Melee (1)
If someone told him the world would end tomorrow, he could almost believe it.
"Seeing this kind of mess, anyone would think that."
Dragons shrieking across the heavens, wolf-riders rampaging across the earth below.
It was hell made manifest.
Kugugugugu—
"...Goddamn it."
The sky had turned red. He first wondered if it was the sunset — until the light flickered like lightning-laced storm clouds, and he swallowed dryly.
It was no sunset at all. Simply the fire of a dragon dyeing the clouds crimson.
Through the molten clouds, the body of the beast wheeling through the sky came into view.
No animal he knew of could serve as a comparison for its size. The only thing that came to mind was an ancient, towering tree.
The dragon was larger and thicker than the biggest tree he had ever seen in his life.
And that thing was flying through the sky, breathing fire.
Is the Khan fighting that monster?
He had heard all the rumors — the greatest archer of the steppe, the greatest spirit-mage, a genius of geniuses — but what struck home was not her skill or talent. It was her courage.
Is she not afraid? Fighting a dragon alone?
He could not fathom her state of mind. In truth, imagining it was impossible.
If Ergior Ashtien were to fall in defeat, every person gathered here would vanish into the forgotten margins of history.
And yet, looked at another way, whatever the outcome, their names would be written into history itself.
For this was the first war ever fought upon the Centaur Sacred Grounds, and it would become the first battle where dragons, orcs, centaurs, elves — and humans — all stood together.
What good is having your name written in history? It only matters if you live to see it.
A warrior intoxicated by battle might have felt his chest swell with pride at the thought.
But I'm no warrior. Just an ordinary human.
What should he call himself — a squire to the centaur warriors? It wasn't entirely inaccurate; he helped them into their armor and tended to their manes.
Generally speaking, centaurs never entrusted combat to humans. Maid or manservant was probably the proper description.
Or maybe a live-in husband trailing after the lady of the house.
He had followed his lord and her lady out here, only to find himself caught in this calamity. What could an ordinary human man possibly contribute to a battle of this magnitude?
"Well... there is one human doing something out there."
He turned his gaze toward the very center of the battlefield — the eye of the storm.
What was unfolding there was, as a fellow human, beyond belief.
A boy was fighting a monstrous wolf larger than any centaur. Alone.
His face was still remarkably young — calling him a young man didn't quite fit.
What the Khan's great warrior had needed dozens, hundreds of centaurs to accomplish, he was achieving single-handedly. Even watching it with his own eyes, he could not bring himself to believe it.
The boy's fight seemed to scream with desperate fury.
Everyone was fighting for their lives.
To win?
No. To make it home.
"Are you ready?"
Asked a woman with a stern, forbidding face. She was the heiress of Sardema, one of the great houses of the eastern steppe.
Among the centaurs, she was renowned as a heroine of exceptional ability.
"It is time to charge."
"Yes. Go."
It was Attila. He answered with an expression of perfect calm, and the heiress of Sardema checked with him one last time.
"Anything more you'd like relayed to the troops?"
"Tell them only to take up their arms and follow behind me. I would be grateful for that."
"...Your confidence is remarkable."
Attila's standing was that of a mere warlord. To the heiress of an illustrious house, his position was hardly an imposing one.
And yet the reason she showed him such respect was this:
Attila stood at the very head of the charge.
The most dangerous post, the one bearing the heaviest responsibility.
The one who stands in that seat of death deserves respect regardless of bloodline.
It was not a place one could claim by wanting it, nor by vowing to throw away one's life. Only the strong — only a strong one recognized by all — could stand there.
By rights, she herself should have held that position.
Going by status alone, that would be correct.
But everyone gathered here had witnessed Attila's fighting. He had bound a dragon's jaws shut with chains, and turned aside the blade of a giant wolf-beast — feats of valor that still rang in their memories.
Having seen all that, who among us would dare step forward?
No man, however reckless, could claim the vanguard before Attila.
Attila had taken the vanguard as though it were simply his due, and no one could stop him or deny it. Attila, for his part, accepted that truth as a matter of course.
"Follow me."
With those words, Attila struck the ground. Behind him came the heiress of Sardema. And behind her, the other centaurs.
Kung—
The man's footfall thundered like rolling lightning. He advanced, leaving hoofprints as massive as the army trailing after him.
