Chapter 143

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Leonia Fortress looked as though it had been carved out of a cliff. A sheer chasm separated it from the high ground, and the only way across was the drawbridge lowered from the fortress.

The people of the ancient Empire had first settled here and raised its walls. After them, the people of Sinatria, particularly those living in the Leonia region, had added to it little by little as part of their daily lives, until it became what it was today.

Over a thousand years had passed in the process. So grand and sturdy was the fortress that it seemed to have been built not by humans, but by giants in some impossibly distant age.

And yet it had fallen. To a single man. Even if the feat were recorded in history, would their descendants believe it?

The people of this age had witnessed that unbelievable event with their own eyes. And so, when they looked at Ricard, they no longer seemed to see a fellow human being.

A god, or someone descended from one. They could think of no other explanation. The man they had dismissed as a braggart was now someone with divine blood flowing through his veins.

Well, it hardly mattered whether any of his ancestors had been divine. Ricard himself was sacred enough.

And to be divine meant to possess something that could make a man a king: the right to rule and govern people, granted by a god. The divine right of kings.

This was an age when that mattered more than a sovereign's ability. No matter how capable a ruler might be, it meant nothing if the people would not follow him.

That sacred right could be inherited only through blood, and thus a king's children inherited his right to govern.

It was why sovereigns could be so obsessed with legitimacy. Of course, even a legitimate king had no shortage of lords who would not listen to a word he said, but without even legitimacy, he was as good as finished.

But did Ricard truly possess something divine?

Raimund stood on the drawbridge of Leonia Fortress and looked down into the chasm.

Beyond a certain depth, everything was black, its bottom lost from sight, as though it led to hell. Wind blew ceaselessly upward from the depths of the earth.

Killing the Green Dragon brothers was one thing, but leaping across this gap while the drawbridge was rising felt like a genuine miracle.

Simply standing there and looking down made his legs tremble, yet Ricard had jumped across it on horseback.

"There is no one in this world to match his courage. That much is certain."

And there was no explaining such courage unless it had been bestowed by a god. Not to anyone with common sense, at least.

Since he had brought down the fortress through an act that defied all reason, it was fair to say that a divine power dwelled within him.

Raimund turned his gaze from the chasm and entered Leonia Fortress. Soldiers had already poured inside, throwing the place into disorder.

They were barging into occupied homes and carrying off anything worth money. Cast-iron pots, serviceable furniture—everything.

"A most merciful policy," one of his fellow knights remarked.

And indeed it was, considering that they were not dragging out the men to kill them, raping the women, or setting fires everywhere.

There were different kinds of pillaging, each with its own character. In the world as it stood, this hardly counted as pillaging at all.

Even those being stripped of their possessions breathed sighs of relief that their lives had been spared and praised the king's generosity.

The city's leading figures, however, had all been killed, their heads displayed near the walls. Naturally, all their wealth had gone into the king's pockets.

Raimund stopped a grinning soldier who was hurrying off somewhere with an armful of looted odds and ends.

"You there. Where is Sir Ricard?"

"Who's that?"

"... El Cid."

"Oh, he should be up that slope over there."

The soldier looked up as he answered.

Much of Leonia Fortress had been carved out of the terrain, leaving the ground uneven. Some areas were high, others low.

Raimund climbed the slope as the soldier had directed. A large tree stood there, and Ricard was resting beneath it with his red horse beside him. No one else dared approach.

Ricard was looking down at the scene within the fortress, peaceful in its own way. To anyone who knew what a full-scale massacre looked like, this was very peaceful indeed.

Watching him, Raimund thought how surprisingly calm he was in ordinary moments, considering the ferocity with which he fought.

"Will the king keep his promise?" Ricard asked.

"King Santonio is known as 'the Bold.' If he truly has the temperament to deserve that name, he will."

"Might he see me as a threat?"

The powerful were all suspicious and fickle. Just as a man felt differently on his way out of the privy than on his way in, supporting a war could become a burden no matter what he had promised beforehand.

"Perhaps it is fortunate that you—that we—are foreigners. Were you one of his knights, he might think differently."

