Defeat (2)

The royal army raised their swords high and roared. They had leisure enough to offer prayers to the sunlight pouring from a cloudless sky, and every man among them was steeped in exhilaration.

The barbarians died. They died cut down by swords, died with arrows from the rear punching through their brows, died impaled on spears. Some fled only to trip over roots, wet themselves, and die that way.

In a place where murder was ordinary, murder was a medal of honor. The blood that spilled from the barbarians pooled into a shallow river. The outpost Baron Köln had failed to hold and lost was now coming into view. The barbarians were not emerging from their fortifications.

Everything looked like a sign of victory. Nothing stirred threat or unease. Even the conscripts who had once been mere serfs no longer wore fear on their faces. They simply chanted as one.

“Royce! Royce! Royce!”

They cheered for Royce, the bastard who had persuaded the nobles not to hold the outpost but to advance—who had, in truth, left them all to their own devices and still claimed every scrap of credit.

“…Hah. The wine’s sweet.”

With the enemy outpost right in front of them, Royce threw a party. He had never received cheers like these before. As a bastard he had been all but cast out by his house; his father might claim to care for his own blood, but that care amounted to nothing more than lending a few knights. It had never eased the inferiority he felt within the family.

The sight of the cowed barbarians. The proud might of the knights carving them apart. The conscripts singing his praises, the nobles seated beside him promising friendship once they returned home—for a moment it seemed almost laughable that he had ever fretted over Riel or Lediche receiving recognition for their ability.

Glug—

Several nobles tilted bottles over Royce’s cup. Wine as red and thick as barbarian blood swirled inside.

“Once we return to the kingdom after this victory, you may truly inherit the marquisate.”

“Exactly so! Even those vaunted Sword Masters are struggling on the eastern front, yet Lord Royce advanced alone and raised the banner of victory! You will certainly receive a great deal!”

They followed the orders of a marquisate bastard. They filled the cup of a man who occupied nothing more than a hollow seat. They did so because they were shrewd enough to see the truth: Royce had deliberately used his private soldiers to kill the greatest number of barbarians. Once he became a war hero for driving them back, the rewards he received would be the largest of all.

“…That private soldier Riel—he’s actually quite weak, isn’t he?”

“The knights must have gone easy on him. He said so himself, didn’t he? Heh. They held back, and that’s how he won.”

The nobles knew that Royce sometimes stared at Riel. That was why, even during the advance, they kept bringing up the name of a man who had simply held the outpost and had nothing to do with the present glory. Royce smirked, took a mouthful of wine, and let out a short laugh.

“He’s the incompetent cripple who let Baron Rueshatia die. If he were truly strong, why would he have run? The knights simply lost with honor out of consideration for a commoner’s pride.”

Then, as if he had accidentally revealed his own inferiority, he added,

“…I’m sure he’s strong enough—among the conscripts, at least.”

Just as he always had within the family, pride made him pull the words back.

“…However strong he may be, could he ever match Lord Royce’s wisdom and resolve?”

No one offered counsel. Even with the enemy before them they held a party; instead of reports on strategy or the state of the battle they offered only flattery. Royce made no effort to stop it. He listened to every word as though etching them into his ears, and smiled.

The mark of an incompetent commander is that he trusts himself too much. The mark of a competent commander is the same. Royce believed in himself.

Staggering, he stepped out in front of the royal army and raised a gleaming sword that had never even cut a leaf. He had been drinking, yet nearly every eye was already on him. Even those who knew his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠actions were wrong—who understood that reckless advance might work for a moment but would eventually become poison—followed Royce’s lead. Results were coming, after all. Whenever a strong barbarian appeared, the knights cut him down.

“Men. I, Royce, will remember the face of every private soldier and every knight. We were treated as discarded resources. Even though the eastern front was locked in stalemate, we advanced… to show that we are superior. We will reclaim the outpost Baron Rueshatia so carelessly surrendered and restore the front!”

In the midst of the soldiers’ hurried movement, Royce shouted. As always, it was an impulsive decision.

“Today we retake the front-line outpost!”

A thunderous cheer rose. As always, without any proper formation, the soldiers charged behind the commanders of their own territories. Because the Kellinggun family had to play the greatest role in reclaiming the outpost, Royce himself took the lead this time.

He wore artifacts focused on defense. With the royal knights at the head, he spurred his horse forward as though he were a true great general.

That was when it happened.

From the outpost walked a man different from the ordinary barbarians—a somewhat slight figure. Tattoos marked his forearms, and his eyes were chillingly merciless.

“All of them really are worthless. If I’d known it would be like this, I should have advanced long ago.”

Behind him followed roughly twenty men. Even without crossing blades one could tell they handled mana. The moment Royce halted the advance, those who had belonged to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the royal knight order shot forward, and the other knights followed.

The battle was instantaneous. Because the knights handled mana, they surged twice as fast as ordinary men and thrust their swords.

Clang—! Clang—!

A few sharp rings spread across the field.

Fwoosh—!

Flames blossomed along the barbarians’ axes, greatswords, and long blades. Then a sound colder than ice, a sound that raised the hair on the neck, rang out.

Slash—.

The swords of the royal knights were severed together with the flames. The knights’ armor, their shock still plain on their faces, was cut through like paper. In a single stroke the knights who had once belonged even to the royal order—knights the Kellinggun family had attached—died.

Clatter—.

A head, still in its iron helm, rolled across the ground. The advance stopped dead.

