Chapter 151 - Waiting for Winter (5)

"Your Majesty! Enemy troops have appeared in our rear!"

"... Our rear? Where did they come from, and how? Who are they?"

"They carry no banner, so it is difficult to identify them..."

"No banner? How many could there be, charging us without a banner?"

The adjutant hesitated at Count Etouan's question. Common sense dictated that any appearance of hostile troops must be reported, but their numbers were embarrassingly small to explain.

"Sixty... Your Majesty. All mounted, and according to our observers, all knights."

"Sixty? Not six thousand, nor six hundred, but sixty?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Ha, hahaha, ahahahaha!"

Etouan slapped his knee and burst out laughing. Either Guillaume or Jean Beltois had failed.

Somewhere beyond his own line of advance, a few nobles must have learned of Saint Matilene's peril and rushed here with only their cavalry.

Fools. What possible help could so few men offer?

They must have intended to boast before the royal family once the battle was over and the rebellion crushed. Quite a little scheme. A paltry ploy to gain a foothold in national politics. Country barons, most likely.

But those lowly provincial nobles remained in their humble stations precisely because they could not read the tide of events. Etouan laughed as he spoke.

"Come. Let us see for ourselves."

Etouan swept aside the flap of the command tent and mounted his horse. His adjutant and knights surrounded him in escort.

Far in the distance, tiny riders charged with the breaking dawn at their backs. Countless soldiers stood between him and the cavalry, weapons in hand.

"How fortunate. This will weed out the disloyal men who would oppose my rule. Give them a solemn funeral. These are the last moments of patriots trapped in the past, after all."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

At the adjutant's nod, the cavalry waiting in the rear rode out. They numbered some two hundred. Those insignificant foes would vanish in a single clash.

The vermin clinging to the aged royal house and the old order would gutter out like candles, and his reign would rise like the sun.

Etouan watched with pleasure as the last vermin in the kingdom writhed.

Then the leader of those vermin finally met his knights.

* * *

An accomplished horseman is said to be one with his mount. When the rider's movements and the horse's responses align perfectly, the time needed to accelerate into a gallop becomes extraordinarily short.

The horse moves in the intended direction and runs as its rider wishes. Clever mounts often act before their riders even give a command.

A sufficiently skilled rider knows how to "persuade" his horse: the one on your back is the strongest being in the world, so you may run wild without fear. You will be safe.

For these timid creatures, merely charging toward enemy ranks is terrifying. That makes this process essential.

But the Extermination Unit did not "persuade." Ivan preferred to spend that time proving it.

CRUNCH!!

There was not even time to scream. The collision between two horsemen charging each other at full speed lasted only that brief an instant.

Even with more time, the result would have been no different. The impact was too great for human flesh and organs to withstand. The lungs burst before they could expel a breath, so the horseman's death was silent.

CLAAANG!!

Each time the sword flashed in the sunlight, a rider tumbled violently to the ground. Fallen horsemen tangled with those following behind, causing yet more collisions. Amid it all, men and horses became heaps of finely minced meat.

He charged on, trampling over it all.

"Run."

Ivan whispered low into his horse's ear. Crouched deep, he gripped the saddle with his legs alone and swung both arms.

To his left, he reached along the shaft of an incoming lance and wrested it away by force. His horse staggered for an instant. Under the immense strain, its legs nearly buckled.

But it did not stop. His horse trusted its rider completely. So completely it might better be called fear.

Gripping the lance shaft in his left hand, Ivan tore the opposing rider from his mount. The horseman rose into the air, his face blank.

A muscular adult man in full armor easily weighed over 150 kilograms. Factoring in acceleration, an even greater force of impact had been concentrated at a single point.

Ivan bore it with one hand and hauled him from the saddle. Suspended in that unreal moment, the nameless knight was hurled away, his face aghast.

CRUNCH!!

The fallen knight was crushed beneath the hooves of the riders behind him. Without sparing him a glance, Ivan swung his left arm.

CLANG! THUD!!

