Chapter 122

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Ricard crossed the pass with sixty soldiers. In other words, they had crossed the border of the Kingdom of Adelorn.

The mountain road stretched downhill on a very gentle slope. It hardly seemed right to call it a mountain road at all. Ahead of them, dense forest simply stretched all the way to the horizon.

He had known what to expect, but now that they were actually about to take this route, he briefly wondered whether it was the right choice. Leading sixty men through here all at once was a daunting prospect.

As a fighting force, it was a pitifully small number, yet it was hardly a group that could move freely through a forest.

Some roads were suitable for a lone traveler, others for merchant caravans, and still others for armies. Depending on the size of a group, not every road was an option.

People had traveled this route since ancient times, so there was no need to worry about attacks by beasts or monsters. Given the circumstances, however, he could not help being concerned. The forest was so dense that even surveying it from high ground would make an ambush difficult to spot.

Had the enemy already circled around and taken up positions in the forest? Stationing all five thousand soldiers among the trees would be difficult. Had they established a camp elsewhere and split off smaller units to lie in ambush? Or had they not arrived yet?

All sorts of possibilities and questions occurred to him. But a commander's job was to assess the situation and make decisions amid such uncertainty. Choose the wrong answer, and there would be a harsh price to pay.

"Hmm..."

Ricard pondered their options before entering the forest. In the end, he settled on a desperate expedient—a measure resorted to only reluctantly.

"We'll go in two columns. Each column watches its own side. If fighting breaks out, drop your long weapons. Take cover behind trees wherever you can and fight with your secondary weapons."

Those were Ricard's orders.

The soldiers nodded. They had been issued weapons from the royal armory, so their equipment was excellent, giving them a measure of confidence in close combat.

The sixty soldiers divided into two columns of thirty and entered the forest, with Ricard leading at the very front.

The forest's shadows fell over Ricard and his soldiers. The coolness was welcome, but it brought an unpleasant chill with it.

They would be fortunate to get through the forest without incident, but that alone would not put his mind at ease.

To keep the supply route secure, they needed control of the forest itself. Their current manpower was woefully inadequate for that. Would they have to steel themselves for battle and worry themselves sick every time they passed through?

It was a difficult problem indeed.

For now, though, they traveled through the forest to buy food for the winter.

Their small numbers did allow them to march quickly. And though they had not intended it, their footsteps were quiet enough to make their passage stealthier than expected.

Had half a day passed? They had left Adelivari that morning, and now the morning was over and the sun hung high overhead.

Ricard's keen senses picked up a sound that did not belong, and he immediately halted the march. The men did not look particularly tense, but they studied the forest closely.

He strained his senses and listened. The strange noise came from far off to the right. It sounded rather like a hammer knocking against wood.

Fortunately, it did not seem to be an ambush.

"It's dangerous to stay on the road. Take cover behind trees or in the brush. You, you, you, and you. Come with me."

Ricard picked out a few familiar soldiers and led them toward the sound.

They had walked less far than he expected when the sounds grew loud. There was no mistaking the noise of construction and people talking.

As they drew closer, near enough to make out some of the words, the enemy came into view. They had found a suitable site and were felling trees and leveling the ground, intent on building an entire fortified camp.

Ah, just as he had thought. At the same time, Ricard was relieved to have discovered them before they finished.

But what could he do with five thousand enemy soldiers swarming around the place? Once the fortifications were complete, they could cut off the supply route.

War, however, was much like life. If you avoided things simply because they were dangerous or difficult, all that awaited you was greater danger and difficulty.

"Go fetch everyone."

"Are we attacking?"

The soldier who asked looked appalled by Ricard's order. Ricard glared at him and spoke through almost gritted teeth.

"I do not give orders twice."

There were times when he had to be firm. It could not be helped.

The soldier hurried back to fetch the others, and before long the rest of the men arrived.

They had eyes of their own, and the sight of the enemy hammering away at the fortifications made them gasp. Their hearts pounded, too.

Five thousand men was as many people as lived in a fair-sized town or small city.

