Chapter 117

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The mountain stockade amounted to little more than a palisade, guard posts, a storehouse, and a small building where the veterans slept. The rank-and-file soldiers lived in crude shelters inside the stockade, like wandering beggars.

Despite their living quarters, the soldiers themselves looked reasonably presentable. A stream ran through a nearby valley, providing plenty of drinking water, and they washed often. A proper army was more hygienic than one might expect, if only to prevent disease from spreading.

Ricard and his companions received something resembling hospitality while seated on the bare ground. Since they were out in the open rather than inside a building, a dozen or so soldiers gathered around to watch. It felt rather like being put on display.

“I don't know the mountain's name, but if you cross that pass and follow the edge of the forest, there's a rocky peak. That's where we fought. Though our fight wasn't really with them. It was with the Rubens clan, and the Rector Mercenary Company was in their employ.”

Bremen spoke as he drank the lukewarm ale. It was surprisingly refreshing for something so warm. Perhaps that was because Adelorn had long been famous for its clear water. In any case, defeating the Rector Mercenary Company must have been a remarkable feat, judging by how intently everyone listened.

“Then it wasn't just three people fighting?”

“These three here did almost everything. I never swung my sword once, and this boy's father lost his life.”

Bremen rested a gentle hand around Roy's shoulder.

Perhaps death was simply too commonplace for them. Neither his old friend nor the soldiers offered any particular condolences.

“The Rector Mercenary Company has quite a few men... Good equipment, too...”

“That's why we took up a position on the mountain. The way up was narrow and treacherous. This young fellow made all the decisions and directed the fighting. This young wife here protected us, and that fellow held the approach.”

Bremen pointed to Ricard, Marie, and Bori in turn. All three remained silent.

“You made that decision? You? Just like Prince Chaldebert.”

“Pardon?”

Ricard was a little startled to hear the name of his long-ago friend so suddenly. Bori frowned and tilted his head, trying to remember where he had heard it before.

Regardless of Ricard's surprise, Bremen's old friend, a man named Harbert, continued studying him. It was almost a glare. He wasn't trying to pick a fight, though. It was more as if he were scrutinizing Ricard's features.

Had the man been looking for a fight, Ricard would have glared back. Since he wasn't, Ricard found that stare distinctly uncomfortable. Did he look like someone?

“Oh, have you heard of the Black Sword? He's quite famous among swordsmen. That fellow over there is Bori, the Black Sword.”

“I've heard of him.”

“Me too.”

A few of the soldiers watching from around them answered Bremen, but that was all. What interested them was the battle, its outcome, and Ricard. Why, he couldn't tell.

The soldiers might have been ignorant men who couldn't even read, but they had plenty of combat experience. They could tell just by listening whether Bremen was boasting. It was much like listening to someone who had never served trying to talk about army life. It always showed.

“So, where are you headed now that you've beaten the Rector Mercenary Company? Adelivari?”

At Harbert's question, Bremen nodded.

“We'll resupply there, then head toward Torweil.”

“But Adelivari is under siege.”

“... What siege?”

“It's practically the only place left to plunder.”

Almost the entire Kingdom of Adelorn had been pillaged. Few functioning cities remained. Adelivari had held out this long because it lay near the border, but with so little left to loot, they seemed to have gone there to devour the last appetizing piece of meat.

“Who? Who's besieging it?”

“Grantz the Invincible.”

What sort of man had “the Invincible” for an epithet? It seemed awfully grand. Was it bluster, or was he really that formidable?

“Who is that?”

Ricard broke his silence to ask a question. The attention already focused on him seemed to intensify. What was wrong with these people?

Harbert, Bremen's old comrade-in-arms, answered.

“The leader of the largest of the warlord factions controlling the kingdom. They say he's from Lorencia, though I couldn't tell you where that is. He used to be a member of the Second Sons Mercenary Company, but during the war he turned on his commander, killed him, and took over. The Rector Mercenary Company is one of the companies under his command. The fellows you and your friends gave such a thrashing.”

“The ‘Second Sons’ Mercenary Company?”

Perhaps Ricard had broken the ice, because this time Bori asked the question. He thought the name rather unusual.

“It was originally made up entirely of noblemen. Quite famous, too. Four years ago, when peasants rose up in the east and civil war was looming, the king hired them. But a prince took advantage of the chaos to kill the king. Then the Second Sons killed the prince, and Grantz killed their commander in turn. That's when everything started going to hell, and here we are.”

“So what is this Grantz planning to do? If he wanted the throne, surely he'd have made his move long ago.”

“He calls himself king, but he's the one who destroyed the capital, Adelun. Who would serve him as their king? I don't know the details myself. But the lords would never follow him, of course. So he seems to have decided to destroy the entire kingdom. And his company isn't made up solely of nobles anymore. He took in every stray that came along, until his forces reached ten thousand, with another fifty thousand beggars trailing after them. I suspect it's beyond even his control now.”

