Beyond the Barricade
“…Not good.”
Hans gazed beyond the hastily woven wooden barricade.
The forest that once radiated the light and fragrance of fresh greenery now seemed to exude the sticky, oppressive air of a murky swamp. In truth the woods themselves had not changed; they still rustled with the same colors as any other year. Yet knowing what lurked within made it impossible to see them as anything but grim.
The barricade itself bore the proof. What had been reasonably solid when first raised was now a wreck of claw marks and impacts. Dark crimson stains layered over brighter red, and pale scraps of flesh lay scattered here and there. All of it came from the assaults of the “corpses” that had begun several days earlier.
Skeletons buried in the earth and twisted masses of flesh had clawed their way free to attack the living. The sweet dreams people had been nursing toward the coming harvest turned into nightmares almost overnight. A household head who went to investigate the restless forest returned walking as a corpse; the long-buried dead, reduced to white bone, sank their teeth into the living. Only then did the villagers understand this was no ordinary calamity. Anyone who was not a complete fool would have known. A fool, of course, would simply have fled in terror.
Those who were not fools could not abandon the harvest that was their very livelihood. If they fled they would die anyway—better to try something. Fortunately the lord who governed the region knew his duty. Grasping the situation, he dispatched men to contain it. Hans was among them. Once he understood the danger, he sent a messenger back to the lord, then used the creatures’ reaction to living flesh to lure them while the barricade was raised. The result of those efforts stood before him now.
Taken one by one, the things were honestly pitiful fighters. Even farmers armed with crude tools could have handled them alone, assuming no other complications. Their true horror lay elsewhere. The terror of the dead rising again made ordinary folk freeze and tremble, unable even to stand their ground. Those who managed to grip a weapon for the sake of survival fared little better. The corpses, as if insisting they had already returned from death, did not stop when an arm or leg was severed. Relax after cutting a leg out from under one and its jaws would clamp onto your ankle; you either joined their ranks or returned to the dirt.
The one small mercy was that they were not especially intelligent. Properly contained, they were not all that difficult to hold at bay. The real problem was that they never tired. Limbs gone, eyes empty of feeling, they simply kept coming without end. By contrast the men holding the line were exhausting themselves—mentally and physically—nearing their limits. Without finding the root cause and ending it, collapse could come at any moment. Of those who had ventured beyond the barricade seeking that cause, none had returned with answers. Many had not returned at all. One of the knights who had come with Hans was among the missing. Alive or dead, no one knew. His empty place felt especially large. Unease was already spreading among the soldiers who remained.
Then a figure appeared, approaching the barricade.
Hans flinched, thinking the things had gotten behind them—but thankfully the newcomer looked thoroughly alive. The creatures never rode horses, after all. If they had, this place would not still be standing. Taking in the rider’s appearance, Hans felt a sudden spark of hope. Even those who should have barred any suspicious approach stepped aside with open relief; a few pressed their hands together in prayer. Color returned to Hans’s own face, vitality seeping back into his limbs.
The Holy Order sent someone.
For problems like this, specialists were needed. Hans assumed the man had been dispatched at the lord’s request—almost certainly a Holy Knight. Light armor protecting only the vitals, a pure-white sword that could only be Order-forged, and the Order’s emblem engraved on the breastplate made it unmistakable. A soft radiance seemed to spill from the rider’s face—wait, why light from the face? In truth it was only a trick of the eye, born of how strikingly the features stood out. In a world of rough, weathered men, a face that pretty could not help catching the gaze. The gloomy atmosphere only made it more noticeable. The handsome looks and silver hair shot through with blue did the rest.
…I’d believe it if someone told me that was a woman.
The Holy Knight calmly met Hans’s flustered stare, clearly long accustomed to it. Feeling awkward, Hans stepped forward to greet him.
“You appear to be from the Holy Order. I am Hans, charged with the defense of this place.”
“A pleasure, Sir Hans. We—”
“We have to go. Quickly.”
“Ah—there’s someone else… behind you?”
Only then did Hans notice the petite woman clinging to the knight’s back. That explained the plural. While Hans was still processing the surprise, the Holy Knight spoke again.
“Saintess, there is a proper procedure for these things. Please be patient a little longer.”
“…Okay.”
Saintess.
Now that he thought about it, Hans vaguely recalled rumors that the Holy Order would soon begin a pilgrimage. He had never dreamed he would meet them face-to-face. Wait—then these people had not been summoned by his lord? Almost certainly not. However faithfully the lord fulfilled his duties, he was nowhere near important enough to call down a Saintess.
“Allow me to introduce ourselves properly. The one behind me is the Saintess, and I am the… He—no, the Holy Knight who serves her. Ciel.”
Having finished the introductions, Holy Knight Ciel—unable to resist the Saintess’s urging any longer—moved straight to the point before Hans could even manage a proper bow.
