Chapter 149 - Waiting for Winter (3)

Eight days. Nineteen hours. And twenty-three minutes.

That was how long it had taken to dispose of one great count's army, striking and withdrawing again and again to minimize casualties on both sides.

It had not been easy. Nor had he escaped without considerable injury. A knight's charge was like cannon fire: by the time you saw it coming and reacted, it was already too late.

“Hard to believe he's human like the rest of us.”

Ivan rode at the head of the group, half asleep. Throughout his body, muscles screamed in pain as they tore and healed over and over. His overworked ligaments were swollen red, pushed to the brink of rupture.

If he lost consciousness, there was no telling how many days he would sleep. Somehow, he had to stay awake. It was not yet time to sleep.

“Is he even alive?”

“Shh. Quiet. He's sleeping.”

How had the battle gone again? He had swiftly killed the cavalry commander in the initial surprise attack. Then he had struck the command staff in their confusion, wheeled his horse around, and fled with the knights.

The moment pursuit began, they had slipped into the forest and picked off their pursuers one by one. Half the barons' knights had died at that stage.

The soldiers.

More of the soldiers had survived. That was a relief. They might be called soldiers now because they held weapons, but put plows or pitchforks in those hands and they would be farmers.

That was the problem with civil war. Every loss of military manpower was also a loss to the workforce.

Both sides obligingly annihilating each other could also be described as a drastic reduction in the country's ability to sustain its population. Even enemy rank-and-file soldiers had to be spared and sent home whenever possible.

That was Thilles's only faint hope of survival.

The rebel ringleaders had to be cut away with exacting precision. Like an artisan's delicate handiwork.

“Even if we somehow reach Saint Matilene, we have barely sixty men, all cavalry. Fewer still, once you count the stragglers.”

“I know.”

“Do we stand a chance? Didn't they say Count Grandmartel's army had passed thirty thousand?”

“Didn't that man tell us? Anyone who wants to give up can lay down his weapon and live as a farmer.”

Ivan felt a strange paradox at work. To save as many people as possible. To save this country. With those fine-sounding words, he was leading soldiers onward and shoving them into death.

How absurd, to pay for one person's life with another's. But that had been commonplace back then, too.

Too many good people had died. War always claimed the righteous first.

He, too, had generally been the one walking into mortal danger at someone else's command. That had usually been his role.

At the late king's command, he had charged toward one of the Seven Dragon Generals. The king and all his seniors had died in that battle.

When the hero wanted a path cleared, he cleared it. Many agents of the Extermination Unit had lost their lives in the process.

When the Princess had tearfully begged him, he had headed for a Dragon General's royal abode. After that day, the Extermination Unit had ceased to exist.

He had heard all too many commands to lay down his life for a greater cause. But to think he would be the one saying those words. It was ridiculous. Contemptible. He had no right.

Rousing others and driving them to their deaths was a hero's burden.

“Very well. Let's do it.”

“A bit late for that. I'll be counting on you. Come now, if we survive to the end, what will a mere barony matter? We'll be the men who saved the nation!”

“Ha ha! My son will be a count!”

Only heroes could bear that burden. Only they could willingly treat other people's lives as expendable in service of a greater cause and live with it. Only those who believed in their own righteousness and pressed ahead even through despair.

But Ivan could never do that. He had neither the right nor the ability to be called a hero. He was the sort of agent willing to resort to cowardice for the smallest advantage. He was a selfish man.

'And we're outsiders.'

Ivan nodded at Kim Seonwoo's words. That was the biggest problem.

Outsiders from a distant world.

With no right to tell the people of this world to risk their lives.

'Let's go back. It's not too late. Let's live quietly in Krasilof. Just watch over this generation's heroes until they grow into their roles. Ivan. We don't have to risk our lives.'

He nodded again. No, they did not have to.

His goal had never changed. To go home. To escape this goddamned premodern world and return to a safe one where laws and social systems were carefully structured to protect each individual.

He did not want to give any more of his heart to this world. Everyone he had cared for had died before his eyes.

So, no more. He shared that feeling. But.

But.

When Kim Seonwoo had said no more, it was Ivan who had taken up the sword in his stead. Ivan who had understood and borne all of Kim Seonwoo's wounds and scars, yet still risen and pressed on.

For Kim Seonwoo had lost every last scrap of his will to live.

Ivan understood Kim Seonwoo's feelings. He, too, was Ivan, after all. In the end, his thoughts were no different from Ivan's own.

But Ivan did not agree. To live, to survive, to move forward. Ultimately, Ivan himself was the one who had to give everything he had, every moment, for that alone.

'Shut up.'

He would never live like the many great heroes he had known.

But still, having seen them once, surely he could at least imitate them.

And perhaps, through attempt after repeated attempt, the imitation he built might finally approach the original.

Might reach even the feet of the heroes he had admired in those days.

“It's raining!”

“Ah, damn it. Just wonderful. A shield! Bring a shield!”

“I'll take his reins. Good heavens, he fought like a demon, but he must be human after all. Not even a twitch when I take his reins.”

