Chapter 119

* * *

Perhaps the unseen had a greater influence on the workings of the world than what met the eye. And so the truly wise knew how to look beyond what they could see.

Upon entering Adelivari, Ricard read the feelings in the eyes turned toward him. Who was this man? What could he do, and what had he come to do? Bewilderment and surprise, unease and anticipation, despair and hope were all mingled together.

A well-dressed old man with snow-white hair. A man whose work-hardened hands spoke of a tenacious life. A child with bright, alert eyes. A lovely woman whose hair was covered by a kerchief. Different sexes, different occupations and duties, old and young, highborn and low—all watched Ricard and the soldiers following him with much the same feelings.

Ricard took their gazes in stride as he swept his eyes over the people, then turned to examine the city. He had already seen the whole of it from the pass, but being inside felt different. To be frank, it was the most beautiful city he had ever visited. That alone was reason enough never to let it fall into enemy hands.

Adelivari nestled in a shallow basin, blending with the forest. Unlike other cities, its elegant old buildings stood well apart rather than crowding against one another. A clear river ran through its center, spanned by an impressive, long, arched stone bridge. Sturdy as it was, the bridge was also adorned here and there with artistic carvings, and stone statues of ancient heroes stood in rows along either side. Some had broken over the long years; others still stood intact.

Its only drawback was its small size. Judging by its population, calling it a city was honestly something of an embarrassment. It was more a sizable village. As a royal retreat, it seemed to have been built with considerable care, but limited contact with the outside world appeared to have kept it from growing very large. Then again, perhaps its small size was what allowed it to retain this beauty.

While Ricard surveyed the city without hesitation, someone stepped forward. It was a middle-aged man in a broad, loose-fitting hat and a fine, long silk robe. His firm, unwrinkled skin made him look remarkably young.

"Welcome to Adelivari, brave hero. I am Markwin, the mayor. If you have come to enjoy our hot springs, I would be glad to show you the way myself. Would you prefer to settle into your lodgings first, or look around the city?"

Ricard could hardly have come here to sightsee. The mayor could not possibly be unaware of that. His question was simply a tactful way of asking who Ricard was and what he wanted here. They had never expected reinforcements, so his arrival was welcome, but knowing nothing about him also made them uneasy. Yet with armed men at his back, they could not risk provoking him. In his own way, the mayor had put his life on the line to step forward and question this unfamiliar conqueror.

Fortunately, Ricard was neither vicious nor ignorant like so many mercenary captains.

"Hero is far too generous. I am Riki... Ricard of House Kaldebern, from Stormhertz. On my way to the eastern frontier, I met the warriors guarding these mountain peaks. They told me of your difficulties, and I came to help."

The citizens staring at Ricard and listening closely to his words began to murmur at the name Kaldebern. Belonging to House Kaldebern meant he was a descendant of Chaldebert. They would have to decide for themselves whether to believe him, but there was no way to verify his claim in the present circumstances. They had seen him drive the enemy off the mountain. With soldiers under his command as well, they did not dare question him. What if he called it insolence and had their heads cut off? Ricard was the one holding the sword.

The city had almost nothing that could be called a fighting force. Its people were essentially holed up behind the walls, relying on the natural terrain to protect them. Had the enemy come around and attacked, even a handful of men might actually have taken the city. Grantz's reputation was so terrible that surrender or resistance promised the same end: death. All they had been able to do was tremble in fear.

"You seem to have enough drinking water. How much food remains, and how much military equipment do you have? How many able-bodied men can fight?"

This time Ricard asked the questions. Unlike the mayor with his roundabout approach, he was direct.

Normally, such information would have been a closely guarded city secret. Under the circumstances, however, the mayor had no choice but to tell him. Still, it was tantamount to laying all his cards on the table, and that left him ill at ease.

"Allow me to escort you myself, and I shall explain as we go. I will have my subordinates prepare quarters for the soldiers."

