Wolf King (3)
"Ambitious, I'll grant you. But hmm."
A centaur pushed out from the ranks, ignoring the formation entirely. A centaur with a black mane — Attila.
"And that's only if you manage to break through this encirclement."
A strange light flickered in Narinhoon's eyes. The beast in him had registered the extraordinary power that was Attila.
If there was to be a next opponent for him, that black-maned centaur might well be it.
[Do you think I cannot do it?]
"Perhaps. If I weren't here."
How cheerful, Narinhoon thought.
It wasn't baseless boasting. Even through Narinhoon's eyes, Attila's presence was anything but ordinary.
He had been born strong. He was a man who had never once tasted defeat, and he brimmed with a boldness all his own.
Such a track record was far too brilliant to dismiss as mere confidence or pride. To Narinhoon, it came closer to conviction — an unshakeable certainty in himself.
[So what difference does your presence make?]
Narinhoon flexed his bent beast's ankle. A foot that rose lightly, footsteps astonishingly quiet for a body his size. Anyone versed in war would have felt terror at the sight.
[Do you fancy yourself king of the centaurs?]
It was a question with only one possible answer.
No king of the centaurs had ever appeared. A chieftain ruling a great tribe that had united the clans, perhaps — but no one had ever succeeded in founding a true nation.
"A king," Attila said.
He owned no land, not enough to crown himself with such a title.
As a rule, centaurs owned no land at all. One could argue they were a race constitutionally incapable of building a nation.
They were wanderers eternal. Though they never tended livestock, they had roamed the steppe even before the elves did.
"I am far too free to wear a crown."
Born with legs that could race from one end of the steppe to the other — why would he ever covet a patch of earth?
Having delivered his answer, Attila stretched out a hand. A subordinate nearby passed over the weapon he had been entrusted with.
It was no ordinary weapon. Perhaps the word instrument of war suited it better than weapon.
A blade, massive and heavy, mounted on a shaft as long as a spear. A yuedao — a crescent war blade. The largest and heaviest of all bladed weapons.
Attila's was worse still. Pressed into a human's hands, it would serve only as ceremonial decoration. Even accounting for a centaur's strength, it was beyond regulation.
But then, its owner was Attila.
Vwoom.
Attila wielded the crescent blade as easily as a single-headed mace. Even the sound of the air splitting had weight to it. He leveled the blade at Narinhoon.
There was no fear. To be precise, there was no reason to be afraid.
The warrior who had handed over the weapon spoke up.
"Chieftain. This is madness."
He wanted to talk Attila out of the reckless challenge.
"Hunting the dragon was madness enough, but this goes even further, doesn't it?"
There were, after all, things beyond what a person could bear.
Attila answered in a level voice.
"Compared to my enemy, it is nothing but a small, frail beast."
His enemy — the Empire.
"Chieftain."
"Step aside."
It would be the same even if a colossal dragon stood before him. How many soldiers did the Empire field? And how many more farmers labored to feed those soldiers?
Such a thing would be heavier and more powerful than any dragon could dream of being.
And so he did not fear.
THUD—!
Attila moved. The earth quaked. Narinhoon, who had read every line of the charge, moved as well — his bent joints unleashing their peculiar elasticity.
Pitapat—
Weightless. Narinhoon's movement shattered every warrior's expectations. The colossal monster moved with the agility of a snow leopard.
And with the technique of a trained warrior, no less.
Attila's eyes flew wide and he roared. To Vesta, it was a roar like a lion's.
Narinhoon's claw met Attila's crescent blade.
KRA-KOOM!
A crash like boulders striking boulders rolled across the battlefield.
"What in the world is this..."
It was a battle beyond the realm of men. The legion that had encircled the two felt the truth of it down to their bones.
Only Vesta felt no awe. He had spent his whole life fighting from the weaker side, and so he could watch the duel with a clear, dispassionate eye.
In Vesta's judgment, Attila was attempting something reckless. Blessed with astonishing strength, yes — but to face a being beyond humanity head-on?
The whole fight could be decided in a single exchange.
—He fights as though throwing his life away.
"Is that an opponent worth dying for?"
[A trade is a trade, I see.]
Scrape, scrape—
Attila's reckless gambit succeeded. He held against Narinhoon's blow.
