Chapter 142

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There is no courage without fear. Courage is the act of overcoming fear; those who seem to know no fear only appear that way.

Fear of pain, fear of failure, and fear of death.

There was no knowing what went on inside a courageous person as they overcame those fears, but all such people had one thing in common.

A fierce desire to achieve their goal. Whether that desire lasted only a moment or had been cherished for years, its flames forged the fine sword called courage.

And so, when asked how they could be so brave, every one of them gave the same answer.

They had merely done what “obviously” needed doing.

Even acts others called foolish or insane were, to them, merely obstacles to overcome—steps along the way.

Thus, on occasion, the fine sword called courage cuts through the obstacle called impossibility.

At that very instant, time stands still, and the moment lives forever in memory. An immortal name is left in history.

Ricard had a desire of his own. It was not a desire for greatness, such as other sovereigns harbored.

He wanted to put an end to Bilter’s foolish actions and, ultimately, end the war in Adelorn, giving people hope that they could live again.

Had anyone asked why he should do such a thing, he would have had no particular reason to offer. To Ricard, it was simply the obvious thing to do.

If he had to find a reason, he could only think of his happy childhood memories, his compassion for those denied such happiness, and his wish to repay the debt he owed for having been loved.

Even Ricard himself could not know how hot, how fierce, or how great the flame of his desire would burn. It was the nature of a flame to change from moment to moment.

But all of Sinatria, save its coasts, was highland. The wind blew especially hard in the highlands, making them particularly well suited to producing flames fierce enough to melt iron.

Where did this ceaseless wind come from? From atop those towering mountains, from some unknown place across the sea, or from God’s own breath in the heavens above?

Whatever its source, this seemed the perfect place to nurture the flame of desire harbored in a human heart.

The sun showed itself on the distant horizon. The black sky slowly turned a deep blue, and though summer had begun, the mornings and evenings were still cool.

The wind blew, setting the banners of the knightly houses fluttering.

The men of Sinatria were renowned for their valor, but perhaps the realities of war had taken their toll, for they all looked weary. Their exhaustion seemed more mental than physical.

A siege was ultimately a contest of endurance, and with those bastards, the Green Dragon brothers, running rampant, morale was in shambles.

They held their posts reluctantly, under the king’s orders. Their hearts had long since gone home.

Those who had stood watch through the night ate a quick bite before going to sleep, while soldiers who looked like beggars rose in twos and threes, lit fires, and hung up their cooking pots.

There was nothing special about food in the field. Whatever they could get went into the pot or over the fire, so it tasted different every day.

Ricard and the knights of the Order of Flame had brought provisions of their own, though not very much.

They would not be staying long anyway, so that hardly mattered. But when Raimund brought him a wooden bowl of pale gruel with strange lumps floating in it, Ricard shook his head.

“I prefer to be a little hungry before a fight. A full stomach seems to make me sluggish. But thank you for the thought.”

He then armed himself fully and mounted his red horse. Turning his head, he gazed at the rising sun and the drawbridge in the distance.

Raimund and the knights merely sat eating, watching him blankly.

They thought this would be a chance to see Ricard’s skill firsthand. If he brought down one of the Green Dragon brothers, it would give morale a welcome boost.

It would also let him save some face after all his boasting. That was as far as their thoughts went.

The knights of the Order of Flame had no idea what Ricard was thinking or what he intended to do. He had not explained his plan, either, since he suspected they would only take it as more boasting.

Knowing that showing them once would be better than telling them a hundred times, he rode out of camp carrying a lance that bore the Order of Flame’s pennon.

Mealtime brought all the soldiers and knights together, so he deliberately rode at an easy pace from the right wing to the left.

CLIP-CLOP. CLIP-CLOP. CLIP-CLOP. CLIP-CLOP.

His red silk battle robe and gleaming golden armor commanded attention beneath the morning sun. The soldiers did not even know who Ricard was, yet their eyes were naturally drawn to him.

With his blond hair streaming in the wind, he deliberately drew every gaze before putting on his helmet with its stiff red plume.

Then he returned to the center and faced Leonia Fortress, looking like a racehorse and rider waiting for the signal to start. At last, the fortress drawbridge descended with a rumble like the growling of a great beast.

The man who emerged was Tauso’s younger brother, Tiuso. With his green dragon helmet crest and surcoat, he was difficult to distinguish from his brother by appearance alone.