Markwin spoke as calmly as he could. Ricard nodded, understanding his position. He and his friends, along with the companions who had originally been traveling with them to the eastern frontier, headed toward a building resembling a town hall. The soldiers were Adelonians and had often visited in the past, so the citizens were scarcely wary of them at all. To the townspeople, Ricard and his companions were the only outsiders.

The hall looked like a small royal palace. In fact, it had once been a secondary palace where the king stayed during his visits.

"In the ancient tongue, this palace is called 'Non Curarum.' It means 'without cares,'" Mayor Markwin explained.

Given their present circumstances, it was an ironic name indeed.

As they passed along a gallery, the delicate carvings on the walls and the bases of the columns caught the eye: a fearsome-faced witch, a knight slaying a dragon, a winged horse, and more. Beyond a curtain lay an audience chamber. Farther down the corridor, at the very end, were the king's bedchamber and the rooms nearby where his attendants had stayed. The hot springs were in what looked like a rear courtyard.

When he was shown to the king's bedchamber, Ricard shook his head.

"I am not a king. I will stay in another room."

Markwin looked at him with mild surprise, evidently not expecting that reply. He was accustomed to people who relied on their power to swagger about, but Ricard was their exact opposite. Ricard was not putting on a show of humility. He had declined because the ties between his own family and the royal house of Adelorn made him uncomfortable. There was a separate comital family within House Kaldebern—though it was not quite a cadet branch—and the idea of sleeping where generations of Adelorn's kings had spent their holidays simply did not sit well with him.

Even if they had declined with the passing years, he felt that was all the more reason to treat them with respect. Bowing to a powerful person or house might be done out of fear, but looking down on them merely because they had fallen was a shabby thing to do.

Thus Ricard and his companions split into small groups to stay in the modest rooms once occupied by the royal attendants. Even those rooms were far better than most expensive inns. There was no sound of rats scurrying through the walls and ceilings, and every room even had its own fireplace. After unpacking, Ricard also declined a soak in the hot springs. He could wash with hot water without going to the springs, and that alone was a luxury.

When the palace servants brought them neat silk clothes, Bremen and Roy's family were so overwhelmed by the honor that they hardly knew what to do with themselves. That was understandable, since even Ricard and Marie, both nobles, felt awkward. Bori was the most at ease, slipping into the silk without the slightest hesitation.

"Now I see why it's expensive. It feels wonderful."

It was not as though they had never seen silk before, but it had all been low-grade stuff. Wearing clothes made from truly superior silk felt like being wrapped snugly in a gentle breeze or a cloud. Once they had washed themselves clean and donned the silk, they all looked so radiant they were almost unrecognizable.

"Live long enough, and you really do see everything. When we were driven out of the clan, I thought we'd never enjoy luxuries like that again."

Roy looked down, unable to take his eyes off his blue-green silk clothes. He kept stroking the fabric.

"Listen to you. How old are you to be talking about living long enough? Don't get used to comfort."

"Why not?"

"Because it will make you stop moving forward."

Ricard drew Roy's head against him as though pulling him into a hug and vigorously ruffled his hair.

"You can stop once you're a Sword Master, though, right?" Bori asked.

"You can decide that for yourself."

"That hurts a little. You practically raised me on your back once."

"Then it's your turn to carry me."

After a thorough wash in hot water and a change into fine clothes, their spirits could hardly help lifting, and Ricard traded idle jokes with Bori. Rather than going anywhere else, the party stood chatting in the palace corridor. The women were wholly absorbed in admiring the intricate embroidery on their clothes. Then Mayor Markwin returned.

"Is everything to your satisfaction?"

"We've been sleeping out in the dew. What could we possibly find uncomfortable here? Thank you for your kindness."

"Kindness? Please, there is no need to thank us. Would you like to rest a little longer, or shall I take you to the armory?"

Ricard glanced back at his companions, then faced Markwin again.

"Take me to the armory, please."

Markwin nodded and headed toward a storeroom adjoining the palace. This time, Ricard followed him alone. They passed through what looked like an indoor garden, then continued until they reached a door secured with a large padlock. Markwin unlocked it and swung the door open, revealing military equipment neatly arrayed in the cool interior. The only sunlight came through a narrow slit so close to the ceiling that it scarcely qualified as a window.

