Chapter 134

* * *

The barren desert ended as sharply as if someone had sliced it off with a knife, giving way to green wetlands. The transition was so bizarre that it scarcely seemed natural.

“The Golden Triangle. Ahead of us lie wetlands larger than most countries. Some call it the Witches’ Empire, while others say this land was formed from the rotting corpse of an ancient god. Follow the river upstream and you reach a floodplain where crops grow as soon as you scatter the seeds. No one goes hungry, and they have grain to spare even after exporting it all over the world. This is the Sultanate of Mayub.”

Hashim spoke as they rode upriver. From atop his red horse, Ricard surveyed the wetlands.

“That doesn’t sound like good news. That ill-mannered brat seemed to be a prince of this country. There’s bound to be a pursuit.”

“Well, will there really?”

“What do you mean?”

“The sultans here keep harems and sire children. It’s quite common for them to have more than a hundred.”

“What’s a harem?”

“A place filled with beautiful women whom only the sultan may bed. It varies from one sultan to another, but they have at least several dozen.”

“... I try to be respectful, even toward heathens, but that is beyond me.”

“At any rate, a sultan is bound to have dozens of children at the very least—no, more than a hundred. They rarely take much notice if something happens to a single prince. Of course, it all depends on the sultan.”

Perhaps it was because this foreign custom was so unfamiliar and alien, but Ricard found it deeply unsettling. Wasn’t it far too promiscuous? And promiscuity aside, surely it would cause trouble over the succession.

“Still, only the queen’s children have a claim to the throne, surely?”

“No. In other sultanates, only the children of the principal wife—the queen—have succession rights, but Mayub is a little different. They’re all legitimate princes.”

“Then how on earth does the succession work? To be honest, our Empire has run into trouble because the previous Emperor had so many children.”

“‘Though the custom may be barbaric, through it we have bred mighty warriors possessed of both wisdom and courage.’ Those were the words of Shazar, the first king of the Sultanate of Mayub.”

“What does that mean?”

“The princes kill one another, and the final victor becomes king. They’re free to use any means they please. Assassination, war, anything.”

“...”

The succession was so brutal that Ricard wondered how it could possibly be allowed. For a moment, he was speechless.

Ironically, however, that very method kept the peace. Only the princes and those involved with them needed to fight, sparing ordinary people the ravages of war.

And any prince who won the throne that way would, at the very least, excel at intrigue or commanding troops.

But was that truly the right way? Ricard did not think so. He felt that a man who killed his brothers to become king must be profoundly lacking in some way.

If he could kill even his own brothers so readily, what would he think of other people’s lives?

The Sultanate of Mayub had been founded by nomads who conquered this land in the first place, so it certainly had a somewhat barbaric, strongly martial culture.

Now that they had set foot in such a country, lingering would do them no good. Ricard decided they should replenish their fodder, drinking water, and food, then move on quickly.

There was, however, one serious problem.

“I take it you intend to keep riding that horse?”

“I’m a man, too. Isn’t it only natural to covet a fine horse? But I’ll treat this one as a friend. I promised him as much.”

“No, I mean, isn’t he rather conspicuous?”

The horse Ricard rode was almost excessively red. When the light caught its glossy coat, it looked like flame. There was no way it could go unnoticed.

“True enough... Which is why we should hurry through this region.”

“A good idea. I’ll help if things get dangerous. I’ve generally muddled along by letting myself be taken as a slave, but I don’t think that will do this time.”

Even robbers and bandits avoided killing people when they could. Why kill someone you could sell? That was especially true wherever the slave trade flourished.

“No, Hashim. Use magic only to protect yourself. Stick to that secret trick of yours whenever you can. You needn’t use magic for my sake.”

“Aren’t friends supposed to help one another?”

“Helping and sacrificing yourself are different things. A true friend doesn’t want his friend to sacrifice himself.”

“Is that so... Very well. You know more about friendship than I do.”

“Hahaha! It’s not a matter of knowing or not knowing. That’s simply how it is.”

“Simply how it is... Then what if you want to sacrifice yourself for a friend? And if a friend has already made that sacrifice, how would the one left behind feel?”

“Well, sad, I suppose.”

“A difficult question.”

Was it a difficult question? Ricard realized he wasn’t sure himself. If such a situation arose, he felt certain he would plunge in without a thought for his own safety.

On the other hand, grateful though he would be if a friend did the same for him, part of him hoped they wouldn’t.

“I suppose it is. It’s difficult.”

Unable to find an easy answer, Ricard agreed with Hashim.