The forest limited their view to one side of the site, but the cranes, the other construction equipment, and the logs and stones alone gave an overwhelming impression of the enormous workforce assembled here.

"Pull yourselves together and listen carefully. We're going to strike their flank and break through. I'll smash that crane. The rest of you set fires and kill whatever gets in your way, but do not scatter under any circumstances. Once we're through their camp, run straight for that peak over there."

In truth, his orders barely registered. All they remembered was the peak, and not to scatter.

"I promise you one thing. No one will die."

Ricard spoke with such certainty that it was almost a prophecy. Then he drew his sword and charged toward the enemy camp. The soldiers surged after him, their eyes fixed on the back of his red surcoat.

The enemy soldiers were sitting around resting, laying logs on the ground and rigging ropes to move stones, or busy with other tasks when sixty men suddenly burst out of the forest. They were startled. There was nothing remotely playful about the fury of that charge.

On paper, it was five thousand against sixty. To anyone actually in their path, however, it felt like sixty against one. No, there was no question of fighting. All they could do was run.

"What the fuck!"

"We're under attack!"

The startled enemies shouted as they scrambled away. Whether they shouted or not, Ricard and his sixty soldiers simply kept charging straight ahead.

Then Ricard surged forward in a sudden burst and sliced through the crane's supports in one stroke.

The great crane slowly tilted and fell. Its enormous wheel-like axle, resembling a waterwheel, plunged down and shattered with a crash.

An alarm bell began ringing.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

Dust billowed into the air. Enemy soldiers milled about in confusion, shouting at the tops of their lungs. Their overlapping voices were impossible to make out. Whatever the words, they were warning of an enemy attack.

Ricard and his soldiers kept running straight ahead. Rather than killing their enemies, they mostly crashed into them and trampled over them. When they reached what looked like sleeping quarters, flames sprang up; someone had set them alight.

The enemy was too confused to make sense of what was happening. Ricard and his soldiers, on the other hand, had a clear direction. Straight ahead, no matter what.

Of course, some men fell, while others were delayed when desperately struggling enemies grabbed them and had to be stabbed to death.

Whenever that happened, Ricard would somehow appear from the front, where he had been cutting down enemies, kill the attackers, and bring his men along.

Exhilaration surged through the soldiers, and they shouted before they knew it.

"The prince has returned!"

"Make way!"

The words had become something like the official battle cry of Adelorn's border troops, and by a curious coincidence, they suited this situation perfectly.

But the enemy was no pushover. Despite being taken by surprise, they swiftly began forming ranks. If even a thousand of those five thousand men got their wits about them, survival would be difficult.

"Crow Mercenary Company, rally! Raaally!"

"Just grab your weapons!"

"Where's the enemy!?"

"On the left!"

"No! The right!"

"Rangers! Raaangers!"

Grantz the Invincible commanded several mercenary corps, each of which in turn comprised several mercenary companies.

This force of five thousand consisted of four or five corps, encompassing a great many companies. Differences in their quality were inevitable.

Thus, some companies armed themselves amid the confusion and tried to hold their positions or form a defensive wall, while others pursued Ricard's men or moved to block their path.

Of course, Ricard smashed through anything that blocked their way in an instant. A long, straight line of gold flashed, the flimsy wall collapsed, and his soldiers surged in behind him.

They broke through and kept running, almost like a unit of horse-drawn chariots.

Even so, the enemy continued restoring order to their ranks. Rather than blindly confronting Ricard, they began spreading out to encircle him and his men.

Someone shouted.

"Your retreat is cut off! Surrender!"

It sounded like a commander, but Ricard could not see him. All he could do was shout back.

"Who said anything about retreating!? We came to smash you!"

Ricard's cry sent the soldiers' exhilaration soaring even higher. Their profound fear seemed to be turning into a kind of madness.

"Raaaaah!"

Roaring at the tops of their lungs, heedless even of their breathlessness, they charged like fire. In the chaos, even seasoned mercenaries could not stand against them.

They tore through several lines in quick succession and finally broke all the way through the enemy camp. They left utter chaos in their wake.

Their first objective was achieved. Now they had to survive.

"Run for the peak!"