The spearheads gleamed in the sunlight. There was something remarkable about them: their state of preservation. Clearly, someone had tended them diligently for a very long time.

"These weapons and armor were prepared to protect the king in an emergency. The blades are meteoric iron, and the spear shafts are ash. Every piece of equipment here was made by Villunt, the legendary smith from Zoltgen."

There was a sense of one last source of pride in Markwin's words. Ricard walked slowly through the armory, examining spears, swords, axes, maces, shields, helmets, and armor of every kind.

"When were these made?"

"Over a hundred years ago. Apart from replacing a few components, we have preserved their original form as much as possible and kept them as good as new."

At that, Ricard frowned and tilted his head.

"... How very strange."

"What do you mean?"

"You maintain these arms with such diligence and care, yet you couldn't put down a single peasant uprising, and now things have come to this? If you had put half this effort into training good soldiers, you would never have ended up in such a state."

The almost excessively well-maintained equipment left Ricard feeling more uncomfortable than impressed. Failing countries often devoted themselves wholeheartedly to the wrong things, and this seemed a perfect example. Maintaining arms was not pointless, but surely what mattered was training people and putting them to use—and building their skills through accumulated experience. Understanding what Ricard meant, Markwin flushed faintly with shame.

"Keeping them in good condition is all very well, but now it is time to take them out and use them. Even if they break on the battlefield. Bring all of this out and distribute it to the soldiers."

"All of it? These are treasures made by a legendary smith."

Ricard gave an incredulous snort.

"Do as you please. If you want this city to fall as well, go ahead. Then you can watch the enemy wielding them—if you're still alive."

With that, he collected a helmet, mail, and other equipment for himself and went outside. He then asked Marie to make him a surcoat bearing his family's coat of arms: a white cross on a red field. Traditionally, a wife made such things as banners and surcoats for her husband while praying for his fortune in battle. That was why he had asked her.

Afterward, he went out with his companions to look around the city. The shade beneath the trees was cool, the river clear, and the wind from the mountains refreshing. But for their present circumstances, it would have been a wonderful place to visit. For now, he set his appreciation aside and studied which buildings stood where, where the soldiers were staying, and the lay of the land.

Near the city's main gate, a wall of sorts stretched along at chest height. It hardly seemed worthy of being called a defensive wall, but a sheer drop of four or five meters lay immediately below it, so there was no need to build it very high. It seemed to have been built just tall enough to shelter archers during battle.

A long, roofed wooden structure had also been erected along the wall. This had the advantage of concealing the positions and numbers of the defenders from anyone outside. It also sheltered them from snow, wind, and rain, which was actually its greatest benefit to those defending the city. Between the arms and the walls, Ricard had to admit they were astonishingly good at thoughtful design and maintenance. Ultimately, however, people had to make use of it all. If those people were not up to the task, none of it mattered.

"Holy shit. If they all rush us at once, aren't we screwed?"

Bori was peering down through an arrow slit in the wall. Without exaggeration, the people below covered the earth in a dark mass stretching to the horizon. No matter how often someone told you numbers were not what mattered, actually seeing such a sight was enough to make your courage falter.

"What I see is an enormous source of anxiety," Ricard said.

"Really?"

"Imagine all those people turning their backs on Grantz. That's probably what scares him most. So he kept adding followers indiscriminately."

In the end, he was fundamentally the same as Ringwald, whom Ricard had encountered before. A larger-scale version, perhaps—a man swallowed by the consequences of his own actions, unable to bring them under control. Judging by his troop deployments and his attempt to circle around and attack, he did not seem entirely stupid. Even so, he had undertaken more than he could handle and left himself at a strategic disadvantage.

Of course, Ricard was the only one capable of assessing the military situation so dispassionately. This was not an age of military academies; experience was quite literally the only way to acquire such insight. Quietly studying the enemy's deployments, he began to formulate plans one by one. Countless small-scale plans arose in his mind, and he linked them together, searching for a path to victory.

