The Hand That Lurks on the Island (1)
“…….”
Once he entered the forest, Urgo quietly drew in a breath through his nose.
Beast stink. Not herbivores. Canids, maybe?
He had heard more than enough tales of the island’s demon, yet Urgo did not believe in demons. The only mysterious beings whose existence he accepted were the Great Mother—the steppe itself—and the wind spirits she had borne.
That did not mean he felt no fear of the “butler” who now lurked somewhere on this island. No matter how much heroic talent he had been born with, no matter how many great deeds he had accomplished, Urgo was still human. An ordinary human. Stepping willingly into a place where he knew he might die was never easy.
So he steeled himself and set foot among the trees, taking the lead ahead of Rotin and guiding the party with careful steps.
“Stay among the men,” he had told Rotin, and Rotin had obediently slipped into the middle of the sailors.
It was an open human shield—an order that whatever attack came, someone else was to take it and die before Rotin did. Yet none of the sailors voiced a complaint; they simply followed in silence behind Urgo.
As they pushed deeper into the forest, Urgo drew his sword. It was the blade that had been left behind on the day his tribe was slaughtered—the sword their chieftain had always carried. Near the hilt it looked like any ordinary sword, but farther along the blade it split into two prongs like a serpent’s tongue. Forged from a crude alloy of two metals poured in absurd quantity, the thick weapon weighed far more than any normal man would ever dream of swinging. Amid swords of one or two kilograms, the two-pronged blade alone tipped the scales at five. Even the great two-handed swords made for sweeping cuts never reached that mass.
Urgo swung the brutal lump of metal without restraint, hacking through undergrowth and vines to clear a path. Before long, however, something struck him as odd.
“……There’s already a trail.”
“What?”
“The grass has been trampled into a path.”
The plants of the Floating Island grew with unnatural speed. Yet the route from the house to the Seaside Villa was one Chester and Monia walked every day. Even animal tracks left lasting marks; there was no way the heavier footsteps of Chester and Monia would vanish without a trace.
“I don’t see anything.”
“New growth has covered it.”
Urgo pointed along the trail half-hidden beneath the fresh grass with the tip of his two-pronged sword, then took a step to follow it.
In that instant a faint twanging sound reached him from far away—a sound only he, of everyone present, could hear. It was the sound of a bowstave, drawn taut, releasing its string to send an arrow flying.
“Arrows.”
The words left Urgo’s mouth at the same moment two shafts streaked in from the distance and struck a sailor.
“Guh!”
Shoulder. Arm. The wounds were not immediately fatal, but they were more than enough to throw the sailors into panic. A third arrow followed almost at once and buried itself in another man’s skull. When that sailor dropped, terror seized the rest.
“Aaaah! The demon’s attacking!”
“C-calm down! It’s just a bow!”
“More are coming! Get the other way!”
Everyone scrambled to flee in the opposite direction from which the arrows had come—everyone except two. Rotin and Urgo charged straight toward the source of the shots.
“Follow me, you bastards! If you run you’ll just keep being arrow fodder! Run! Catch them!”
Urgo held his two-pronged sword out like a shield; Rotin covered his head and chest with both arms. They leaned forward, reducing the target they presented, and used the tall grass for cover.
“Ugh… ah…”
“R-run! If you don’t, the boss’ll kill you anyway!”
“Run! Run!”
“This is insane!”
At first they hesitated, but once one or two men, weeping in resignation, began to follow Urgo and Rotin, the whole group broke into a run toward the arrows. Two more shafts found their marks among the sailors as they charged.
Then, after they had covered some ground, something far larger than an arrow came flying straight at Urgo.
“Urgo!”
Rotin shouted, but Urgo calmly braced the two-pronged sword with both hands and caught the projectile.
Clang!
A heavy shock traveled up the blade into his wrists. Urgo gritted his teeth and glanced at the object that had bounced away.
A stone. No throw could produce that force. A sling, then. Three enemies? Four?
Another arrow came. Two long shafts, one short. That short one looks like a crossbow bolt from one of our own sailors.
The advantage of a crossbow was ease of loading: the string could be drawn and locked in advance, the bolt set only at the last moment.
One of them using both bow and crossbow, the other bow and sling?
They ran farther. At some point the arrows stopped, and the sailors began to slow.
“……No more coming?”
“Wh-why?”
Judging from the angle of the shots that the archers must be nearby, Urgo held Rotin back from pressing ahead and scanned the trees above.
“No crushed grass. They shot from here, but not from the ground.”
“Then… the branches?”
“Yeah.”
Broken and cut limbs showed where someone had cleared a comfortable firing perch.
“With our numbers they didn’t bother aiming carefully—just loosed at random.”
“So any hit that produces a casualty is a win for them.”
Rotin looked at Urgo.
“Can you tell which way they went?”
“Faint voices. ……That way!”
Urgo sprinted toward the sound; Rotin followed hard on his heels.
“Huh? We’re running again?”
“Ah, damn it! What the hell is this?!”
