Chapter 147

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The world looked unusually clear and clean after the rain. The moisture-laden grass was fresher than usual, and a breath of cool air seemed to open the chest wide.

The clouds drifting above the sea were torn into long strips, letting sunlight fall through the gaps. The waves that had raged were now calm, as though catching their breath.

From his horse, Ricard gazed calmly at the spectacle nature had created.

The clouds moved rather swiftly. As they passed, the shafts of sunlight falling straight down narrowed and broadened, vanished behind clouds, then plunged into the sea again. They were like a billowing curtain of light.

In contrast to the majestic, tranquil scenery, his surroundings were somewhat noisy. The troops were preparing to move.

For a while, the noise failed to reach him. Then it suddenly caught his attention. Ricard turned his head and gave the order.

"Let's go."

Raimund, who had been watching only Ricard from beside him, raised a hand and circled it in a signal.

At the sight, someone bellowed,

"First contingent! Move ooout!"

The first contingent, already standing by, set off with spears and other weapons resting against their shoulders. They headed straight north along the coast, with knights guarding their flanks.

An army could not simply march any way it pleased. Its strongest and weakest units, veteran soldiers and recruits, and different troop types had to be carefully assigned to the front, center, rear, and flanks.

These small pieces of expertise combined to become fighting strength. Swinging a weapon at the enemy might not be so important after all.

If you could strike an exhausted enemy while still fresh, if you could attack when they least expected it—creating those conditions was the very essence of winning a battle.

The troops King Santonio had lent him, as well as the knights and auxiliaries of the Order of Flame, all possessed considerable experience and knowledge of battle.

And their greatest asset was the experience of defeating an enemy three times their number. Confidence in victory, and faith. Neither money nor training could provide those.

Ricard was confident he could win a fight. Yet until the very last moment, he kept asking himself whether they truly had to fight.

"Accept the pain, and think of what lies beyond it."

Hashim spoke from the horse beside him. Ricard nodded.

After watching the units set off one by one, he galloped across the field beside the shore with only a few knights accompanying him.

Short grass covered the rain-soaked field, keeping it from becoming muddy.

The dull pounding of hooves sounded like drums of war, echoing toward Bilter's army as it marched south from the north.

They had left in the morning. By late afternoon, the scouts who had pressed ahead, diligently changing horses, brought back news.

The cool breeze following the rain still blew, and the clouds covering half the sky hurried along, bound for somewhere unknown.

"They're half a day's journey to the northwest. Roughly four thousand, with a great many knights. We haven't determined whether there are any ambushes yet."

Ricard had long known the approximate strength of Bilter's army: eight hundred knights and some three thousand auxiliaries.

With the king's support, Ricard had more men. Six thousand against four thousand. Numbers alone could hardly guarantee victory. Morale, terrain, weather, and timing all had to be considered. And Bilter had more knights.

"Halt the march."

Ricard gave the order. It passed down the line, and the leading unit came to a stop.

It was already late afternoon. Unless they intended to fight at night, now was the time to make camp. The experienced scouts knew that and had already surveyed the surrounding area.

The quality of an army showed first in its scouts: their eye for terrain, their ability to respond when they encountered enemy scouts, and more.

Sure enough, an opening skirmish broke out between the scouts in the fields.

Ricard could not see it from where he stood, but there was no doubt a fight had broken out somewhere in the distance.

Riderless horses bolted off, and scouts came scrambling back with wounded men.

"Potion! A potiooon!"

A scout came running, shouting, with a man on his back whose mangled arm dangled limply.

Potions were almost never issued; soldiers generally had to supply their own. But Valensha was wealthy, and on Ricard's special orders, the scouts had received them free of charge.

"About an hour west, there's a hill among some rocky mountains. The ground around the hill is bare of grass and muddy."

"The enemy appears to be forming a separate detachment of knights. They may be planning a night attack or an ambush."

"A river formed by the seasonal rains runs west of the enemy's position, and there are rocky mountains to the east."

Even as scouts were being wounded elsewhere, others continued bringing in reports.

One of the difficulties of command was compiling reports like these and making the best possible decision. Reports sometimes differed from reality, and all of that had to be taken into account.