A capable subject had to conduct himself carefully. If his sovereign came to see him as a threat, his abilities could become his undoing.

What Ricard had done, what he had accomplished, was of that magnitude. His feat was great enough to overshadow the king's authority.

But neither Ricard nor the Order of Flame were King Santonio's subjects. The ignorant soldiers had taken them for mercenaries, and in truth, that was essentially what they were.

Raimund hesitated for a moment, as though he had something to say.

"... I must confess, Ricard, that I did not believe in you. Forgive me. Now I am truly certain there is no other man like you in this world."

Ricard merely smiled at his frank admission and made a joke.

"A confession? I'm afraid my tastes don't run that way."

"What do you...? Ah, goodness. Hahaha. How embarrassing."

"By the way, Sir Raimund, where are you from?"

"The north of the Empire. There is a small estate in Siegfringer called Arndel. I joined the order ten years ago."

Ten years ago meant he had joined two years before Bilter. That would put him in his twenties at most, not so far in age from the eighteen-year-old Ricard.

"Don't you miss your family?"

"Well, I don't know. The memories have faded now. At first, every day was painful, and I wanted to go home. But after two years or so, I stopped even thinking about it. It is the same for everyone. You become part of the order without realizing it. Wouldn't it be the same for your brother? Don't grieve too much."

"..."

Ricard fell silent for a moment. Raimund had probably meant to comfort him, but he could not help feeling sad. To Ricard, his family meant more than the whole world.

They were the reason his life had changed so utterly from his previous life, when he had lived like a demon. They had taught him that love and happiness existed in the world.

But he did not let himself sink needlessly into gloom. He could not cast the sorrow aside, but he knew how to bury it quietly.

"What did your family call you? I mean you, Sir Raimund. Surely you haven't forgotten that too."

"..."

This time it was Raimund who fell silent. As those timeworn, faded memories stirred faintly to life, an unexpected melancholy rose in him, aching in his chest.

No one in the order asked questions like this. There was only duty, courage, and brotherhood. That was everything.

"... Ray."

"Then I'll call you Ray from now on. You may call me Riki."

"... It feels strange to hear the name Ray. As though I'm coming apart. I don't know whether I should allow myself this."

"A wavering heart is not a sign of weakness. If you're uneasy, trust me and follow me. I have never broken a promise. Let us go to Adelorn."

Ricard did not command him. Despite his almost miraculous courage and his unrivaled skill, he did not pressure people or keep them under his thumb.

For Raimund, who had lived under the order's strict discipline and restraint, bound by vows of chastity like a monk, being treated this way was unfamiliar and awkward.

"Very well."

Still, he nodded as he answered. Uncomfortable though it felt, he had decided to follow the path Ricard offered, free of the shackles of duty the Empire had imposed so long ago.

Perhaps Ricard could offer him such a path because, in a sense, he had already experienced it himself.

While Ricard and the knights of the Order of Flame remained beneath the great tree, one of King Santonio's knights slowly climbed the slope. He removed his helmet, paid Ricard a courteous bow, and spoke.

"Señor El Cid, the king summons you."

In the language of Sinatria, "señor" was a respectful form of address for a man. But "El Cid" was also a respectful address for a man in the Salaman tongue, so the combination amounted to something like "my lord, my lord," which was not quite right.

Still, Ricard was neither a knight nor a lord with a domain of his own. They seemed to call him that simply for lack of a suitable title.

Ricard rose from the shade of the tree and followed him. The king's knight led him toward the keep.

As they drew closer, Sinatria's knights and soldiers turned to look at him. Their eyes were entirely different now, filled with respect and awe.

Some touched their helmets or gave him a slight bow of the head. All willingly stepped aside.

Inside the keep that had belonged to the enemy, the hall was teeming with the king's vassals and knights. Yet the moment Ricard arrived, it fell utterly silent.

From here and there came murmured greetings of "Señor," "Señor," and "El Cid."

The knight led him through the hall toward the room where the king was staying. They climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, where the knight spoke before the door.

"My king, I have brought Señor El Cid."

