Chapter 145

* * *

The sun and the highlands, the wind and the sea, and oranges.

Whatever influence these things had on the people who lived here, the people of Sinatria tended to be emotional and passionate. To Ricard, who came from the northern and central regions of the Empire, where quiet restraint, diligence, courage, and honor were prized, they seemed rather strange and unfamiliar.

Yet perhaps he, too, was being influenced without realizing it. By the sun and the highlands, the wind and the sea, and oranges.

West of the plains of Valensha, the land gradually rose into highlands. The mountains were not particularly tall, but their ranges branched off in several directions.

There were five routes an invading army could take, making the territory difficult to defend—unless they barricaded themselves inside the city and held out under siege. But that would mean losing all the crops that were only now beginning to ripen.

The answer, then, was clear. They had no choice but to march onto the plain and fight.

But however clear the answer might be, some things in this world were simply beyond one's control. Individual lives were no different. And it was all the harder to do something reckless in a battle where life and death were at stake.

Even so, Ricard persuaded, browbeat, and coaxed his troops—went through every kind of fucking rigmarole imaginable—and finally managed to get them onto the plain.

The hardest part of commanding a battle was not devising clever strategies or tactics. It was persuading people and leading them. Fortunately, however reluctant they might be, the knights and soldiers did at least grudgingly obey.

The sky was overcast, threatening rain. The usually blazing sun was nowhere to be seen. An unusually strong wind sent banners of every color snapping vigorously, but Ricard wore a sour expression as he tilted his head to look up at the sky.

Before a battle, worry and anxiety inevitably set one's nerves on edge. Ricard was no different. All that set him apart was that he saw another side of humanity, of the world.

Worry and anxiety, at least, were things one could overcome through one's own efforts. Frayed nerves, however, sometimes made a man believe in superstitions he had never believed in before.

A sudden gust of wind, for instance, or a strangely shaped cloud. Was it a good omen or a bad one? If it rained, who would benefit and who would suffer?

But there was little point in weighing such things now. Two days had already passed since they had taken up their positions to await battle.

Naturally, the soldiers looked grim as well. Frowning, they gazed up at the high sky like Ricard or stared toward the horizon at the far edge of the land.

Mounted scouts seemed to dart around the army like dragonflies, constantly bringing news and delivering reports. As time passed, they rode back and forth ever faster and more frequently.

The busier they became, the more clearly the soldiers understood. Battle was imminent.

Then came a faint drumming. It steadily grew louder, until at last they could feel a slight trembling beneath their feet.

Some of the horses grew skittish. Knights and soldiers struggled to calm them.

Finally, the enemy began to appear, one by one, along the distant ridge. At first there seemed to be only a handful, but they kept pouring down onto the plain. Before long, they covered it entirely.

The Salaman banners whipped in the wind. Unlike those on this side, theirs were mostly solid colors such as yellow or black, and many of their coats of arms bore curling script rather than geometric designs or stylized animals and plants.

But this was simply too much. The scouts had been delivering the same reports for two days, so everyone knew what to expect. Seeing it with their own eyes, however, was something else entirely.

Twenty thousand men. That was not merely a number. It was a force. A force that could destroy anything in the world.

Even Ricard's heart trembled. He hardly needed to look at the soldiers to know how they felt. Their hands shook on their shields and weapons.

To quell that fear and raise their spirits, he deliberately galloped his red horse along the front of the army. Look at me, and take courage.

Still, the soldiers' trembling hands would not easily settle. Riding back and forth before them, Ricard shouted.

"Men of Sinatria! Hear me!"

Ricard made a point of addressing the soldiers with respect.

"Why have you put on heavy, cumbersome armor and taken up weapons? Is it because your king ordered you to? Is it for money? As you know, I am a stranger from a distant land. To this stranger's eyes, the men of Sinatria were all fearless and brave. Was I mistaken?"

He was appealing to their pride. Whether it made sense or not, he was ready to sell out anything and spout whatever it took to raise morale.

Clenching his fist, he thrust it high into the air.

"Just three men! If each of you kills three, we can kill them all! Surely three heathens are nothing to a man of Sinatria! Am I wrong? Answer me!"

Here and there, soldiers raised spears and other weapons overhead, shouting, "No! We can do it!" But they were far from united in spirit.

"I am not asking anything difficult of you! Do not retreat! Do not turn and flee! And in the end, win!"

The trouble, of course, was that none of those things were easy. Still, he seemed to have achieved at least some of what he intended: turning hearts that pounded with fear to excitement, and stirring the will to fight.

In truth, what mattered most in battle was the deployment of troops—their formation. Ricard had surveyed and analyzed the surrounding terrain beforehand and finished deploying his men two days earlier. The enemy, by contrast, had only just arrived.

