Chapter 150 - Waiting for Winter (4)

Soldiers poured through the wide-open gates. Saint Matilene was a great city that prided itself on its impeccably maintained roads. Befitting a city famed for trade, His Holiness Boulevard was broad enough to accommodate even this vast force with room to spare.

"Raaaaaah!!"

The soldiers ran, wild-eyed with excitement. Even the most strictly disciplined army could turn into a band of looters the instant the walls fell. In a city this size, enormous riches would remain even if as many citizens as possible had fled.

And aside from its main force, Count Grandmartel's corps consisted entirely of the various lords' private armies. Strictly speaking, looting was something of an economic activity, a means of defraying the immense cost of military supplies. However much he wanted an intact throne, he could not forbid plunder itself. His subordinate barons would turn against him the moment he did.

And so the soldiers raced onward, eyes bloodshot at the prospect of almost unrestricted plunder. Houses burned, citizens were dragged from hiding, and furniture came flying through windows. The chaos continued.

"Where! Where is he?"

"Wait, give me a moment. There are so many people, the information..."

Eugene frowned as he spurred his horse onward. The infantry made no attempt to stop them. Looting was their first priority; taking the inner city came second.

In truth, no one seemed to imagine that the enemy commander would personally ride out from the inner city and charge. Common sense said as much. Anyone on horseback here ought to be a noble. Discipline was too poorly established. The soldiers could hardly recognize every noble from every other domain.

"I see him! There, that white horse! That armor! That's him, right?"

"Yes!!"

The party spurred their horses into a gallop, heading against the flow without provoking the soldiers. The men merely stepped aside and grumbled as the horses passed, apparently never daring to think these riders might be enemies.

It was a common occurrence on battlefields without established lines. In this case, a fortunate one. Eugene let out a private sigh at the soldiers' vacant faces. To think a headlong charge like this would actually work.

He wasn't sure whether to be grateful that the situation was an even bigger shitshow than expected, or impressed with Oscar's ingenuity in deliberately turning the city into one. Well, all's well that ends well. With that thought, he rode after Oscar.

The band of knights Elpihera had spotted soon came into view.

"Etouan!!"

A savage shout tore from Oscar's throat, fierce as though conquering his fear had left nothing but rage.

"Look at what you've done! A city that stood for a thousand years is burning!!"

Oscar drew his sword as he shouted. The knights approaching from the end of the street stopped and turned to look. Their leader, a powerfully built knight in pure white armor, blocked the road. Behind him stood a squire bearing the commander's banner.

It was Etouan de Grandmartel's armor. Eyes seemed to flash beneath the lavish helmet.

"Etouan de Grandmartel!! Come! If you would take this country, you must tread over the bodies of its remaining patriots!"

"Oscar!! Wait!!"

The warhorse galloped onward. At full speed, it could no longer stop under its own power at this distance. Eugene screamed beneath his helmet.

"That man isn't Count Grandmartel—!!"

His words never reached Oscar. The soldiers thrown into confusion by Oscar's appearance, the sounds of a city collapsing all around them, were too loud. His heartbeat thundered too loudly. Not with fear, but rage.

Eugene clenched his teeth and raised his sword. Following his lead, the entire party leveled their weapons.

'His level is... 63!!'

Considering the Hero's Party's average level, calling this opponent overwhelming would hardly be an exaggeration. Had he been Etouan, they would still have had to risk their lives to fight him, but—

"I see."

The knight's voice resonated, cutting through the noise to reach their ears with perfect clarity.

"So it was a trap after all. Such a quaint little trick."

CLACK.

A gauntleted hand lifted the polearm resting against his saddle. A massive halberd, the sort an infantryman might carry, swung upward. It was far too large a weapon to wield from horseback with upper-body strength alone.

CRAAASH!!

Oscar barely ducked beneath the axe blade. It scraped viciously through his helmet, ripping it away. With force still to spare, the halberd demolished a wall at the edge of the road.

"Oscar!!"

Elpihera screamed and formed hand signs. Mana bloomed, gathering into lightning. With cracks that broke down the air's insulation, a blue bolt streaked toward the knight.

"An elf?"

Even with lightning striking him squarely in the head, the knight merely turned it aside. His helmet strap, scorched through by the bolt, fell loose, and the visor rolled across the ground.