“Rest a little longer. Arrows might be beyond us, but we can at least keep the rain off you.”

“Ha ha, even royalty would be hard-pressed to receive such attendance from nobles. You ought to feel honored.”

I can hear every word.

Ivan gave the dazed reply and closed his eyes again. It was hard to tell whether he had actually answered or merely imagined it.

Amid the scorching heat burning through his nerves, he could no longer hear Kim Seonwoo's voice.

* * *

BWOOOOOO!!

“Unbelievable.”

The horn sounded at dawn. The soldiers clutching spears along the wall gallery had dark circles beneath their eyes, as though they had stayed awake all night.

The view from the inner city's high walls was horrifying. Far away, advancing troops filled the Saint Matilene Plain.

More than thirty thousand combat troops meant that, counting all the personnel needed to move supplies, the total could easily be three times that. By simple arithmetic, a conservative estimate put the total hostile force on the plain at just under a hundred thousand.

A mere thousand people standing together made a crowd. Enough to fill a square and more. Ten thousand would fill an amphitheater. A hundred thousand blackened the plains.

“Should we rethink the plan? How are we supposed to assassinate someone in that?”

“There is no other way.”

Oscar gripped his sword and sighed. Tension, pressure, the weight of responsibility, and his instinct for survival all sounded alarms. He had to kill one count somewhere in that mass of men and return.

If they failed, Thilles was finished.

Even if they succeeded, there were so few ways to make it back alive.

The soldiers were terrified. Even the Capital Defense Force, the finest of Thilles's regular troops.

BWOOOOOO!!

A curtain of men, a wall of banners, was drawing closer.

“Come in. Come on in...”

Eugene muttered, clutching his sword. They had left one gate open along the enemy's line of advance, while keeping all the others firmly shut.

Naturally, the enemy would enter there first. There was no reason to tire their soldiers out hauling up siege towers.

'Please come in.'

Count Grandmartel was the very model of an arrogant, narcissistic tyrant. He had ravaged and plundered every domain that defied his will.

Would such a man really stay in the rear on the decisive battlefield of his bid for the throne, with an overwhelming numerical advantage of more than ten to one?

The odds might be fifty-fifty, but Eugene fervently hoped he would not.

“He's—inside! He's come inside!”

Beside him, Elpihera cried out while using a farsight spell.

Good.

Eugene lowered his helmet's visor and spoke quickly.

“Miss Elpihera. A blessing.”

Elpihera formed hand signs, and purple mana flowed through her fingers, intertwining. It shot straight into Eugene's head like a bolt of lightning.

Overwhelming courage blossomed in his chest.

Good.

Eugene nodded and drew his sword.

“The Lord is present; I shall know no fear.”

“This is just a Bestow Bravery spell...”

“Slay the impious.”

Reciting the Bible, Eugene descended from the gallery. The others followed at his side. So long as the target was within his detection range, Eugene could fairly be called the finest scout there was.

“Oscar. Don't you want to say something? Something bold and commanding, as Lord Protector!”

“Let's drop the formalities.”

“Sorry...?”

“When we get back alive. We're friends, after all.”

Oscar smiled and pulled his helmet down firmly. Isabelle and Esidisi burst out laughing and drew their weapons together.

“Lower the drawbridge!”

“Sir...? What?”

The guard looked bewildered at Oscar's shout. An army tens of thousands strong was approaching. And his commander was ordering the gates opened?

“Hold for just half a day! I am going to kill Count Grandmartel!”

“That's suicide!”

“Staying here is little different! I am ordering you to stand here and commit suicide!”

The officers' and soldiers' faces stiffened at his words. Oscar raised his sword and shouted.

“So at the very least, as the man who has ordered you to die, I am telling you that I will go out myself and die fighting! Lower the drawbridge! Hold for half a day, and if we do not return, surrender!”

“... Open the gates!”

“Open the gates!”

The gates opened. This was the heartland of great knights, which had not once fallen from within even during the last war.

Passing through the gates of the Palais de Royal, Oscar thumped his chest hard over his heart, which hammered with tension.

It was not yet time to be afraid. He was not dead yet.

Think back to what Mr. Ivan taught him. With fine enough control over mana, even the heartbeat could be regulated. That was what he had said.

BWOOOOO!!

The horn rang out. Oscar gritted his teeth and clutched his horse's reins.

BANG!

His pauldron jolted violently. Reeling from the impact, he turned to find Isabelle grinning beside him.

“Straighten up! Look proud!”

“Pardon...?”

“This is the Hero's Party's first war together! Don't hunch up like that! If you must, you can always follow behind me!”

“Ha.”

Dawn lit Saint Matilene. Bathed in the rising sunlight, Isabelle held her sword high and smiled.

Yes. The hero. The Hero's Party.

Just as his father had, he too would.

“Isn't being the shield my job? Stay safely behind me.”

“Now you're finally looking a little less tense. Let's go. The sooner we're back, the sooner we can drop the formalities.”

The party rode toward the sun.