The only way to tell them apart was by their secondary weapons: the elder carried a battle-axe, the younger a sword.

There was no knowing how deep the brothers’ affection ran, but their united defense of Leonia Fortress stood in stark contrast to King Santonio and his younger brother, or Ricard and Bilter.

But what could be done? Once they met on the battlefield, personal sentiments had to be set aside. There was no need to learn each other’s stories in depth.

Ricard’s splendid attire was clearly visible even from afar, and Tiuso wondered whether the enemy had hired a skilled mercenary.

King Santonio’s soldiers were thinking much the same thing. Sensing that something different from the usual routine was about to happen, they watched so intently that they scarcely knew whether their food was going into their mouths or up their noses.

Ricard and Tiuso both wore helmets, so neither could see the other’s face.

But what was there to say when they met on a battlefield, and what did their expressions matter? The weapons they drew conveyed their intentions plainly enough. That was all they needed.

Ricard moved slowly forward first, and the distant knight advanced as well, lance in hand. This was no jousting tournament, and there was no referee. If there was one, it was death itself.

Then someone in the friendly camp began beating a drum. Its slow booms carried to everyone present, and strangely enough, hearing them seemed to make their spirits rise in turn.

As Ricard and his opponent gradually picked up speed, the drumbeat quickened.

By the time they were charging in earnest, it sounded like rolling thunder.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!

THUD-A-THUD! THUD-A-THUD! THUD-A-THUD! THUD-A-THUD!

The heavy warhorses raised thick clouds of dust with their powerful strides. Judging the distance, Ricard and Tiuso gradually lowered their bodies and leveled their lances at one another.

Then Ricard, who had seemed to be at full speed already, accelerated further. He shot forward like a red comet, throwing off his opponent’s timing.

In a mounted lance duel, timing mattered more than any other skill. Accelerating at the right moment and distance, holding steady, and putting everything behind the lance tip—that was what counted. Misjudging distance and speed therefore put a rider at a severe disadvantage.

As Ricard suddenly hurtled toward him at tremendous speed, Tiuso’s lance tip wavered. The instant the thought that something was wrong crossed his mind, Ricard closed in far faster than he had expected.

WHOOOOSH!

The massive, heavy warhorses swept past each other. Tiuso had hastily twisted aside and changed course, avoiding the clash.

“Whoaaaa!”

As the two men charging at tremendous speed swept past one another, friend and foe alike burst into loud cries of amazement.

From a distance, it looked as though the duel might be over, yet a closer look suggested otherwise. Everyone watched wide-eyed, utterly engrossed.

Still, to avoid the clash in a duel with one’s honor at stake was unthinkable. But who in this world wanted to die? It was not entirely incomprehensible.

War meant employing every means at one’s disposal. Anything could happen, and Ricard was not flustered.

He, too, abruptly changed direction and pursued Tiuso. Unbalanced in the saddle, Tiuso was fully occupied with calming his horse, which had been startled by the sudden turn.

Turning now to fight Ricard would put him at far too great a disadvantage. All he could do was flee as hard as he could. Without warning, a chase had begun before Leonia Fortress.

At that moment, Tauso rushed out of the fortress to rescue his younger brother. He, too, wore a green surcoat and a helmet with a green dragon crest.

“You bastard!”

As Ricard pursued Tiuso closely, Tauso charged toward him with a roar.

It was a critical moment for all three men. There was no time for careful deliberation. Instant, intuitive decisions alone would determine victory or defeat, life or death.

Ricard made his choice. Abandoning his pursuit of the younger brother, Tiuso, he turned his reins again. His horse was so exceptional that its acceleration and turns defied belief.

But unlike Tauso, who had been charging straight at him from the outset, Ricard had no time to build up proper speed. Tiuso, realizing his brother had come to help, also turned back.

From afar, it looked like two green dragons and a red dragon wheeling together in battle. The sight burned itself into the minds of all the thousands watching.

The desperate fight continued. Knowing he was at a disadvantage, Ricard resorted to a costly expedient: he shifted his lance into a throwing grip and hurled it straight at Tauso.

WHOOSH!

Driven by tremendous strength, the lance flew straight and true toward Tauso. Tauso’s response was impressive in its own right. Even though he was charging at Ricard and should have found it difficult to dodge, he avoided it with no more than a slight duck of his upper body.

But that also pulled his own lance tip away from Ricard.

Suddenly, Tauso felt as though time had stopped. Before his eyes, Ricard had already drawn his sword and raised it high above his head.