The face revealed beneath was not Etouan's. It belonged to a much older man, yet one still strong. A man like stone.

"Jean Gérard de Lamonde!?"

"You know him?"

"Of course I do! Lamonde, the Red Baron...! What the hell is he doing—!?"

Isabelle screamed as she soothed her horse. Their mounted charge finally stopped. The party stood rigid before Baron Lamonde, gripping their weapons.

Soldiers drawn by the noise gathered around them, clutching spears leveled their way. The knights ahead showed no intention of moving. They trusted the knight at their head. They trusted the name of Lamonde, the Red Baron.

Baron Lamonde removed his helmet, still crackling with electricity, and tossed it to the ground with a laugh.

"Isabelle. Have you been well?"

"Shut up, you traitor!!"

"Traitor? Ha ha. What a hurtful thing to say."

Lamonde rolled his shoulders with a crack and urged his horse forward. Its hooves clopped closer, the pressure of his presence intensifying with every step. Amid the soldiers aiming crossbows and pikes, he waved them back and took the lead.

"Show some courtesy. Hasn't the defeated commander come in person to sign his surrender?"

"Who said—!"

"Or did you actually call this an operation? The Lord Protector's son, the hero's son, and... well. Some foreigners. A little clutch of babes, thinking you might win if you charged in with your lives on the line?"

Lamonde burst into hearty laughter as he looked at Oscar.

"Leaving the gates open means surrender, yet you locked the inner city and chose to hold out. You even packaged up nobles' heads and sent them to the count. After provoking him to come straight in, wouldn't it be obvious you had some trick left?"

"I should have killed you long ago, Baron Lamonde."

"You fall woefully short of the skill required."

"Father should never have trusted you."

"It was easy enough, winning the grand duke's trust."

Oscar gripped his sword, the veins in his hand bulging as though they would burst.

A knight initiate of the Eastern Order. The man who had been the first to set out when the dragon in the Bernina Mountains was reported, only to disappear. His disappearance had given the Eastern Order grounds to mobilize in person. Quite apart from the first prince's orders, grounds of that magnitude had been necessary to bring the entire order along.

"Was it all planned from the start? From the dragon's appearance to all of this...? How? Just how many years have you been preparing this...?"

"Longer than you've been alive, at least."

Lamonde twirled his halberd up onto his shoulder. He gestured with his gauntlet as he spoke.

"Let no one interfere in this fight. The honor of beheading the Lord Protector is mine."

"Everyone. I'm sorry."

Oscar spoke quietly, swallowing his anger. This was a death trap.

Even if they cut down Baron Lamonde, he could see no way out. Had Etouan been standing there, they could at least have fought for their lives, taken him hostage, and retreated to the castle. But Lamonde's life was not worth that much. Even if they defeated him, Etouan was the kind of man who would order them killed along with their hostage without hesitation.

'Mr. Ivan was right.'

Information was the most important part of planning an operation. And a trap was invariably the best its makers could prepare. If you were confident enough, walk into the trap yourself. All the more boldly once you knew it existed and had reviewed all the information and possibilities.

Ivan's teachings were the foundations of tactics. Conversely, that meant laying a trap required doing everything in your power, steeling yourself for utter ruin with no fallback should it fail. Oscar had believed himself prepared. He had not been prepared enough.

At his words, Isabelle raised her sword.

"The Hero's Party faces a crisis!!"

"... What?"

"Imperiled by the machinations of nobles blinded by ambition and knights sunk in corruption!"

Isabelle was smiling, but her eyes were not. Like a blazing morning star, they burned as she glared at Lamonde.

"But a hero is always the one who walks ahead. The name belongs not to the strongest, but the bravest! Oscar, son of Gilles Vert. If you are afraid, stand aside!"

"Miss Isabelle..."

"But if you aren't—"

Isabelle raised her sword and pointed it at Lamonde.

CLACK.

SHING.

CRACKLE...!

At the same instant, every member of the party readied for battle. This had been everyone's operation from the start. There was no need for him to shoulder the failure alone, nor any reason to die without showing his ability because he had rushed to blame himself. That was what their actions said, conveying their sincerity without a word in reply.

"The path to survival always lies ahead, never behind!"

Just as mister had taught them. Survival, infiltration, assassination, and... forging a path.