Once he reached a conclusion, he gathered all the soldiers and townspeople. There was no public square, so he climbed onto the parapet of the stone bridge and addressed the hundreds filling the riverbank as though delivering a speech. Beside him stood the stone statue of an ancient hero, its gaze directed toward the enemy outside the city.

"I will help you defeat the enemy. But you must help me as well if we are to defeat them. I am not here to offer empty fantasies. We can win. We need only act. Will you do it, or won't you? Let us settle that first."

Some merely blinked; others looked uneasy. They would do what Ricard told them, but reluctantly allowing themselves to be dragged along would not suffice. He demanded more than that: a willingness to fight of their own accord.

"Before I came here, I heard that Adelonians were a proud people. Have you no blade of pride left to strike the enemy with? Has it rusted, or is it already broken? I am not asking you to go out and fight. I am asking each of you to do the necessary work that you can. Women, mend torn fighting clothes. Men, carry stones if nothing else. If your neighbors are in need, care for them as family. Push and pull carts to transport food. What I want is for everyone to unite for victory."

The very concept of universal military service did not exist. Even with death threatening them all, the idea that they themselves should step forward and fight did not occur to people. Tell a farmer or merchant that everyone was about to die and they must fight, for instance, and they would only look bewildered. But I am not a soldier, they would say. Thus, when a war was lost, they simply surrendered the power over their lives and deaths to the victor. That was the accepted way of the age, and everyone lived by it. The tens of thousands milling about below were proof.

But not anymore. Not from this moment onward, at least. Ricard was not asking the townspeople to fight, either. He was asking them to provide logistical support, if nothing else. The soldiers would fight; everyone else should at least do what they could. In war, logistics might be even more important than taking up arms and going into battle: repairing broken weapons and armor promptly, keeping food supplies flowing, paying wages properly.

Of course, merely saying this would not make them understand at once. Ricard knew that too.

"You seem to have little faith in me, so I will make you a promise. Every day, I will personally go out and bring back an enemy unit's banner. In return, if I keep my promise and you fail to keep yours, I will hold you accountable. Anyone who disagrees is free to raise a hand and speak."

Ricard spoke with an air of courtesy, yet without hesitation. Subtly, he pressed and compelled them. There was nothing particularly extraordinary about the technique. This was simply how one established control over people. Good commanders always strove to keep their promises to their soldiers, not because they were kind, but because that was the proper order of things. Rather than blindly telling men to go out and fight to the death, the reasoning was: I have done everything I owe you, and you still refuse to obey? Then you die. That was how authority and discipline were established, how orders gained force, and how proper operations became possible. Ricard had learned all this from Chaldebert.

In his previous life, his first commander had charged boldly ahead and died in battle. His second had relied solely on his authority to issue nonsensical orders and lost the garrison. His third had been Chaldebert. The citizens were not soldiers, of course, but without their participation, he could not carry out his plan for victory. In any case, everyone silently accepted Ricard's half-imposed bargain. Deciding that would suffice for now, he waited for nightfall.

When the cool moon rose, he donned his armor and walked confidently down to the main gate to seize an enemy banner. To soldiers, a unit's banner represented honor and pride, if not something more. Losing it was not merely a disgrace; it broke their will to fight and shook their unity. Grantz commanded several mercenary companies, each with subordinate units of its own, so there were more than enough banners to take.

In the cold moonlight, the citizens of Adelivari gathered on the walls and looked down. Their agreement might have been half-forced upon them, but they were watching to see whether Ricard would keep his promise. Above all, to people who knew nothing of warfare, it looked as though he was going out alone to fight that entire host. It made him seem mad, and even as they watched with their own eyes, they could scarcely believe it.

Whatever else it was, the sight was magnificent. Until now, they had been too frightened to look. But the tens of thousands filling the broad plain had lit fires everywhere, as though countless stars had risen upon the earth. Those of a poetic disposition could almost hear the opening line of a heroic lay already.

His red cloak streaming, he walked into the host of stars.