A place reported as half a day away might be farther. The terrain might prove different from the description once they arrived. The enemy's movements might be a feint.

Ricard drew on all his experience and knowledge, reached a decision, and gave his orders.

"We'll make camp here. With the shore right beside us, we need only watch the north and west. Divide the troops into two groups: the Order of Flame and King Sancho's army. Put the king's army in front and the order in the rear, screened from view. And tell the scouts not to push themselves too far."

The orders were specific, simple, and sensible. Giving strange orders merely to try something special could put the soldiers through needless hardship.

Above all, ground he had seen with his own eyes was preferable. There was little time to move elsewhere and establish a camp, and doing so would inevitably slow their response to the enemy's movements.

Once the orders came, the soldiers who had carried heavy stakes throughout the march began driving them into the ground.

Crude as the barrier was, it could stop a sudden charge by knights. Having one made an enormous difference.

The field commanders handled the details. They left a retreat route to the south, faced the shore to the east, and arranged their defenses toward the north and west.

Ricard had pulled the order's troops back because, without them in sight, the enemy would find it harder to provoke them rashly.

And so, with a calm heart, he prepared for battle.

But as the sun sank and the sunset set the clouds ablaze with red at the distant edge of the land, an enemy knight arrived carrying a white flag and delivered a message.

"Our commander wishes to meet you. Bring all the Knights of Flame. We shall do the same."

Having delivered those words, he simply turned his horse and rode away.

"He's not a man to resort to underhanded tricks..."

Raimund muttered to himself. Anyone would have found the demand strange.

Not counting its auxiliaries, the Order of Flame numbered about a thousand knights. Ricard currently had more troops overall, but of those thousand knights, two hundred were with him and eight hundred with Bilter.

A proposal to meet with only their knights was so blatantly unequal that it was baffling. Yet there were special circumstances to this situation.

Ricard did not take long to decide.

"We're going. Tell every knight to get ready."

The knights had only just removed their helmets and equipment to rest after marching all day. Now they put everything back on.

"If anything happens, don't come to our rescue. Hold the camp securely. We'll make our own way back."

After giving those instructions to the man commanding the king's army, Ricard rode out onto the plain with the Knights of Flame.

The clouds were still moving swiftly. Brilliant yet gentle sunset light shone on Ricard and the knights from the side as their horses' hooves pounded the earth.

THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD.

Before long, eight hundred mounted knights came into view. They wore matching surcoats over mail, just as the Knights of Flame on Ricard's side did.

Bilter was there, riding an ash-gray horse. His helmet hung from his saddle, and his blond hair was slightly damp. He appeared to be speaking with the companions near him, then turned to look at Ricard.

Clad in golden armor, a red battle robe, and a cloak, Ricard faced Bilter astride the Red Comet, though he had not given the horse that name himself. Their gazes met halfway.

Cracks began to form in the calm he had worked to compose. His heart pounded. He could not tell what emotion was causing it.

If this peerless hero had a single weakness, it was family. His usual unflappability, his valor on battlefields filled with flashing blades and spears—all crumbled with almost absurd ease before his family.

Billy, do you truly not feel as I do? He wanted to ask.

But Bilter merely approached at a slow pace. Ricard swallowed his emotions with an effort and urged his horse slowly forward as well.

All the knights followed their leaders. A rumbling filled the wet field. The rain-soaked ground raised no dust.

When they were close enough to make out one another's features clearly, Bilter raised a hand and halted the knights behind him. Ricard did the same.

The red sunset glimmered in dew clinging to the tips of leaves. Countless crimson beads shone across the field, a spectacle of natural beauty almost dizzying to behold.

Yet not one of the many men gathered there spared it a glance.

The red sunset was reflected in Bilter's blue eyes as well. Yet the gaze he fixed on his younger brother burned like fire, while the set of his eyes was cold as ice.

By contrast, the Knights of Flame drawn up in long ranks facing one another wore outwardly impassive expressions, but their eyes betrayed troubled, tangled feelings.

Their bitter differences had torn them apart, but that had happened only recently.

How many years, meanwhile, had they spent saving one another's lives in perilous battles, leaning on one another and offering support as they endured the order's harsh life together?