"Now! While he's pinned!"
The centaurs regarded Narinhoon not as a warrior but as a beast. They granted no honorable duel to beasts, and so they hurled themselves at him to bring him down.
"Not yet."
Attila's words came through clenched teeth, blood vessels bulging across his face and body.
The warriors who had lunged too soon paid the price.
Snick.
[Where do these rabble think they're going?]
Three heads left three bodies at once on the descending blade. And then, again—
KRA-KOOM!
Attila caught that strike as well. His face contorted viciously as he withstood the strength of a beast the size of a house.
Gravel and sand swirled into the air.
Narinhoon and the cavalry tangled together in a chaotic flurry of steel.
◇◇◇
Tei was overseeing the archers, guarding against friendly fire.
Gazing down at the battlefield from above, he felt a strong unease.
—What reason is there to be anxious?
Hundreds of centaurs had gathered. And that wasn't all — every single one of them was an elite, a veteran of veterans.
And yet with such a force in motion, why could he picture nothing but mutual destruction?
—The boy was right.
The night worried him. He feared the night — a night in which that wolf could roam freely.
—By any means. Whatever the sacrifice. We must hold.
Tei resolved to do it, even if it cost him his own life. But before that—
He went to the Khan's consort.
"Lord Baatar."
"Tei."
Those shining eyes. He could tell at a glance they were eyes hunting for an opening. People with eyes like that rarely gave up.
—Do my own eyes burn like that too?
He couldn't know. But looking into Vesta's, he found a small flicker of hope.
"We will hold this sector. We'll assign men to escort you — please withdraw at once. You could take a stray arrow."
The young man had done more than enough. He had performed miracles, and he had overreached. He wasn't even a man of the steppe.
—A boy who hasn't yet come of age, no less.
It was enough now. If a life had to be given, Tei would be the one to give it.
"Escort Lord Baatar to safety."
At Tei's command, a centaur archer stepped forward. He bowed his head to Vesta in genuine respect — for he had seen him split the sky, chasing down the dragon.
"We will see you safely to the elven encampment, my lord."
"No."
"Lord Baatar."
"Tei. Who on this battlefield holds the highest operational authority?"
The clan lords leading their small septs. Attila, who had brought his own warband. And above all of them — Tei himself.
No. Or perhaps—
"...That would be you, Lord Baatar."
He was the Queen's champion, and at the same time her supreme war-commander.
Baatar gave a small nod.
"Then we go. To fight."
This was the battlefield Ashtien had entrusted to him. Among the things she had wished to protect were the lives of those very soldiers.
[If blood must be spilled, then let it be mine.]
You entrusted this to me — so I will do the same.
◇◇◇
"Make ready."
A solemn hush settled over them. The men in the front ranks swept their eyes over one another and steadied their breathing.
Whicker—
They let their excited horses lick salt. No cruelty, no stinginess — they gave them all the time they needed. The salt they lapped up now might be the last salt of their lives.
"Eat well, and run one stride farther than you think you can."
He patted his horse's neck. Whether or not the beast understood its fate, it accepted everything calmly.
"Move out."
So said the man at the head of the column. An orc — and an old one at that, his hide streaked with white. Orcs who survived to such an age were rare indeed.
"We go to save our king."
What did "king" truly mean? To orcs, it was an utterly foreign concept.
—Does king simply mean leader?
Orcs were a race bound rigidly to hierarchy. A leader acknowledged by the horde did not arise easily; only warriors strong enough to command respect could claim the place.
—Even so. Is he a being worth dying to save?
Hardly. Orcs were not a race overflowing with such devotion. They followed the superior, sometimes submitted to him — but they could never serve him with their whole hearts. That was their nature.
—Then what about now?
They were advancing on the battlefield, riding their horses with their lives on the line.
Not to save a leader. To save a king.
Pushing past the limits of what an orc could be, the old warrior turned the question over in his mind — questions chasing questions, tail biting tail.
There wasn't time enough to find a perfect answer. So he hurriedly brought his thinking to a close.
A leader and a king are different things.
The difference was one thing only. If a man could draw from the wolf not submission but loyalty, then that man could be called a king.
And there, at the very heart of that battlefield—
their king stood.