandmartel did not seek this country's destruction. If he wanted the throne, he would prefer a prize left intact to a crown atop ruins.

Thus, they would fight in the streets.

"Will he just walk in? Won't he suspect a trap?"

"Would he think we have the resources to lay one? He'll see it as our last desperate struggle. And..."

Oscar had sent a gift: the severed heads of the nobles in the House of Nobles who had supported the great counts, along with a personal letter bearing the Grand Duke of Etakrich's seal.

The count would hardly forgo the honor of personally defeating a member of the Hero's Party and seizing the throne.

"Whew... All right. We can hold the walls for a day at most. We'll find a way within that time... Somehow."

"If you would rather not, you may wait here."

"After coming this far?"

"Miss Isabelle aside, this isn't anyone else's homeland. You have no reason to risk your lives."

"We do have a reason."

Esidisi smiled, twirling a lock of hair.

"We're all in the same party."

* * *

"Saint Matilene..."

Etouan de Grandmartel sat astride a snow-white horse, looking down at the great city spread below the hill.

Though it was late at night, columns of refugees leaving the city were still scattering like specks across the grasslands.

"Is this the will of Thilles's royal house?"

The chamberlain prostrate before Etouan opened an enormous chest, then bowed his head and withdrew.

The chest was packed with the severed heads of nobles. He knew every one of them. All the nobles he had planted in the House of Nobles over the years had returned as corpses.

They had been administrators, each destined to lend his talents to the coming nation. Etouan gave a faint, rueful chuckle.

[Victory Without Surrender]

[Grand Duke of Etakrich]

The note attached to the chest was spare. A single sentence written in bold strokes, and the seal of the Grand Duke of Etakrich.

Gilles Vert would have died in the Bernina Mountains, so this must be his son's doing. Quite the audacious boy.

"Your Majesty, give the order to advance."

"No, that will not do."

Etouan crumpled Oscar's note and raised his head. With the city's sprawling outskirts now before him, he smiled cruelly.

"How could I steal victory in the dead of night? Reassure the men and feed them well. Not for battle, but for a triumphal march. At daybreak, we advance and take the crown from that old king."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Etouan looked away from the retreating attendant and climbed the hill once more.

Thilles was now within his grasp.

* * *

At that same moment.

"Where does your loyalty lie?"

Count Guillaume stared up in terror at the vivid blue eyes looking down at him.

As he opened his mouth to beg for mercy, a finger came to rest against his lips.

"No, I won't hear it. Your actions have already proved it well enough."

"W-what do you mea—"

BANG!

CLINK.

A cartridge case rang against the ground and rolled.

Ivan holstered the smoking pistol and turned away. Gripping the dead Count Guillaume's head, he walked through the tumultuous camp.

"Get a little sleep, at least. How many days has it been?"

Ivan glanced at Baron Noire, who had approached and spoken quietly beside him, and gave a curt answer.

"Eight days, nineteen hours, twenty-three minutes."

A trained agent must always be able to keep precise track of time. At his answer, Noire worked his mouth for a moment, then turned his head away.

"Whatever your condition, the soldiers are in bad shape. Our losses were too heavy."

"Regroup. Only those who can move are to follow."

"We won't muster even sixty. Not even if we take only knights."

"Send home any of the remaining troops who can't keep fighting."

Ivan fastened Guillaume's head to his saddle and mounted.

With a vacant expression, he looked up at the sky to get his bearings. He unfolded the map in his mind and checked the terrain.

It felt as though a red-hot iron were searing one corner of his brain. At the same time, a dull pain swelled, constricting his breathing. Eight days had already passed in unremitting combat, without a single moment's sleep.

His fingertips trembled. Sniping was out of the question. Watching the arm that kept throwing off his aim, Ivan nodded.

"Let's go."

At his words, Noire grumbled once, dark shadows settled deep around his eyes, then swung onto his horse.