Chapter 133

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Night fell over the desolate desert, and a campfire blazed beside a rise in the ground. There was no grass, and thus no chirping of insects. Only the moon and stars hung in a sky like a black sea. The crackling of the firewood sounded almost like a lullaby.

“Riki, may I have a look at your sword?”

Ricard, who had been sitting on a rock watching the flames, passed over the sword beside him. Hashim took it carefully in hands as wrinkled as an ancient tree and drew it partway from its scabbard. The blade gleamed in the reddish firelight as though it had just been cleaned and oiled.

“Where did you find a magic sword like this?”

“It isn't a magic sword. It simply became that way after years of use. It always stays sharp, even without any particular care.”

“As though it had a will of its own? How long have you used it?”

Leaning against the rock face, Ricard quietly closed his eyes as though settling down to sleep and let his thoughts travel back into the past. The blazing campfire seemed to urge him to tell his tale.

CRACKLE. POP. CRACKLE...

“There was a man. You could call him innocent, if you were being kind, or ignorant of the world, if you weren't. He knew neither when he was born nor who had borne him. He lived alone as a shepherd until, around the time he reached adulthood, he came down to a village and married a young widow. He thought that was happiness. Then he was called away to war. After ten years of fighting, he returned home to find that not only had his wife made a new life with someone else, she had never loved him at all. The villagers had even tricked him into going to war. So he killed them all. After that, he wandered the world without a destination, much as you do, killing everyone who stood against him. In the end, worn down by the wounds and exhaustion of years of fighting, he reached the end of his life and died. To him, life was nothing but a mirthless joke played by loathsome fate. That sword is the one he used.”

Ricard spoke of his previous life as though he were telling someone else's story. He was telling a heathen mage something he had never told his closest friends, not even Marie. Hashim listened calmly, then asked as he gazed at the blade flickering red in the firelight.

“... And did he regret it?”

“No.”

“Then?”

“There is no remorse, no guilt. Only emptiness. He merely wishes to become someone who can weep quietly. I don't think he wants to give those tears any particular meaning. Neither repentance nor sorrow.”

“... A sword forged in the flames of vengeance and quenched in tears. It is a magic sword, all right.”

“Isn't magic supposed to be some more refined art? There's nothing like that about it.”

“What is magic? Isn't it magic that you and I are here, talking at this very moment?”

“By that reasoning, what in this world isn't magic? What isn't a miracle?”

“Precisely.”

“Hm?”

Ricard opened his eyes and looked at Hashim, but the mage merely slid the partly drawn blade back into its scabbard without elaborating. He quietly laid it beside Ricard.

A sword that had flowed from a furnace of fire, steel, blood, and death, forged in vengeance and quenched in tears. What did such a sword cut?

“Does the sword have a name?”

“No. Naming weapons is for children.”

“I'm no child, but I'll give it one. Lightning. How does that sound? When you cut through the bars on the ship, it looked like a flash of lightning cleaving the darkness.”

“That's true enough, but why are you naming it without asking me, Hashim?”

“Didn't you take it upon yourself to give me the affectionate name Hashim?”

“... You've got me there. So does this make us even?”

“I suppose it does.”

Smiles touched the lips of the two friends, who looked to be about twenty years apart in age. The night deepened. As the darkness grew thicker, the stars shone all the brighter, and the campfire burned away the darkness between them.

At dawn, Ricard and Hashim ground out the blackened remains of their campfire beneath their feet and set off again, heading west. They staved off hunger with minced lizard meat, bread, and dates, drinking water now and then to wet their throats.

As the sunlight began to sting their skin and the day grew hot, they spotted a village. It was a cluster of square, yellowish earthen houses without roofs. Not quite an oasis, it had grown up around a well. The people had dug irrigation channels and managed to farm the barren soil, though raising goats was their chief livelihood.

Who protected villages like this, anyway? Ricard had heard of a rank called emir, similar to the Empire's lords, but they generally ruled only the major cities. They cared nothing for whether the small villages nearby were destroyed or their people killed. As far as lawlessness went, this place was worse than the Empire, if anything, and certainly no better.

Moreover, Lunadan was famous for its fine horses and was plagued by especially large numbers of mounted bandits. Without the sturdy fortresses that defended the major cities, villages like this had little chance of survival. The Empire's castles were nothing compared to Lunadan's fortresses. Truly vast and imposing, these were solidly built and meticulously designed. Capturing a city had therefore been regarded as virtually impossible since ancient times.