At Ricard's shout, the soldiers fixed their eyes on the distant peak beyond the forest and ran.

Perhaps because they had originally served as mountain troops, their stamina was truly monstrous. They kept running without tiring.

Meanwhile, Ricard darted back and forth and from side to side, sometimes taking the lead to cut down enemies, sometimes hauling stragglers to their feet and dragging them along by whatever means he could. And so, not a single man had been killed or wounded.

But the real trouble was only beginning. The mercenary corps' rangers had started their pursuit.

These were men who could race through a forest almost as swiftly as roe deer and still take aimed shots. Though the trees should have obstructed their view, they doggedly pursued the fugitives, trying to pick them off.

They focused particularly on the conspicuous Ricard. Killing a single commander paid far better than killing several ordinary soldiers.

From this point on, even Ricard had no clever solution. He could only fight, relying on his keen senses.

With inhuman perception, he snatched arrows flying at him from behind out of the air or deflected them with his sword, but he could not stop them all. Arrows were the most dangerous thing on a battlefield.

In the blink of an eye, several arrows struck his body. Thanks to his armor, however, their heads did little more than prick his skin.

"You moron! Aim for his legs!"

The man shouting seemed to be the leader of one band of rangers. He pursued Ricard with animal-like senses, never taking his eyes off him.

Then, as Ricard raced past a tree, the ranger instinctively judged his speed and shifted his gaze to the other side of the trunk. But Ricard was not there.

In the instant it took him to wonder what had happened, Ricard appeared directly before him and swung his sword. That was the last thing he knew.

The trouble with rangers was that even going to such lengths killed only one of them. The rest kept their distance and continued shooting.

An arrow skimmed past Ricard's face. He ran swiftly, dodging what he could and parrying what he could.

All the while, he used the direction of the incoming arrows to determine where his enemies were and how far away they stood.

His expression was one of intense concentration. There was no room for fear or anger. He counterattacked as relentlessly as his enemies hunted him.

Ricard swiftly closed on another enemy ranger. The man ducked behind a tree, then gave a sudden twitch. The blade had cut through both the tree and his neck.

A single stroke felled the thick tree, and the man's head tumbled from his body.

The astounding sight left the enemies speechless for a moment. Then one of the more sensible ones recovered and shouted.

"Leave that bastard alone! Go after the soldiers!"

That put Ricard in a difficult position. He had to keep their attention on himself somehow and bear the brunt of their attacks. If the rangers pursued his soldiers, the losses would be considerable.

Getting this far had taken half a day—six hours. Even running without rest, it would take hours to escape the forest.

Just then, an arrow came streaking through the air. But it was not aimed at Ricard. It whipped past in front of him, and one of the enemy rangers fell.

THUD!

"Urgh!"

At that, arrows came flying in all at once, like a coordinated volley. Ricard flinched, but not a single one was aimed at him.

To his astonishment, the enemy rangers fell one after another. Every arrow had been aimed precisely at a vital spot on its individual target.

Was someone else here? They were far more skilled. Who were they? Caught off guard by this unexpected turn, Ricard hurriedly put his back to a tree.

Someone came walking toward him from directly ahead. The figure wore a dark green hood and approached holding a bow, with no arrow nocked.

He was not alone. Rangers belonging to another force emerged throughout the forest, from considerably farther away than Ricard had expected, and came toward him.

The man in the dark green hood, apparently their leader, spoke.

"On your way to carry out a commission?"

"What?"

"Aren't you an adventurer?"

"... What are you talking about?"

"Did you quit? Well... fair enough."

"Do you know me? Who are you?"

At Ricard's question, the man pulled back his hood. He looked a little older than Ricard.

A beard covered the lower half of his face, and his eyes looked sleepy. Not from fatigue; that was simply how he looked.

His face was familiar, but Ricard could not place him.

"It's me. Lester."

"Lester? Who...?"

Ricard searched his memory, then suddenly recalled him. The griffin forest. The bowyer's grandson. He had shared a few chunks of meat with him.

Meeting him again after all these years, in a place where he would never have expected to see him, left Ricard utterly bewildered. What was this man doing here?