Following the edge of the wetlands, they eventually reached a small city called Ayaba, one of the satellite cities of the capital, Yerev.

Everyone stared at Ricard as they entered. More precisely, they were staring at his scarlet horse. With such an unusual coat, it was bound to attract attention.

Instead of shrinking from their gazes, Ricard held his head high and proceeded with almost brazen confidence. He went to a trough beside an inn and gave his horse plenty of water and feed.

On a long journey, or when pursuing someone or escaping pursuit, it was best to have several horses.

Even a magnificent steed that could run a thousand li in a day could not compete with a rider who changed mounts along the way.

How much rest, then, should he give his horse? That was a genuinely difficult question.

Besides, a warhorse was not meant for everyday riding. Knights and the mounted warriors of this region rode ordinary riding horses, saving their warhorses for decisive moments.

Ricard’s red horse, however, had only just been tamed. Hashim’s mount was quite good, but it wasn’t a warhorse to begin with.

More than seventy percent of one’s effectiveness in mounted combat depended on the horse’s capabilities. The rider’s skill mattered too, but there was little to be done if the horse was outclassed.

Yet there was something troubling about the way the townspeople looked at Ricard and his red horse. This was clearly more than simple curiosity.

He understood instinctively.

“It seems word has already gone out to arrest us.”

“Hmm? What about our supplies, then?”

“Let’s get out first and worry about that later. We can catch lizards in the wild if we have to.”

“Very well.”

Ricard flipped the stable hand a silver coin and left the city as nonchalantly as he could. To the west stood an enormous stone bridge spanning the river.

There was a guard post at its entrance. The soldiers and warriors weren’t stopping every traveler, but their searching gazes suggested they were looking for someone.

Then their eyes met Ricard’s, before turning to his red horse.

“Go ahead and pretend you don’t know me.”

Ricard whispered to Hashim, then turned his horse away, putting a little distance between them. Sure enough, the warriors and soldiers began approaching him.

No, they were busily signaling to someone and spreading out as though to surround him.

Once they had come within a certain distance, a mounted warrior addressed Ricard.

“You there, Franken knight. That horse is a favorite of the sultan’s.”

“Aren’t you mistaken?”

Ricard’s brazen reply failed to persuade him. Of course it did.

“I’ve only ever seen one horse in the world that red.”

“Well, whatever the case, I won this horse in a wager with a prince, though I don’t know his name. I neither stole him nor took him by force. Does this country’s king covet other men’s horses?”

At Ricard’s deliberate provocation, the warrior’s eyes turned cold.

“... Don’t get insolent, barbarian.”

“You either.”

From his saddle, Ricard swept a quick glance around him. He saw Hashim crossing the bridge and decided it was time.

The moment he made up his mind, he drew the sword at his waist without hesitation.

“Whether here or back home, a man has to fight to keep what’s his. And I suppose you have to stake your life to take what belongs to another man, too. Hyah!”

Ricard spurred his horse and charged the warrior. The man drew his curved blade to counterattack, but the red horse accelerated far faster than he expected. He twisted aside so violently that he nearly fell from the saddle.

Ignoring whether the warrior evaded him or not, Ricard galloped toward the bridge. But there was a problem: it was crowded with ordinary travelers, leaving him no room to build up speed.

“Make way! Make way!”

Ricard shouted at the top of his lungs. Startled, people scurried this way and that, which only seemed to clog the road further. Damn.

Naturally, his enemies were chasing him from behind, while more soldiers rushed onto the bridge from the opposite side to catch him. Fortunately, Hashim had already crossed.

Trapped in the middle of the bridge, Ricard glanced down at the river. The current wasn’t particularly strong. Judging by its width, however, it looked deep.

“Can you swim?”

Ricard asked his horse. As though it understood human speech, the red horse sprang up and plunged into the river with a splash.

Horse and rider went under for a moment, but the red horse managed to steady itself by churning its legs and began to swim.

A horse’s body wasn’t built for fast swimming, though, and their progress was painfully slow. The water lapped just beneath Ricard’s nose.

Still, a horse swimming with a man on its back was such a strange and astonishing sight that civilians and soldiers alike stared wide-eyed.

But the soldiers had come to recover the red horse, and they hurried to the riverbank to capture Ricard. Gleaming swords and spears awaited him on the far shore.

Then, as the red horse neared the bank and its hooves began to touch bottom, it suddenly surged upward like a red dragon ascending into the sky.

NEIGH!

Its leap was unbelievable, especially from the water.

It rose nearly a man’s height, sending the startled soldiers scattering. The mounted warriors, at least, swung their curved blades to kill Ricard.