More troops weren't always better. They were only an advantage so long as their numbers remained manageable.

For instance, if the Rector Mercenary Company was under his command, what the hell had it been doing in Pasina? His subordinates were roaming about doing whatever they pleased because he had so little control over them. The Rubens clan was an outside force of sorts. Signing a contract with them made no sense in the first place.

The problem with such groups was that they descended in hordes, plundering and destroying everything. Just like a Demon King and his army out of legend. For the people of the Kingdom of Adelorn, it was nothing short of the end of the world.

They were no longer mercenaries, much less a regular army. Without a defined territory, they could hardly even be called a warlord faction. They were closer to a vast gang of robbers. And they did what they did because it was how they survived.

In a proper army, combat units and supply units had clearly defined roles, and both had to function smoothly. Without that, this was the inevitable result. Who would pay their wages? Who would feed them? They simply scraped by, pillaging villages and cities.

Above all, there was no going back now. Once that way of life became ingrained, they could do nothing else. They only grew more and more cruel.

“Then what are you all doing here?” Ricard asked.

It was a question born of genuine curiosity, not reproach.

“Us? Well... Same thing we've always done. Guarding this peak. And while we're at it, collecting a little, shall we say, toll from travelers.”

They weren't quite mountain bandits, but neither were they regular soldiers anymore. They had no commanders. The border princes had all died in the civil war.

“Then... what now? Is there anywhere we can go back to?” Bremen asked.

His old friend Harbert shook his head. Even if there were a route back, every village and town along it had been laid waste.

In circumstances like these, starving civilians were more frightening than bands of thieves. There were even occasional grim rumors of people eating human flesh.

“Couldn't we just blend in and slip through? It doesn't sound as though they're under much control anyway.”

With sixty thousand people gathered together, it would indeed be impossible to police and control every individual. Who would notice if they quietly slipped past? The problem was that they couldn't be sure. If things went wrong, those sixty thousand could crush them by sheer numbers.

“We can't turn back after coming this far, and we can't just sit here forever...”

Bremen didn't like it, but he had no other solution either. They had overcome so many obstacles, only to find what felt like an even greater mountain barring their way.

For the first time in a while, the party pitched their tents and spent a night in the mountain stockade. They had eaten all their potatoes and other vegetables during the previous day's rain, leaving them short of food. To resupply, they would have to mingle with that crowd of sixty thousand and buy provisions there, rather than in Adelivari.

Throughout the night, however, Harbert and his soldiers kept glancing toward Ricard and whispering among themselves. If they were plotting something sinister, surely they would do it in secret. What were they doing so openly? It bothered Ricard enough that he couldn't sleep properly.

The next morning, as the party packed up to leave, Harbert and his soldiers gathered their weapons and belongings and came after them.

“Why are you following us?” Bremen asked incredulously.

“Just as you and your companions are heading to the eastern frontier in search of one last hope, we've decided to go to Adelivari for one last battle.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like you, I haven't many years left. But what about the soldiers? We sit here guarding this peak, but guarding it against what? The kingdom has already fallen apart.”

True enough. What meaning was there in guarding the borders of a ruined country? Ricard looked back at the soldiers. Their faces weren't resolute. They simply looked rather... weary in spirit. Before they faded away altogether, they seemed to want one last proper fight. But for that, they needed a proper commander.

For some reason, Ricard had an ominous feeling. No, perhaps “uneasy” was a better word. He couldn't say why, but something about this bothered him. Still, strictly speaking, they were only traveling in the same direction, not following him. He had no grounds to object.

But as they passed other stockades along the ridge, the soldiers there heard that three people had smashed the Rector Mercenary Company, and they began joining them too. Each stockade held between ten and twenty men. By the time they had passed five of them, nearly seventy people were trailing Ricard's party.

The soldiers walked single file along the ridge with long spears resting against their shoulders, as though on the march.

“This doesn't seem right...”

“So much for quietly blending in, don't you think?”

Bori and Marie each voiced their concern. With this many armed men, they could hardly pass unnoticed. Ricard also felt that this wasn't right, but he couldn't dictate what these men chose to do.

There were seven stockades in all, and by the end, roughly a hundred men had joined them. There had once been more, but these were all that remained.

After noon, the ridge path ended and gave way to a trail leading down the mountain. It wound around the entire mountainside like a snake, and as they descended, a settlement came into view. But it wasn't really a village. These were people led by—or simply following—the man called Grantz the Invincible.

Fifty thousand people couldn't all gather in one spot, so they were spread over a wide area. This was one such group. They generally banded together with relatives or others from the same village or region.

They were neither soldiers nor mercenaries, of course. They were people who had lost their homes and followed along in a desperate attempt to survive. These, for instance, had once been subjects of Adelorn, but after being plundered, they had no choice but to follow Grantz to stay alive. Then they too joined in the pillaging, died, or barely survived. That was their reality.