Golden flames burned along the blade, streaming out like a long banner.

SWISH! CRUNCH!

But time flowed regardless of his wishes. Ricard’s sword cleaved through the dragon crest, the helmet, and the head beneath it.

With his head split open, Tauso rode on, dead, his body jolting loosely in the saddle.

“Brother!”

Tiuso cried out in shock. Rage surged through him at once, and he gave close chase, his eyes fixed on Ricard’s back.

But Ricard snatched up the lance that had missed its target and lodged in the ground, then twisted backward at the waist. His flexibility was remarkable, but the strength with which he held himself in place was beyond reason.

Gripping the lance in both hands, he skewered Tiuso, who had followed close behind, in a single thrust—as though spearing a fish in a stream.

THUNK!

“Gah!”

The Order of Flame’s lance tip pierced his chest and burst out through his back. Tiuso fell from his horse and tumbled violently across the ground.

THUD! THUD-THUD-THUD! FLOP.

Ricard had killed both Green Dragon brothers single-handedly. The sight was so astounding that the onlookers could only stare with wide eyes and slack mouths, unable even to cheer.

Watching Ricard’s fight from afar, King Santonio’s gaze wavered. A hero. Truly, a hero like a dragon.

But the truly astonishing sight was only just beginning. Without slowing, Ricard raced toward Leonia Fortress like a flash of red light.

THUD-A-THUD! THUD-A-THUD! THUD-A-THUD! THUD-A-THUD!

The startled defenders hurried to raise the drawbridge. It was a perilously close thing. If he failed, he would plunge into the chasm and die.

“It’s too dangerous!”

Raimund shouted from afar, aghast.

But the red horse and Ricard sprang upward without the slightest doubt or hesitation, as though they shared one heart, one will, and one body.

It looked as though a real red dragon had taken flight. Those watching from afar felt certain of it.

NEEEEIGH!

The horse’s cry rang out across the silent battlefield like an echo. To the defenders inside the fortress, the sun behind Ricard looked like a radiant halo.

“El Ciiiid!”

No one knew who it was, but someone shouted. It was a cry meant to reach Ricard and lend him even the smallest measure of strength.

Whether it helped or not, no one could say. But by the narrowest of margins, Ricard cleared the slowly rising drawbridge.

The cheers about to erupt from the thousands watching died in their throats, replaced by startled gasps. Even if he broke into the fortress, he would be trapped inside alone.

After fighting so well, why would he do this? What was happening? They were bewildered—all the more so, naturally, because they had never seen or even imagined anything like it.

But there was no need to worry. The enemy, too, had suffered a tremendous shock, and his sheer force of presence had already overwhelmed them.

Bursting into the fortress teeming with enemies, Ricard raised his sword high and shouted:

“Surrender and live! Resist and die!”

Then, just as the Green Dragon brothers had trampled through the friendly camp at will, he rode into the enemies standing stupefied before him, smashing into them and trampling them underfoot.

THUD! THWACK! CRUNCH!

The defenders scattered in panic and confusion, and fresh blood sprayed with every swing of Ricard’s sword.

After sweeping through the surrounding men, Ricard charged someone who looked like the castellan and took off his head in an instant. Then he leaned down and severed the thick iron chain that raised the drawbridge with a single stroke.

CLANG!

The chain rattled loose, and the drawbridge crashed down.

Reeling from one shock after another, the defenders forgot all about victory and defeat and fled en masse, though the only places to run were the barracks or their own homes inside the fortress.

Ricard impaled the castellan’s head on his lance and rode out of the fortress. The severed chain could not be repaired on the spot, and with its entrance wide open, the fortress had as good as fallen.

Returning to the friendly lines, Ricard rode slowly from left to right before the camp, just as he had at breakfast, carrying the lance with the castellan’s head impaled upon it. He wanted everyone to see clearly.

There was no need for a lengthy explanation. Without a word, he simply showed them what he had done, and what he had achieved.

Even the sun that shone upon the whole world seemed, for this moment, to hang in the sky for Ricard alone. Thousands of soldiers were overwhelmed by a single man—an individual greater than the whole.

And so Leonia Fortress, which had withstood capture for ten years, fell on the second day after Ricard’s arrival.

An immortal name was thus left forever in history, in the land of Sinatria, and in the hearts of its people.

El Cid Ricard, son of Abelich, of House Kaldebern, from Stormhertz in the Empire.