Kung—
They swept past the separate detachment, scheduled to depart after the shock troops.
Near its edge stood the heiress's human lover. He watched her with distant, aching eyes.
"Are you worried about her?"
I don't know whether my voice will even reach her.
"...Don't worry."
Had that been too much to ask of him?
The tide of battle is not in our favor. We may well die in this fight.
She could hardly call it unfair. The enemy, too, had steeled themselves for death.
And yet, somehow.
I cannot picture the army led by this man losing.
"The shock troops are moving."
"Good."
The blond centaur — Tei — gave a nod.
"Then we move as well."
"Yes, General."
General. It was not a title that suited a house heir.
Tei was not the head of the Altangerel clan, and thus held no formal authority to command the family's forces.
Could a man without an army be called a general? Impossible.
His adjutant called Tei a general because he was a loyal vassal who had followed him all the way up from the South.
In the South, Tei had stood as good as a grand general. He had faced the Khan of the South blade at his side, in solo audience.
The general of the South now led his own host.
"We split here."
"Yes, sir!"
The army split to either flank and picked up speed. They surged into a full gallop, outpacing the shock troops, which were only just beginning to build momentum.
A separate detachment overtaking the main force was not a common arrangement.
They had split forces barely sufficient to concentrate at a single point — and then hurled themselves at the enemy in that state.
Had anyone but Tei proposed the operation, it would have met fierce resistance.
"We're entering the orcs' range."
He weighed the distance carefully as he took in his adjutant's words.
"All of you—!"
The blond young lord's voice boomed across the field.
"Nock your draws!"
The troops obeyed the command without hesitation.
Shee—
Orc arrows began to fly — volley fire meant to break the spirit of the vanguard.
"Run."
Now was still the time to run.
"General. Close now."
Tei raised his left hand.
"Loose—!"
The army, which had run in nearly a straight line to minimize losses from the arrow fire, began to fan out sideways, starting from the lead ranks.
What in the—
A display of discipline so flawless it defied belief in such a hastily assembled operation.
Too natural to be called mere cavalry maneuvering — almost uncannily so.
It stemmed from the centaurs' intelligence and their singular physical gifts. They were cleverer than any famed warhorse, and at the same time masters of mounted arts.
They were, quite simply, the perfect cavalry.
Tei raised his voice.
"Loose—your—arrows!"
The warriors with bows fired in lines and sheets rather than scattered points, blanketing the enemy's formation.
The orcs who had been pouring down arrows collapsed, foaming blood from their mouths.
"Clear the way for the shock troops!"
The obstructors barring the shock troops' path vanished.
Kung—!
Now it was the vanguard's turn to take the field.
Attila raised his crescent blade in one hand.
He said nothing.
And so the heiress behind him shouted in his stead.
"Impact!"
Attila swung the crescent blade in a great arc and crashed into the enemy's front line.
...!
Severed heads soared into the air. The blade showed no favor between orc and horse. A horse's neck, as heavy as a man's torso, floated up in gruesome ribbons, scattering blood.
And in the very same moment.
Kung—
Hiiiin—
The horses that slammed into Attila's body collapsed where they stood. A thrown orc was crushed beneath his hoof, its skull bursting.
Attila did not stop. No one could stop him.
Fear descended upon the field.
"Akantar!"
At this rate, the encirclement they had barely managed to form would be smashed apart. It was only a matter of time. The Silver Wolf, his face twisted grotesquely, roared over a throat raw with blood.
The orcs who answered his declaration began to behave strangely.
Awoooooo—
They threw back their heads and loosed howls like wolves.
"What trick are they playing at."
Attila snapped an orc's neck with his bare hands.
Awoooooo—
Kwajik—
He smashed throats, snapped necks, burst skulls — and still the sound did not fade. It only grew louder.
Then a single thought struck him.
This isn't echoing from within.
At some point, the sound had been coming from outside—
The instant he grasped the difference, Attila batted an orc aside and spoke.
"No wonder. I was wondering where that one hound had gone."
He strained his ears.
Dudududu...
Not the thunder of galloping horses. Something lighter than that.
"Watch your feet!"
His shout cut clean through even the wolf howls.
"The wolf-folk's reinforcements have arrived!"
Hearing that voice, Tei knew at once.
This would become a melee.