“Baron Rueshatia was honorable, but you are merely foolish. Did war look like a game to you?”

The reason victories had continued on the eastern front was simple. Those who could match these men in swordsmanship were advancing toward the barbarian capital on that front, and the barbarians, like the kingdom, had concentrated their strong ones here for a single-point breakthrough.

The reason the victories on the eastern front had stopped was the same as for the barbarians: they needed time to watch supply lines and the movements around them…

“…Thanks to you, it seems we will reach the capital even sooner.”

Unlike Royce, the barbarian forces had somehow managed to hold their key strongholds.

Fwoosh—!

The flames raised on the blades cut down everything in sight without mercy. There were only twenty of them, yet everyone instinctively knew that conscripts and half-baked knights could never stand against them. After three exchanges at most, every arm was severed, every neck cut; they died without even managing a scream.

Only then did the warnings return to mind—the ones that said they must hold, that the barbarians seemed to be opening the path too easily. Lediche’s and Rubiru’s warnings.

Neigh—!

Horses toppled forward. Because they had met an incompetent commander, most of the Kellinggun knights who had stood in the van had their heads cut off, and the horses that had carried them died as well.

Royce, who had fallen chin-first to the ground, rolled several times and then wet himself. He buried his face in the shallow river of barbarian blood and smelled its metallic reek. The amusing game, the chance to prove his ability, the place where he would pile up merit and win recognition from his house—every illusion shattered. Now only the real battlefield and the traces of people who had been killed remained before his eyes.

“Hah— hah— I-I am the y-youngest s-son of the K-Kellinggun m-marquisate!”

That was all he had left to boast of. In truth he was not even the youngest; he was a bastard. Still Royce crawled across the ground, fleeing, and shouted. Naturally the barbarian who had raised flames on his sword gave a short laugh.

“…I am Kelcron. From what you people say… I should be about a Sword Master.”

When a name and rank are offered, one answers with the same. Having observed the bare minimum of courtesy, Kelcron walked slowly forward to kill Royce.

Royce closed his eyes. He was so terrified that if he was going to die, better to die in a single stroke. That was how deep the fear ran.

Yet Royce did not die. Even among the twisted, rotten nobles there were knights who still knew something of honor. Of course that honor was directed not toward Royce but toward the nobles they served.

“If you die, the lord I serve will die as well.”

A few knights threw themselves like moths into the burning flames to protect their commander. Others mounted the nobles who ranked as commanders and raced with all their strength toward the outpost that now held only a handful of troops.

It was a defeat.

A crushing defeat. When a mere twenty barbarians cut down every knight, the barbarians who had remained in the outpost advanced right behind them. Half the force was slaughtered; four times the number of barbarians they had killed until then lost their lives.

Of those who survived, half had lost an arm or a leg. Ordinarily the medics would have treated them, but most of the medics were dead as well. The wounded, untreated, collapsed and lost consciousness on the way back to the outpost, and not long after that they ended their lives.

In the end, only two-tenths of the force returned to the outpost—and even those were troops who had burned the image of the monsters raising flames on their blades into their eyes and now trembled with nothing but fear.

News of the defeat spread quickly. Amid the sudden flood of wounded and the chaos of the outpost, Royce shouted.

“R-Riel—! B-Bring that man—! P-Protect us—! P-Protect us, I say—! I-I’ll do anything, p-please—!”

Riel had been writing a letter home. He stopped mid-sentence and walked out of the tent. Looking at that disgraceful ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠spectacle, he felt a certainty settle in his gut.

They might all die.

“P-Protect me. I’ll d-do anything.”

Royce clung to him. When Riel ignored him and calmly spoke with Hummel’s soldiers instead,

“…You fucking commoner bastard—! Listen to me! I am the highest-ranking commander here officially—!”

he raised his voice. The other nobles who had survived and returned were no different. They sided with Royce and screamed for Riel to protect them against a Sword Master.

Shing—.

Without a word Riel drew his sword. The cold blade leveled at Royce’s throat, and the noisy mouth froze solid.

Slash—.

The trembling eyes that could not comprehend what was happening quickly lost their color. Royce’s head rolled across the ground.

It was an example.

Killing a noble was grounds for summary execution, yet no one could say they would kill Riel. Every knight who might have stood against him was already dead; they ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠could not even raise their voices. The remaining nobles clamped their mouths shut for fear of being next and simply trembled, unable to grasp the situation.

Riel did not waste time finishing the other nobles. He had to request support, defend the outpost, and buy time. At the very least he had to buy enough time for Lediche and Rubiru to escape. He knew little of war, but he had learned in the guild how to call for help in an emergency.

“Viscount Hummel, we must burn the forest. We need to slow their advance and raise smoke to request support.”

When he spoke, Hummel followed without the slightest doubt. He ordered the soldiers to loose fire arrows into the forest the barbarians were advancing through. Black smoke billowed high into the sky; flames leapt upward.

Tick— tack— tick— tack—.

It felt as though the ticking of a clock filled every ear. A regular sound was thudding through the ground. Beyond the flames the silhouettes of barbarians could be seen. They were advancing, chasing those who fled.

“Lediche and Rubiru. Take the wounded and withdraw, Viscount Hummel.”

Someone had to buy time. The moment Riel took up his sword and walked into the flames with a few knights,

“…Riel!”

Rubiru stopped him, voice thick with tears. From behind she threw her slender arms around him and held on with desperate strength.