None of the sailors were winded by so short a dash; their only complaint was being forced to charge blindly after the two men. They plunged once more through the forest, and the noise of their pursuit reached Chester’s ears ahead of them.
“They’re coming after us.”
“What?”
Monia, one hand held by Chester as they leapt from branch to branch, glanced back.
“Someone with good ears, looks like.”
Chester recalled the sailor of unusual build who had carried that strange sword—the one he had glimpsed among the others.
That one. Reminds me of someone among the friends who used to visit Father. Lived out on the steppe… eyes set wide apart.
They said the broad spacing between the brows gave a wider field of view. In that case his eyesight would be sharp as well.
Chester stopped mid-leap, yanked Monia close, and scooped her up like a princess.
“Wha—?!”
“We need to shake them properly. I’m going full speed.”
With that he launched himself along the branches at a pace that made his earlier careful matching of Monia’s stride look like a stroll. Each time his foot struck a limb he stole its spring, transferring the elastic force into his own body so that he shot forward like an arrow loosed from a bow. The instant he landed he used the rebound again, firing himself onward. Shot after shot after shot. In this way he achieved greater speed with less strength and stamina than he could have managed by ordinary running, skimming the canopy as if the branches were merely brushing past him—free as the wind itself.
“Ch-Chester! Can you carry me on your back instead?!”
Feeling that speed firsthand, Monia raised her voice in a mixture of shock and exhilaration.
“Hm?”
“I’ll shoot while watching behind us!”
“……Got it. Good idea.”
He swung her onto his back the way one shoulders a pack. Monia drew her bow, eyes fixed on the pursuing sailors.
Incredible.
The men were falling behind at a terrifying rate. Branches crowded her field of vision until the sailors began to vanish from sight. Yet two figures still closed the distance faster than the rest: the giant with the strange sword and the man in clothes far finer than any sailor’s.
Those two.
Her body jolted constantly. The aiming point shifted with every leap. No archer, however skilled, could place an arrow exactly where she wished under such conditions. Monia did not care.
Just slow the two in front, even a little.
If an arrow landed anywhere near them, the purpose would be served. Once their speed dropped, she and Chester could vanish beyond sight and hearing, then circle back to rain arrows on them at leisure.
“What the—Urgo! What’s running up there?!”
“Damn fast. Can a human even move like that?”
Urgo was still somehow matching Chester’s pace, yet the gap was slowly widening. Rotin possessed neither Urgo’s speed nor his endless stamina. On this rough ground, where every stride tangled in tall grass, he could not hold top speed for long.
“Hah…!”
Even so, he knew that if they lost the archer now they would lose the trail completely, so he refused to slow. He clenched his teeth and ran—ran and ran—until suddenly Urgo twisted sideways and charged toward him.
“Hup!”
The two-pronged sword swept out in a brutal arc, slicing an arrow that had been streaking straight for Rotin. The shaft and the blade flashed past his face so close that Rotin stumbled to a halt in shock.
“Kh!”
His feet tangled and he tumbled head over heels. Urgo hauled him upright again and stared in the direction Chester had vanished.
“Well?! Can we still chase?!”
“The sound’s gone!”
“……!”
Rotin ground his teeth in frustration, then looked back at the sailors struggling to catch up and forced his breathing under control.
“Hoo.”
He was the captain. He had many men to lead. He could not afford to look rattled or overexcited. Show weakness while they were already suffering like this and charisma evaporated; mutiny became easy.
“Fine. We’ll wait for the next move.”
Calm once more, Rotin ordered the sailors to halt and prepare for another ambush.
“They will attack again.”
A slaughterer who had already loosed so many arrows and killed only one man would never simply withdraw.
While they were still devising ways to counter the arrows, Chester and Monia, far ahead, were praising each other.
“Wow, Chester. You’re really fast.”
“Deciding to shoot backward was smart. That guy was seriously quick.”
“But if you’d been alone you could have shaken them easily, right?”
“True, but to lose them cleanly I’d have had to run even longer than this.”
As he spoke Chester unhooked the water bottle from his belt. Despite the violent sprint, only a few drops had spilled from the canteen Monia had made.
“This is good too.”
He drank; Monia grinned and chewed a strip of smoked meat.
“When do we hit them next?”
“Right now. Anyone with a brain will start thinking about arrow defenses. We strike before they finish.”
Chester gave a crooked smile.
“Sorry, but I’m not planning to give them any rest.”
Chester’s greatest weapon was not the survival knowledge he carried, nor his skill with thrown weapons or bows, nor even the inhuman grip strength inherited from his parents. It was his stamina—the insane endurance that let him race through the forest all day without flagging unless driven to absolute extremes. The enemy had been forced into a sudden, frantic run that wrecked their breathing and burned their strength; Chester, using the flying technique that cost far less effort, was merely pleasantly warmed up. Monia, who had ridden on his back, was still fresh as well.
After a quick drink they turned at once and headed back toward the sailors.