But even as he regained his balance, Ricard extended his own sword toward an opponent.

CLANG!

Golden flames blazed along the blade as it sheared through the enemy’s sword and killed him. The warrior’s armor split open, and he fell bleeding from his neck and torso.

“Jihadra! A Franken Jihadra!”

One of the soldiers shouted. In their language, it meant a holy warrior—or, loosely translated, a Sword Master.

After killing the warrior, Ricard urged his horse onward. To his despair, however, an army was already waiting on the far side of the river.

These were the sultanate’s finest elite cavalry, preserving their nomadic traditions while clad in the armor of civilization.

Sure enough, among them sat a man wearing a huge turban and splendid, gleaming armor. Anyone could tell he was the king—the sultan.

His gaze met Ricard’s. Perhaps because he had killed his brothers to become king, his eyes were as sharp as blades. He looked like a man who wouldn’t bat an eye at the death of a son. It seemed the horse was what had brought him here.

Events were moving quickly. Warriors came at Ricard with lassos, hooks, spears, and swords. If he fell from his horse, he was finished.

His one consolation was that, since they wanted the red horse back, they weren’t using arrows. Mounted archery was, in fact, their greatest strength.

With no time to weigh his options, Ricard dashed to the side. The red horse accelerated again, reaching full speed in an instant.

CLATTER! CLATTER! CLATTER! CLATTER!

His horse was the fastest, but unfortunately, the sultan’s warriors also rode specially trained warhorses of carefully selected bloodlines. He couldn’t shake them off entirely.

As dozens of heavy horses drove their hooves into the earth, the ground itself seemed to tremble.

THUDUDUDUDUDUD!

A thick cloud of dust rose behind them. Townspeople and villagers watched the astonishing pursuit. It was not a sight one often saw, and the sultan, too, watched without looking away.

The spectators found themselves holding their breath. The red horse was so striking, and looked so much like the leader in a race, that they couldn’t help rooting for it.

How much worse must it have been for the man at the center of it? Ricard’s heart pounded wildly. Even so, he decided he would never shake them off through speed alone and yanked hard on the reins.

The red horse stopped abruptly, nearly pitching him forward out of the saddle. He barely managed to hang on, while the warriors could not slow down in time.

In fact, even if they had wanted to, they couldn’t have done so without risking a collision with their own men close behind.

Ricard swiftly changed direction, slipped through a gap no wider than a thread, and raced west.

But there were so many pursuers that one of the warriors at the rear drew up close and tried to stab him.

Ricard pressed into his stirrups, almost standing upright, and raised his burning sword high. Its flames streamed fiercely in the wind.

The warrior thrust his sword at that instant. At the same time, Ricard gritted his teeth and brought his blade crashing down.

CRUNCH! THUD!

Ricard broke the enemy’s sword and nearly cleaved the warrior in two. The blow still had enough force to cut through the saddle and slaughter the horse beneath him.

An enormous spray of blood erupted as horse and rider collapsed. The warriors following behind tripped over the bodies and fell violently.

THUD! THUD! CRUNCH! THUD!

NEIGH!

Horses collided and tumbled over one another. Their riders were flung far from their saddles or hurled into the ground, their bodies shattered or crushed.

At the truly horrific, spectacular sight, the onlookers cried out in involuntary awe.

“Whoa!”

At any rate, Ricard had broken through his enemies and gained a moment’s respite.

But it wasn’t over. There was an old tale of a king trading his kingdom for a single horse, after all, and his enemies had no intention of giving up.

This time, lightly equipped riders spread out in a broad encircling pursuit. Unlike the heavily armored warriors before them, these men wore no armor at all. Carrying only a rope and a weapon each, they pursued him as though racing.

Moreover, their horses were fresh, apparently having waited in reserve before joining the chase.

By now, Ricard was wondering whether one horse really wasn’t enough after all, and whether he should simply turn and fight for his life. Then someone called to him.

“Riki!”

Startled, he turned to see Hashim riding toward him from the flank. Hashim suddenly dismounted and spread his arms wide toward the pursuing enemies, as though inviting them to trample him. What was he doing? Ricard’s eyes widened.

Then the dark pupils of Hashim’s eyes suddenly vanished, leaving only rolling whites, and his body shuddered as though in a seizure.

In an instant, dark clouds formed overhead and blotted out the sun. They thickened further, casting pitch-black shadow over Hashim and the area around him.

The men chasing Ricard stared wide-eyed at the uncanny sight, unable to understand what was happening.