Putting the full speed of his charge behind the lance, he drove it in like a streak of light. An approaching knight was crushed as the shaft punched through his helmet's visor. His skull burst into bloody fragments as though struck by a bomb.

At the same time, Ivan swung the sword in his right hand at another approaching knight's pauldron. Its straps parted in a precise cut, and the collarbone, shoulder tip, and upper arm bone beneath shattered in a single blow.

The impact tore the arm away. The rider would have died without pain. The moment he lost the reins, he lost his balance and fell.

"Trust me."

Ivan kept whispering, shaking his foggy head as he struggled to rally his fraying concentration. His horse ran on without answering, foam flecking its mouth.

What you must fear is not the spears and swords coming toward you, nor the cavalry, nor those countless soldiers.

It is only the man riding on your back.

He drove that lesson into the beast's little head. Whispering that under his protection, it was utterly safe.

And proving it through action alone.

* * *

"What—?"

Watching the knights charge in their wedge formation, Etouan's expression hardened. His cavalry was being smashed apart.

Being stationed in the rear did not make them any less knights. Every one of them was of quasi-noble standing, a weapon tempered on the battlefield.

These were the knights of Thilles. Demons of the plains, renowned throughout every nation of the United Kingdoms.

And they were breaking. Being crushed, quite literally. The charge of some sixty horsemen was surely nothing more than a futile struggle that could never reach him. And yet...

An icy terror pierced his heart. Like an arrow.

An arrow loosed by this country's last death rattle was flying straight toward him, taking the form of a small wedge of mounted men.

"Stop them. Stop them! Cavalry! Hold them back!"

"Compose yourself, Your Majesty! They are but a handful of men!"

The adjutant, by contrast, appeared calm. In part, that was because they were far away, sheltered behind countless ranks of men. But it was also because his abilities fell short of Count Etouan's.

He could not see the face of the knight charging straight toward them. His sight apparently could not reach so far. All he would have seen was a cloud of rising dust.

But Etouan saw clearly. Saw the man charging through his knights, literally butchering them. Even the fierce blue blaze of his eyes beneath the helmet.

The helmet.

He had to see that helmet opened. He had to see that face.

"Gilles Vert de Etakrich... You survived...!?"

"Compose yourself, Your Majesty! If that were Gilles Vert, he would have no reason to lead a detached force here! The men behind him are not the Eastern Order!"

"Open your eyes and look! Who else in this country fights like that man?"

* * *

The cavalry scattered, and the plain came into view again. All Ivan could hear was the violent pounding of his frantically overworked heart.

He could hear neither the soldiers' shouts nor the horse's labored breathing. Nothing. Darkness crept around the edges of his vision. He could see only straight ahead.

His sense of touch, once so keen that every fine hair read the currents of the wind, had dulled. All he felt now was the cumbersome weight of his armor.

He was tired.

He was certainly on the verge of collapse. Little remained of the food and drink he had consumed, the mana in his body, or his nervous system's endurance. If he closed his eyes, he would pass out and sleep for ten full days.

Then he simply had to keep his eyes open.

Ivan rode on, staring straight ahead with bloodshot eyes.

'How many are left?'

How many of those who had followed him were still alive? He could not spare even a moment to turn his head, so it was hard to know. But he expected half had died in that last clash.

Even he, who had borne the brunt of the attacks, had not escaped injury.

'In the way.'

He snapped off the lance shaft piercing his abdomen at an angle with the edge of his hand. He could not pull it out. He did not know how badly his organs were damaged, but he might bleed to death.

At this point, he could ill afford to lose even a drop of blood. The calories and mana it held might let him swing his arm one more time.

Every injury caused a measurable reduction in his ability to keep fighting. That was unforgivable. He had to charge within precisely calculated combat conditions, taking only those injuries that were absolutely necessary.

His vision blurred.

CRUNCH.

He bit the inside of his cheek, then swiftly raised an arm and took a mouthful of healing potion. Sharp pain tingled through his mouth. For a moment, it brought him back to his senses. Not a bad bit of first aid.

After all, unless he was already dead, it was no reason to stop.