Many had grown up together since their days as squires. They were seniors and juniors—no, they were brothers in the truest sense.

It felt as though they needed only to take a step closer, to reach out, and they could clasp hands. But not the two brothers standing on opposite sides of all these brothers.

Bilter spoke first.

"Dragging outsiders into a family quarrel is dishonorable, Riki."

A family quarrel. Those words held so many meanings: Ricard and Bilter, the Order of Flame, the struggle between King Santonio and his younger brother, the Sinatrian civil war.

Bilter was referring to Ricard's borrowing the king's army.

"I'm tempted to mock you, but I'll hold my tongue. The king's army will fight with me."

"Hmph. You think I'm saying this simply because I'm afraid you have more men? I've beaten armies larger than my own countless times. What I'm saying is that there's no need for brothers to shed so much blood. Let's each choose seven men to decide the outcome. Accept, unless you're a coward."

"You're the only one who calls me a coward, Billy."

"Then you've decided?"

Ricard glanced back at Raimund and the knights, then voiced the words he had long been considering.

"Before that, I can give you a home if you come to Adelorn. Let's end the civil war together. If you want to be king, be king. I'll support you to the end. We can give the knights domains or entrust them with a new mission. Doing this because bastards like the emperor and the king abandoned you is neither just nor honorable."

Ricard was genuinely prepared to give up everything except his family and friends.

He had never wanted to be king in the first place. He was more than willing to help Bilter become one, and he truly could give him somewhere to build a new life.

But Bilter let out a derisive laugh.

"You think I'm doing this because I fear emperors or kings? You think I want power or comfort? Our predecessors upheld something. We have spent our lives upholding it. I have. Defending the Empire's borders without fail. It needn't be the Empire anymore. We will simply lay down our lives on the boundary between life and death, as we always have."

Unable to get through to him at all, Ricard seethed inside. Yet a cold smile settled on his face. Was this mere contrariness? Was it because Bilter was his older brother?

"... What a bizarre excuse."

"Excuse?"

"Yes. Aren't you just venting your anger? To me, you look like a dog running around in confusion after its master abandoned it with nowhere to go. All that talk about founding a country and defending your honor is bullshit! Shall I tell you something else?! You don't actually want this, Billy! You're forcing yourself to do it! You're the coward!"

As he spoke, his emotions surged and his voice rose. Thinking of his brother from afar had made him sad, but seeing him face-to-face filled him with frustration and fury.

What drove him even closer to madness was that a part of him regretted the words the instant they left his mouth. He could have put it more kindly.

But he could not take back what he had already said.

Bilter clenched his teeth and glared at Ricard, trembling. Then he too said what should never have been said.

"Mother died because of you, Riki. She grew weak after giving birth to you. The truth is, I've never once thought of you as my brother. If it weren't for you, Mother would still be alive! Father and our older brother would have at least taken me in! This is all your fault!"

With their emotions running high, they seemed to be having a childish quarrel like any other brothers. But precisely because they were brothers, those childish words became daggers, mercilessly stabbing each other in the chest. It was like having their hearts slashed to pieces by a sharp blade.

Ricard trembled in shock as Bilter hurled those cruel words at him, even invoking their mother. How could you, of all people, say such things? His eyes reddened.

Clenching his teeth, he pointed at his brother with a hand shaking in fury and spat out the words.

"There's no need for seven bouts. You come out first. Let's settle this between the two of us."

The instant he finished speaking, Bilter wrenched his reins sideways and galloped away.

Nearly a thousand Knights of Flame stood in long ranks facing one another. Bilter rode out to the side and headed straight back to his camp. Eight hundred knights thundered after their commander.

By then, the sunset was fading and darkness had begun to fall. Ricard remained where he was, trying to steady breathing that had grown ragged despite his lack of exertion. No matter how many deep breaths he took, it would not return to normal.

The scornful words he had hurled and the cutting words Bilter had thrown back replayed over and over, as though embedded in his mind. The fierce emotions raging in his chest would not subside.

The Knights of Flame who had witnessed the brothers' quarrel were deeply unsettled. They might be called fighting machines, but they were not machines at all.

Just one step. They only needed to take one more step toward each other...