Most of the fifty thousand who weren't fighting troops were people like these, a swarm of locusts. The people Ricard encountered now were no exception. There were scarcely any young men, only women, the elderly, and small children.

The children knew nothing of any of this. They simply ran about cheerfully, picking up whatever they could find to eat.

The people blinked at Ricard, his companions, and the soldiers trailing behind them. Their lives were already ruined. They didn't even seem capable of fearing what might be done to them.

They had lost husbands, sons, fathers. All of them. That was why the soldiers had been so unmoved by Roy's story. In a world where tragedy was commonplace, tragedy ceased to be tragedy.

Songs seemed to be all they had left. Folk songs passed from grandmothers to mothers, and from mothers to their sons and daughters.

“When apple blossoms bloom, I gaze up at the mountain pass. When the lake embraces the sun, I walk along its shore. My heart is far beyond that pass. When stars glitter on the lake, the prince will come. When the prince comes, this misery will end.”

The melody was mournful, but the children sang it cheerfully in their innocent voices. Some of the soldiers hummed along. That alone seemed to say that they were not enemies. They were of the same country, the same people, even if things had come to this.

That didn't mean anything could be done for them right now. Ricard passed them by and continued down the mountain path.

“Why would some country girl be waiting for a prince? Is she his secret mistress or something?”

“That's just how stories work.”

Bori sounded as though he were trying to pick holes in the song, and Marie's answer carried a reproachful note, telling him to stop fussing over the details.

“It's Chaldebert.”

Harbert had been following silently behind them. Ricard, Marie, and Bori turned to look at him.

“The prince in the song. The heroic knight, Chaldebert the Breaker. The song says that when he returns, he'll end the war. Adelorn has suffered terrible civil wars since long ago.”

Hearing his old friend's name once more made Ricard falter for a moment. That sense of foreboding—or unease—that had clung to a corner of his heart seemed suddenly to swell.

Then Bori's eyes widened, and he exclaimed loudly.

“Oh! I remember! Riki, isn't he the founder of your family?”

“... He's our great ancestor.”

“Anyway, you said he was Adelorn's fourth prince.”

Ricard's House Kaldebern had been established under a name derived from Chaldebert's. Originally the fourth prince of Adelorn, Chaldebert had distinguished himself on the eastern expeditionary front. The Emperor had rewarded him with a domain and the right to establish a new house.

In genealogical terms, the royal house of Adelorn was the senior house, while Kaldebern was a cadet branch of sorts. That was merely a matter of tracing bloodlines, however. Claiming royal authority at this late date would be a stretch.

But under these circumstances...

“What do you mean by that?”

Harbert drew closer from behind to ask. His expression was grave. Or was it desperate?

“He's actually a noble. House Kaldebern. He's a descendant of that fellow, Chaldebert the Breaker.”

“Hey, you can't just go around telling people that. It's fine when it's just us, but in front of other people...”

Bori pointed to Ricard as though it were nothing of consequence. Marie frowned and tried to stop him.

Suddenly, Harbert seized Ricard by the shoulders. He stared at him as though inspecting every feature in turn—his eyes, nose, mouth, jawline, even his hair and wrinkles. Ricard wondered what had gotten into the man, even as his foreboding seemed to take on an increasingly definite shape.

“A-are you truly the prince?”

“No, I'm from the countryside. I'm not a prince. Marie here is a princess. No, an imperial princess.”

“Why are you bringing me into this?”

Marie's eyes widened in disbelief, but then Harbert suddenly dropped to his knees. Ricard, Marie, and Bori stared at him in shock.

“Oh... Huhuh...”

Harbert began to sob, then broke down entirely. The three were too bewildered to speak.

“What's gotten into you?”

Bremen's eyes were wide as he questioned his friend.

“... This is destiny.”

“What is?”

“The war is going to end!”

He had seemed an impassive man, but that was only a shell. Now that it had cracked, all the grief and bitterness trapped inside came pouring out.

The soldiers behind them stirred, asking one another what was happening, while the people in the settlement craned to see.

“The prince has returned!”

Harbert shouted at the top of his lungs. Everyone looked bewildered. But the women of the settlement suddenly burst into tears and fell to their knees.

Sobs rose around them. There was scarcely a sound more sorrowful than women weeping together.

As the mood abruptly changed, one soldier, then another, removed his helmet and knelt. They all gazed up at Ricard with wide eyes, as though engraving his image upon them.

Was this what that faint, elusive anxiety since yesterday had been warning him of? Ricard was speechless.

Heroes sometimes shaped their times, but there were also times that needed a hero. These people needed something—anything—to believe in and follow. Whether by chance or inevitability, Ricard had been chosen.

Was it a task imposed upon his bloodline, or simply his fate? Would he turn his back on them, or offer them one last hope? A hope like a torch to light these dark times.

The choice was Ricard's alone.