With a mighty shout, Isabelle spurred her horse forward. Though they had never rehearsed it, the whole party naturally formed a wedge around her and began to charge.

* * *

BWOOOOOO!!

"We're too late...! We're too late! Sir Yeremov. What... what are we to do!"

Saint Matilene was burning. Countless soldiers had already thrown the city gates wide and were marching inside. Every sort of noise rose from across the city. But these were not the sounds of battle. They were the sounds of destruction and plunder.

He knew this kind of commotion well. A familiar battlefield environment.

"Not yet."

Ivan's gaze settled on the center of the city. The Palais de Royal. Its royal castle, a sturdy keep beyond a deep moat. And above it, the royal arms of Thilles still flew, alongside the banner of Etakrich.

His gaze returned to the gates and outer walls. There was no sign of fighting anywhere. Not even evidence of the gates being smashed. They had been open from the start.

'They meant to hold the inner city.'

Alone, that was nothing but a desperate last stand. With outside reinforcements uncertain, the inner city's defenses could never compensate for such a disparity in numbers. The difference in supply capacity alone was stark. So, if he understood the party's calculations—

'They must have laid a trap.'

Open the outer city and lure the enemy in. If they held out in the inner city, the enemy leader would surely march into the streets, whether to negotiate, jeer, or make a triumphal entry. They must have judged he would attempt something of the sort. But...

'Too complacent. Far too easy to predict.'

Ivan sighed. A sound operation must not be built on hopes about the enemy's behavior. It had to compel the enemy's actions.

In their place, he would have opened not just the outer city, but the inner city as well. With Eugene's help, he would have eliminated all the count's agents, seated a double in the king's place, and spirited the royal family away.

He would open the inner city and wait for the bastard's triumphal procession. Patiently, lurking somewhere in this vast city. Then, when the perfect moment finally arrived, say, at the banquet immediately following his triumph. That moment after a war ended when vigilance inevitably slipped.

That was when he would assassinate Count Etouan. And he would leave traces implicating the count's confidants at the scene, provoking infighting so the ambitious men deprived of their leadership would plunge into civil war again.

Then he would close the city gates. That would suffice. Inside, the city would become a hell of people killing one another. After enough time had passed, he could enter with troops summoned in the king's name and retake Saint Matilene.

It was an operation he would have carried out with sufficient time and the right circumstances. Had only one count organized the rebellion, it was a grand strategy he would not even have hesitated over.

'This isn't something someone can teach you.'

It had to be honed through real combat. Ivan spurred his horse forward. If they were still alive, perhaps today's experience would help them grow further. So he thought.

"Where, where are you going?"

"Do you remember what I told you?"

"Pardon?"

"I told you to give your lives for something better. Do you remember?"

"... Yes."

Ivan rode without looking back. Swiftly down the hill, toward Saint Matilene.

"This is the place. Give me your lives. I will give you back your homeland."

"B-but how...? There are barely more than sixty of us!"

"Break through."

Ivan raised his sword and pointed ahead. Cavalry who had spotted their emergence were wheeling toward them. Fully two hundred of them. Every last one a knight.

Even if they broke through those men, they would have to pierce a screen of infantry. And after that? More cavalry to break through before they could advance.

This was not an annihilation operation. It was a deep strike through a single-point breakthrough. A charge with one purpose: to assassinate the command staff. A decapitation strike, driving through the heart of enemy territory while minimizing engagements until they finally killed the enemy leader.

"Victory does not lie behind us. Only ahead. I will do everything in my power. Will you die for me?"

"Damn it, this is madness!"

The barons grumbled once, then kissed their blades.

CLACK. CLACK.

All their knights lowered their visors in unison. Beneath them, eyes seemed to gleam blue.

"You'd better keep that promise!"

"I will."

Sixty riders began galloping down the hill, staring straight at the cavalry approaching them. Already, those men outnumbered them more than four to one. As for the troops beyond, even calculating the disparity would be absurd. Their numbers were a literal tidal wave.

They rode straight into it. Worn down by long fighting, their horses and bodies exhausted by the long march. In a condition where it would be no surprise if they collapsed at any moment. And yet.

Calling their enemies a tidal wave was fitting indeed. Everyone here had sworn to be a breakwater for the kingdom.

And so sixty horsemen charged. Toward an army more than thirty thousand strong. Toward Saint Matilene. With the dawn at their backs.