Were they being careless, or was this simply the difficulty of handling a large army? In the distance, they were merely spreading their troops out into a broad, disorderly line.

There was reason enough for that. With more than three times as many men, excessive caution might prove poisonous. All they needed to do was push forward. It would not do to get tangled up among themselves by worrying over every little thing.

Yet even simply spreading troops into a line required proper spacing. It was not something that could be finished quickly.

Meanwhile, Ricard raised his lance and rode his red horse toward the enemy alone.

Hooves drummed as he crossed the plain, naturally drawing the attention of friend and foe alike. Tens of thousands of eyes settled on the rider on the red horse and followed his progress.

His reason for approaching the enemy was simple: he wanted to identify his target precisely with his own eyes.

It was perilous. Enemy knights might ride out to attack him, or even take him prisoner.

Yet he seemed entirely unconcerned. He rode close to their lines and passed proudly before them, as though reviewing an army parading in his honor.

There were too many troops for him to inspect the whole line from left to right. The enemy watched him with expressions that all but asked who the hell he was and what he thought he was doing, coming so close.

Unlike Ricard, Sultan Yusuf was nowhere to be seen, perhaps deep within his army. Ricard could only guess that he was where the ornate banners and well-armed troops were concentrated.

Pointing his lance that way, he shouted,

"Are you such a spineless coward that you dare not show your face?"

A Salaman knight shouted back angrily.

"The sultan has no time for the likes of you! Get out of here!"

"Tell him to keep hiding! But when I return, do not expect courtesy!"

Ricard had shown no courtesy to begin with, but that did not stop him from brazenly roaring the words. Then he turned his horse and rode back to his own lines.

For better or worse, no detachment came out to pursue him.

Back among his own army, Ricard shouted to the soldiers.

"Sultan Yusuf is a coward beyond doubt! You need not even look at his men to know what they are! We will win today! I am certain of it! God has already decreed it!"

The soldiers began chanting like a marching cadence, "Yusuf is a coward! God has decreed it!"

Showmanship, perhaps? Whatever one called it, Ricard's reckless behavior was remarkably effective at raising their spirits despite their numerical disadvantage.

In time, the enemy finished deploying and began a slow advance. The distinctive rumble of their footsteps seemed to make the very earth quake.

Ricard had drawn up his army with a large rock formation on its left, using the terrain to compensate for his inferior numbers. The enemy, however, detached a force to circle the rocky hill. Once around it, they would be able to strike directly at his rear.

Even after detaching those troops, their main force advancing from the front still outnumbered his entire army by more than two to one.

Then something that defied common sense happened. A long horn blast sounded from Ricard's lines, and his roughly six thousand men began to advance.

BWOOOOOOOO!

RUMMMMMBLE...!

The sultan's command staff was briefly taken aback. They had never imagined he would abandon his favorable position and advance. But could it really change anything? It looked like suicide. Was he an idiot?

Yet this was Ricard's decisive gamble. And his soldiers were trusting him enough to follow it through.

There was nothing complicated about his plan: break through at a single point. Numbers be damned. He would concentrate all his strength on the place where the sultan stood.

Normally, heavy cavalry had to be held back until the very last moment. But Ricard took his place before the Order of Flame, waiting in the rear. Beneath their helmets, the knights' eyes gleamed like those of starving beasts.

Just then, rain began to patter down from the sky that had hung gray since morning.

"A good omen, or a bad one?" Ricard asked Raimund.

"It makes no difference."

"No. It makes no difference."

Holding his pennon aloft, Ricard stood before the knights and shouted.

"I know how you have suffered all this time. Even so, we are fighting men in the end. We are knights. It does not matter how many enemies there are! To win! To claim victory! That alone is the reason we exist! Let it rain! For we ourselves shall become the storm!"

Mounted on his great warhorse, he galloped along the extended line of knights, raising the pennon that bore the symbol of flame.

"Show the enemy! Show them our valor! Our fury! Our justice! Knights of Flame! Rise! Raise the storm!"

Two hundred fighting machines, every one of them broad and powerfully built, braced their bellies and roared.

"Raise the storm!"

"Order of Flame! Chaaaaaarge!"

Giving the order, Ricard himself surged forward at their head. Raimund and the knights of Flame thundered after him, charging from the right of their army.

To the enemy, it seemed he had committed his last resort far too soon. But if they could deal with the knights, there would be no uncertainty left. They immediately committed their own heavy cavalry.

Then something strange happened. No, not strange, exactly. Rather, things began to go awry.