"Show him in."

With King Santonio's permission, Ricard entered the room and found him looking out the window.

The wind blowing in was so strong that Ricard thought they ought to close the shutter-like window, but the king simply stood in the gusts, gazing outside.

Ricard followed his gaze and saw a breathtakingly open view stretching westward. He had not realized it when crossing the drawbridge, but the fortress seemed to connect to the other side of the mountain.

"Without this route, my brother will have to make a long detour around the mountain range. I have gone around those mountains to settle matters with him in battle several times, but will he have the nerve to do the same?"

To bypass this fortress and take an army on that long detour meant leaving one's rear exposed. Yet King Santonio had undertaken such campaigns several times, accepting the risk.

Of course, his rear was never entirely secure, and despite several victories in battle, he had ultimately been forced to withdraw. Even so, the very fact that he had attempted those campaigns was ample proof of his boldness.

"I couldn't say. I've never met him."

"Though you are too far apart even to see each other, war is rather like a conversation. Do you have the ability to defeat me? The leadership to spur your soldiers through a forced march? The resolve to kill me? What sort of conversation are you having with your brother?"

"I'm not one for words. I show what I mean through action."

"Is that so? Yes, I believe you would. But surely you are not without sorrow at two men born of the same womb turning their swords on each other?"

"Of course not. But that is all the more reason for me to act."

"Are you prepared to go through with it?"

"... I don't know if I can say that. But if I crush his army completely, he will have no room to move."

"I sincerely hope so. But if we are to do this, I want it done properly. I have no desire to offer halfhearted, inadequate support. If I must make an enemy of the Red Reaper, I want to finish him."

"I will see to it."

"I will give you my troops. Go to Valensha. Its emir has offered to convert and submit to me. We have been discussing it for some time, in fact, but my long war with my brother left me no opportunity to attend to it. Taking Valensha will threaten your brother's lifeline. Abandoned by the Empire, he can receive supplies from outside only through a port city. If you take Valensha, you will be able to force the decisive battle you seek."

King Santonio possessed exceptional strategic insight. Ironically, this chaotic, murderous world produced remarkable men like him and the sultan of Mayub.

Incompetent men who relied on bloodline alone had long since fallen by the wayside or lost their lives.

To put it less kindly, it was a hellish world where demons vied against one another, and the last victor became king. King Santonio was such a man.

"There is one thing. I have killed knights of Valensha before. Won't the emir resent me?"

"No. Quite the opposite. The emir lost the trust of the Salaman people long ago. That is why discipline among his knights is so lax. But if he has one admirable quality, it is that he knows he is weak and incompetent. In difficult times, surrendering early is one way to survive, is it not?"

"Then I will take the troops there."

"Good. And I must say, I am very glad you are not my subject."

"Is it all right to give me troops when I am not your subject?"

"You have already risked your life in battle and brought down the fortress. Is it not my turn to keep my promise? Your being a foreigner has nothing to do with it. A king's word must carry weight."

King Santonio had sound judgment, a deft hand with people, and exceptional strategic insight. On top of all that, he was confident and bold.

That must have been how he managed to rule in this tumultuous land, where peoples and religions mingled in such confusion.

How to put it? Of all the lords, kings, and emperors Ricard had seen, this man seemed the most worthy of being called a sovereign.

"I shall take my leave, Your Majesty."

"Call me Sancho."

"Pardon?"

"The next time we meet, call me Sancho. Not king or Your Majesty or any of that."

Ricard was briefly taken aback, but then he smiled.

"Then next time, please call me Riki."

Still gazing out the window at the vast expanse of land, King Santonio smiled deeply in return.

Ricard left the keep and made preparations with Raimund and the other knights. Three days later, they departed Leonia Fortress.

Apart from its coast, Sinatria was largely highland country. The winds blew especially hard across those heights, and the banners fluttered vigorously in them.

Unlike when he had arrived, hundreds of those banners now streamed in the wind behind Ricard on his red horse.

The knights and soldiers gathered beneath them numbered well over five thousand. They marched with their eyes on the hero's back.