“During our pilgrimage we sensed a sign too grave to ignore, and so we came. It seems you have need of our help… am I correct?”
“Precisely. Yet we have been unable to discover the cause no matter what we try. Holding them back so they do not spread is the best we can manage.”
“I see. In that case—”
“Th-they’re coming!”
At that moment the creatures began advancing from beyond the barricade—a procession of corpses rattling bones and dragging melting flesh. Arrayed against them on this side of the wood were ordinary people whose faces had gone even paler than the dead. Sensing they could not hold much longer, Ciel spoke with sudden urgency.
“We have come to resolve this problem. Please, hold on just a little while longer.”
“…Understood.”
Ciel immediately turned the horse’s head toward the far side of the barricade. Behind him Hans called out.
“Many who went have not returned! Please—be careful!”
“Thank you for the warning. Until we meet again, then.”
There had been little choice, and the need was urgent, so Hans had let them through. Still he could not quite silence the unease rising in a corner of his heart. Could two people truly settle this? She had been called a Saintess, yet it was the first time he had ever laid eyes on such a being. Considering how rarely pilgrimages occurred and how few people they touched, far more souls lived and died without ever seeing a Saintess. Blasphemous as it felt, he found it hard to believe so easily. A faint guilt stirred as well.
That anxiety melted away like spring snow the moment the scene before him unfolded.
“…It will be a rough ride. Hold on tight.”
“Okay, Hero.”
“…That—huff—no.”
Come to think of it, the one who travels with the Saintess on pilgrimage is called the Hero, isn’t he? The thought struck Hans anew even as the Holy Knight—no, the Hero—drew his sword and charged straight into the ranks of the dead.
—Whinny!
The Hero soothed the horse that shuddered with instinctive fear; a soft light began to gather along his blade. When he spurred forward, the mount answered and broke into a swift run. Anyone would have expected them to leave the battlefield at once and plunge deep into the woods—but their course proved slightly different.
The faintly glowing sword carved through the bodies of the dead. Necks parted in a single stroke; reaching limbs were severed mid-charge. Heads and limbs of the corpses scattered like autumn leaves. The dark crimson fluid that sprayed from their frames never touched the Hero; it only painted the ground. To fight like that while a sacred burden clung to his back was an art that defied belief. The corpses the sword had disabled were crushed and shattered under the horse’s hooves. It looked exactly like a knight cutting through a routed army—a one-sided slaughter.
Hans, the soldiers, and the conscripted farmers could only stare. The devout among them dropped to their knees and prayed.
“Heavens above…”
“Goddess…”
Having swept through the procession of the dead once, the Hero and Saintess wheeled about and raced deeper into the forest.
Ah. So that is what a Hero and Saintess are.
Faith surged up inside Hans as he bellowed,
“Everyone to your posts! How long do you intend to stand there gawking? Do you mean to waste the grace of the Hero and the Saintess?!”
Not every corpse had been disabled. Those that had chased the pair lost them and turned back toward the barricade. Yet the atmosphere was no longer the same. The dead still advanced without fear or hesitation. The ordinary men facing them, however, now wore faces full of hope. Color and life returned to features that had been deathly pale. As long as they held this line, the Hero and Saintess would somehow set things right. Even those who had never known faith felt it welling up unbidden.
I thought it had increased a little, but it’s still not enough.
Ciela swallowed a quiet sigh and took stock of her remaining Holy Power. Drinking the Saintess’s flower tea had given her more breathing room than before. Still, there was no telling what waited ahead. Perhaps she should have held back even a little more strength—more Holy Power.
Even so she had swept through the ranks of the dead once. If she hadn’t, the people behind the barricade would have collapsed on the spot.
…People I only met for the first time today.
Why had they stuck in her mind so stubbornly? Maybe the wrinkled face of that knight had reminded her of Marcus. In any case, it was true she had more leeway than before. Her stamina had not failed her; only her Holy Power was lacking, so it might not matter much. Even if she herself became unable to produce Holy Power, the one clinging to her back could rightly be called the darling of Holy Power. Efficiency would drop, but with the Saintess’s help she could still handle the kind of things they had just cut through without trouble. Doll-like creatures like those could be dealt with even without Holy Power—though it would be a little more annoying. And right now the Saintess was pressed tightly against her back.
…Is thinking of her as a Holy Power battery too blasphemous?
Is that why my Holy Power is…?
Nah. No way.
Ciela banished the idle thought and spoke to the Saintess.
“Saintess, where should we go now?”
“That way. But… somehow it’s faint.”
“Then hurrying really was the right call. I don’t know why, but hold on tight.”
“Okay.”
The Saintess and the Hero raced deeper into the forest. As they headed toward the place the Saintess indicated, the distant clash of weapons reached them. The omen was not a good one.