Sure enough, as they approached the village, they found a band of mounted brigands gathered around the well. They weren't slaughtering people indiscriminately, but they were laughing and molesting the women, dragging them onto their laps, groping their bodies, and pressing filthy lips toward them.

They were clearly thugs, yet their equipment was surprisingly fine. Rich cloth covered their gleaming scale armor, and everything from their belts to their shoes was adorned with ornaments.

What stood out most among them, however, was a horse as red as blood or flame, from head to hoof, even its mane. Its size, proportions, and musculature were in perfect balance. It was the sort of magnificent horse one would be fortunate to see twice in a lifetime.

Its situation did not look particularly good, though. A young man in extremely expensive silk clothes was riding it, but whether it had been caught in the wild or simply hadn't been properly broken in, he was struggling to control it. Several men rushed in to seize its reins or loop ropes around its legs and force it into submission, with little success. The red horse fought and struggled to the last, finally throwing the young man off.

“F-fuck!”

Fortunately or unfortunately, he wasn't badly hurt. The moment he fell, however, the men restraining the horse hurriedly pulled on their ropes and tripped it. The young man sprang to his feet, fuming, and drew his riding crop. He began lashing out indiscriminately at the men restraining the horse, whether they were his servants or his underlings.

“Can't you hold it properly?! Huh?! I said, can't you hold it properly?! You want me dead, don't you?! Don't you?!”

The man being beaten could barely cope with holding the rope taut to restrain the horse while enduring the blows. He could only squeeze his eyes shut and bear it. The young man beat horse and men alike until he wore himself out. For a while, the slaps of his crop rang out without pause.

It was around then that he noticed Ricard and Hashim quietly watching him. To his eye, they were plainly not villagers. He blinked and stared blankly at the two unexpected arrivals, then suddenly grinned. It certainly didn't look like a friendly smile.

Ricard spoke quietly to Hashim. “Try not to use magic.”

“Why?”

“Because I don't want you to forget me.”

“Then there's no helping it. I'll have to use my secret trick.”

“Your secret trick?”

“I have one.”

“By the way, Hashim, can you ride?”

“I may not look it, but I'm a man of the Empire. Have you ever heard of someone from the Empire who couldn't ride?”

“We're the Empire, not you.”

“Well, I think our claim to legitimacy is stronger.”

“On what grounds?”

Their conversation had taken a brief detour when the young man, having caught his breath, called to Ricard. “Hey, you. Franken man.”

Interrupted just as his conversation with Hashim was turning into a debate, Ricard turned toward the young man. With an air of exaggerated self-importance, he crooked a finger, beckoning Ricard closer. Ricard stared at him for a moment, then approached with his sword and pack slung over his shoulder.

The young man asked, “Are you a pilgrim?”

“Let's say I am.”

“Barbarian! Do you have any idea who this is—!”

The man beside the youth frowned and started to rebuke him, but the youth raised a hand to stop him.

“Yes, well, you didn't look like a mercenary. Judging by the direction you came from, you've visited the holy city. On your way to some other ruins?”

“Something like that.”

“Franken man, what do you think of this red horse?”

“It looks like the sort of fine horse you'd be fortunate to see twice in a lifetime.”

“Indeed. A fine horse it is. But do you know why its body is so red? Because it eats people. This is the Beast Horse of the Yeren Highlands.”

It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the truth either. There were merely rumors to that effect. What horse ate people?

“So you're boasting about it to me? You don't seem capable of handling it yourself.”

“Could you, then? That's why I called you over. Try taming it, Franken man. If you succeed, I'll give it to you. You could probably buy a whole city with it. What do you say?”

It was an offer out of nowhere. But the young man was certain Ricard could never tame the horse. He wanted to see him thrown and badly injured, or perhaps watch the Beast Horse actually eat someone. He seemed to be of high birth, but it was painfully obvious he'd grown up twisted. Men like him were so simple that Ricard could see straight through them. This bastard would never keep his word.

“And if I lose the bet?”

“You simply leave. Sound good? You won't find a more generous wager.”

“Very well. I accept.”

Though Ricard knew the young man's intentions, he did not refuse the bet. He merely glanced back at Hashim before approaching the horse, which lay on the ground with all four legs bound. As he drew near, the red horse thrashed as though having a fit. An ordinary person might have fallen backward in fright, but Ricard remained calm.