The standard heavy cavalry charge was made in a line, striking across the widest possible front to shatter the enemy formation. But with Ricard at the very front as their point, the knights were riding as though in a race.

Their formation naturally became a wedge, allowing them to change direction more freely than the sultan's knights.

They began to turn, gently at first, then more and more sharply. They were heading not for the enemy's left, but for its center.

The enemy heavy cavalry tried to engage them, but their formation made turning difficult, and they became entangled among themselves.

Ricard shook them off with ease. In an instant, the enemy's strongest unit had been rendered useless.

His own main force continued its advance while he hurtled into the space between the two armies, toward the junction of the enemy's left wing and center.

The knights' mighty war cries shook the battlefield. Their charge struck the enemy center like a raging blaze.

"Raaaaaaaah!"

BADUM-BADUM-BADUM-BADUM!

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

Two hundred huge, ponderous warhorses trampled men without mercy. Thrusting with lances hardly mattered, though Ricard alone had already impaled two enemies on his.

His savage red horse charged on, smashing through the enemy as though it truly were a dragon about to breathe fire.

Crashing into men with the tremendous force of a charging bull, it drove deep into the enemy center like a sharp spear thrust into a man's flank.

After riding for some distance through the enemy ranks, splitting them apart, Ricard felt his charge losing momentum and pulled on the reins.

The red horse reared high, as though about to soar into the heavens. Ricard thrust his sword upward as if to pierce the sky and shouted at the top of his lungs.

Beneath the gray heavens, golden flames blazed along the holy sword, streaming like a banner.

"Raise the storm!"

The enemy's agonized screams and the countless noises of battle made a deafening din. Yet his soldiers, advancing slowly, heard that cry with perfect clarity.

They charged as one, drowning out every other sound.

"Raise the stoooooorm!"

Who was it who said that fighting was all about momentum? There was momentum, and then there was this. The impact was like an enormous explosion.

Viewed dispassionately, it was not impossible to counter. But Ricard's plan was precisely this: one blow so powerful that the enemy could never recover.

And everything in this world was done by people. It was no easy thing to resist an inexplicable mood or emotions such as fear.

The flanking force making its wide detour and the troops on either wing were bewildered, rattled because they could not understand what was happening. Those in the center, meanwhile, had all but collapsed into panic.

"Raaaaaaaah!"

A tremendous roar rose from the center. The wings seemed to need to turn from their orderly advance, but that was easier said than done. The commanders of the subordinate units were floundering as well.

The center had become utter chaos, a scene of devastation. Ricard and the knights of Flame pressed their charge all the way toward the sultan, with their soldiers supporting them from behind.

Pattering rain. Bodies twisted at grotesque angles or crushed beyond recognition. Blood. The exhilaration of battle had risen to Ricard's very crown, leaving his eyes wide and fierce.

In that state, he hurtled toward an ornate canopy. Dozens of men were carrying something like a great palanquin, while bodyguards hastily mounted their horses and rode to meet him.

Against the combined speed and strength of the red horse and the burning sword, there was nothing they could do but become chunks of meat.

SWISH! THUD! WHOOSH!

Ricard swiftly cut down only one or two, then raced past the rest.

The servants or slaves supporting the palanquin scattered in fright, and it toppled sideways with a crash.

Ricard instinctively charged toward the figure who had fallen from it. The man had struck the ground headfirst and was only just scrambling to his feet.

Sweeping past like the wind, Ricard swung his burning sword. The sultan raised his head and looked straight at him. Their eyes met. What? He was a child.

He looked about fourteen or fifteen. Of course, Ricard had been traveling the world and fighting for his life at that age, but the boy before him had plainly grown up without ever knowing hardship.

He knew nothing of war. He merely looked up at Ricard with innocent, startled eyes.

Apparently, some other political faction had actually instigated the war. But Ricard could no longer recall the sword he had swung.

In the fleeting instant before the blade touched the boy's neck, Ricard spoke within his heart. There was no time to say it aloud. He could only hope his eyes would convey it.

'Forgive me.'

SWISH! THUD!

The sultan's head flew off with an ease, a simplicity, that made it all seem terribly futile. The bodyguards who had been rushing to protect him even as the following knights of Flame cut them down froze where they stood.

Ricard circled back and impaled the young sultan's head on his lance where it lay on the ground. He raised it high for all to see and led his troops onward.

Wherever he went, the enemy saw the sultan's head and fled in shock. His soldiers swept them away at will, as though gleaning ears of grain.

By the time the battle ended, the rain was pouring in earnest. Yet it could not easily cool the heat of those battle-fired men.

Their own casualties were almost nonexistent. The battlefield was a scene of utter carnage.

As though they truly had raised a storm.

Chapter 29 — Firestorm. End.