Then long, thick things like octopus tentacles suddenly erupted from the dense shadow. They seized horses at random by their legs, bodies, and necks, hurling them aside. Before anyone could react, everything descended into chaos.

THUD! THUD-THUD! CRUNCH! THUD! THUD-THUD!

Everyone, Ricard included, recoiled at the truly horrifying spectacle unfolding before them. Someone shouted.

“A mage!”

True to their reputation for courage, the warriors were startled and shaken, but did not panic.

Instead, they drew their bows and began to put distance between themselves and the shadow. Apparently abandoning all restraint now, they nocked arrows and pulled back their bowstrings. However powerful the magic might be, what could it do against shots from afar?

Sensing disaster, Ricard hastily wheeled his horse around. What happened if a friend sacrificed himself for him? Then he would have to sacrifice himself in turn. There was no question about it.

The red horse hadn’t merely been cantering along. It had been running flat out for quite some time, and white foam flecked its mouth. Turning back now might be the end of them.

“Hashim!”

Arrows whistled past Ricard and flew into the black abyss. Then the shadow abruptly vanished, revealing Hashim unconscious on the ground.

Ricard hastily sheathed his sword and leaned far out to one side in a nearly acrobatic maneuver, snatching Hashim up with one arm. With him tucked against his side, he galloped on.

True to their nomadic heritage, his enemies cut off his route in an instant. Every way was blocked: a near-vertical, parched slope on one side, enemies on the other three.

Yet for some reason, Ricard charged straight at the slope as though he meant to crash into it. Everyone watched in bewilderment, wondering what he was doing. Then an unbelievable sight unfolded before their eyes.

As though ascending to heaven, the red horse raced up the near-vertical slope as if it were level ground. It was physically impossible.

And from the cloud-darkened sky, a thunderous chorus rang out.

Ohhh, ohhh, ohhh, ohhh!

At last, Ricard reached the top of the slope. He stopped his horse and looked down. By now, even the valiant warriors could only stare up in utter bewilderment.

What had that been? The voice of God? And how had he gotten up there? Wasn’t this a miracle?

Ricard, too, was filled with an inexplicable exhilaration. His heart pounded so hard he thought it might burst. Without meaning to, he broke into loud laughter.

“Wahahahahahaha!”

The sultanate’s finest elite warriors stared up blankly, like dogs that had chased a chicken only to see it escape onto a roof.

After laughing for a long while, Ricard turned his horse to leave. Just then, a clear, ringing voice called out.

“You there! Knight of Franken!”

Ricard looked back down. It was the sultan. He, too, had ridden this far and was looking up at him.

“I am Sultan Aslaf! What is your name?”

Ricard shouted down in reply.

“I am Ricard of Stormhertz! Forgive my lack of courtesy under the circumstances!”

Sultan Aslaf gathered that Ricard was his name, but he didn’t know what Stormhertz meant, so he asked the civil official beside him.

“What does Stormhertz mean?”

“It means ‘Heart of the Storm.’”

Not realizing it was a place name, the sultan took it for Ricard’s nickname or title. A fitting one indeed.

He looked up again and shouted.

“Heart of the Storm from distant lands! I have witnessed your valor! You have proved yourself worthy to be that horse’s master! The Hajid Highlands are treacherous. Come down and take the lower road! In my name, Aslaf, I guarantee your safety and peace within my realm!”

With that, the sultan ordered his retainers to leave spare horses, food, silk, treasures, armor, and weapons on the ground, then withdrew with his soldiers.

As Ricard watched the sultan and his men recede into the distance in bewilderment, the clouds formed by magic cleared away. Shafts of sunlight streamed straight down to the earth. Were they really leaving?

A little while later, Hashim awoke.

“Ugh...”

“Coming around?”

“Hmm? Ah, dear me. So that’s what happened. Still, we’re both safe?”

“At least you haven’t forgotten me.”

Ricard smiled as he spoke. Hashim couldn’t remember what had happened while he was using magic, but he knew at least that Ricard hadn’t abandoned him.

“Is this what friendship is?”

“More or less.”

“It seems friendship works miracles.”

Hashim spoke as he looked down the slope. The sultan’s warriors were nowhere to be seen; instead, there stood fine horses and treasures. With no memory of what had happened, he could only see them as having fallen out of the sky.

“So it seems,” Ricard said.

The two took a long route around to the bottom and gave the horse plenty of water and feed for its hard work.

Then, taking the treasures with them, they set off west once more as though nothing had happened.

Chapter 27 – The Mage of the Wilderness and the Swordsman. End.