“Shh, shh...”

He took his time calming it, then carefully approached and stroked its head and neck. With everyone watching, he whispered softly enough for only the horse to hear. “I promise you. I will never beat you, nor will I bind you. If I break that promise, you may eat me.”

He made the promise sincerely, with all his heart. The fallen horse gazed into his eyes. Ricard slipped his foot into the stirrup and climbed on, then signaled with his eyes to the men holding the ropes taut.

As they cautiously loosened the ropes, the horse suddenly heaved itself upright and began bucking. It reared so high that its body was almost vertical.

NEIGH!

After letting out a thunderous neigh, it reversed course, kicking its hind legs so high it seemed about to pitch forward as it tried to throw Ricard. One unlucky man caught a hoof in the jaw and went down. His jaw was completely shattered. Whether he was alive or dead was unclear, but he fell with his limbs stretched stiff.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!”

The startled onlookers scrambled out of the way. Even the guards molesting the village women shoved them aside and sprang up to watch Ricard and the horse.

Ricard clamped down hard with his legs, bracing his torso while moving fluidly with the horse. He gripped the reins so tightly it looked as though his hands might bleed. The horse bucked madly, as if it might launch straight into the sky, yet Ricard refused to fall. The longer the onlookers watched, the wider their eyes grew. His strength was impressive enough, but his balance and ability to keep his seat defied belief. Having ridden all their lives themselves, they understood that better than anyone.

After bucking for some time, the horse suddenly charged forward, as though frustrated. It shot out of the village like an arrow, its thrust and acceleration almost unbelievable. The people streamed out of the village to keep watching. Before their eyes, the red horse swept across the barren land like a scene from a painting.

Perhaps because of the haze of dust, it seemed to leave a red afterimage in its wake, like a crimson comet. So this was how beautifully it could run. How stifled and wronged it must have felt all this time.

On its back, Ricard felt the wind before him like a solid wall. He thought his head might snap backward if he relaxed his neck. The headwind was so fierce that his turban unraveled and flew away. His blond hair, grown somewhat long since he hadn't had a haircut in a while, streamed wildly behind him.

To the spectators, meanwhile, Ricard and the red horse had receded so quickly that they already looked tiny. Only then did the expensively dressed young man snap to his senses and order his men, “Catch him! Quickly! Don't let him take the horse!”

And he was the one who had proposed the wager. Men like him were always self-centered, their promises as light as feathers.

The warriors hastily tried to mount, but fortunately or unfortunately, Ricard came galloping back just then.

BA-DA-DUM! BA-DA-DUM! BA-DA-DUM! BA-DA-DUM!

He had been so far away, yet he was upon them in an instant. Ricard pulled the reins to one side, and the horse stopped abruptly, as though it had already been completely tamed. Turning his head, he shouted to Hashim, “Now! Your secret trick!”

While everyone stared in bewilderment, unsure what he meant, Hashim whipped a dagger from inside his clothes and stabbed one of the warriors in the neck, killing him. Even Ricard was startled. What? That was his secret trick? His knifework was frankly abysmal, but he acted without hesitation, so killing an unsuspecting warrior posed little difficulty.

Hashim swiftly mounted the warrior's horse and fled. Ricard tried to ride off as well, but the red horse suddenly lunged at the silk-clad youth. Before Ricard could do anything, it sank its teeth into the young man's face and tore.

“Aaaaaaagh!”

Judging by the screams, he wasn't dead, but the skin had been ripped from his face, leaving him a hideous sight. The red horse's eyes burned with fury, and blood dripped from its mouth. To be honest, even Ricard was so shocked that his heart lurched.

The terrified underlings rushed to the fallen youth to examine his injuries. “Your Highness!”

Ricard had thought he was someone of high status, but a prince? A prince had brought his servants and underlings to a village to act like a thug, simply for his own amusement? Impressive.

Yet Ricard did not condemn him. Quite the opposite: he was grateful. He simply had no time to thank him for the wager before hastily turning his horse and riding away. What was done was done.

Seemingly tireless, the red horse shot forward like a ray of light and caught up in an instant with Hashim, who had already gained a substantial lead. Behind Ricard came the prince's shout, almost a scream. The red horse was so fast that the cry dwindled even as he listened.

“Catch those baaaaaastards!”