The Offering on the Altar
He had a rough idea of how Blake would move next... or so it seemed.
It didn't feel like the kind of thing one should say about an opponent as powerful as Blake. But the reason no one could bring themselves to add anything more lay in the speaker himself.
The arrogance of talking about a formidable enemy as if he were sitting in the palm of his own hand, the insolence of giving orders to the Knight Commander as though he were his superior—almost all of it was excused on the grounds that it was Arendt doing it.
When Arendt was like this, he never spoke idly.
The moment Blake had chosen to flee, he must surely have started drawing a new picture in his head.
"...Understood."
In the end, Laios gave up on pursuit and sheathed his sword. Instead, he stepped closer to Arendt and held out a hand.
"Are you all right?"
"Do I look all right to you?"
Laios's outstretched hand was swatted away with a vicious slap.
As if he had fully anticipated the reaction, the Commander retreated a single step and moved on to his next question.
"Are you hurt anywhere?"
"Plenty. Crashed into things, got blown up, the works. I think some bones are broken too."
"Well, considering you're throwing a tantrum, it seems nothing too serious."
"What are you two even doing?"
Warren, who had been watching the two of them trade barbs with utter bewilderment, finally couldn't take it anymore and cut in.
Clicking his tongue, Arendt hauled himself unsteadily to his feet.
"We had plenty of time, didn't we? No other problems?"
"There was plenty."
Thanks to Arendt's reckless gamble of throwing his own body into the fray, the original objective—buying time—had been accomplished in full. Had the two of them not tangled with Blake and held him there, the Knights would never have managed to slip in among the mercenaries unnoticed.
Laios looked down at his ragged subordinate and let out a long sigh.
True to form for an operation devised by Arendt's head, this whole affair had been loud and theatrical from start to finish.
Securing the cooperation of the merchant guild and the chamberlains had been quite a gamble in itself.
They had asked the Neumann Merchant Guild to send trustworthy men of suitably substantial builds into the palace, then swapped the knights out for them. The knights had disguised themselves as merchants and slipped outside the castle walls, while the merchants had dressed in knightly uniforms and stayed behind in the quarters, playing their parts.
It was because if the enemy noticed that the Imperial Knights' living quarters stood completely empty, things would get awkward.
Naturally, the knights had pushed back.
They objected to outsiders—merchants and chamberlains, no less—being housed for days in quarters no one else was permitted to enter, and grumbled that this was less an honorable war than a battle of striking from behind.
Of course, such complaints would have vanished in an instant with a word of soothing from the Commanders—but somewhat unexpectedly, it was Helen of the 2nd Order and Benjamin of the 1st who stepped forward and shut the knights' mouths.
"When we are cutting down the enemies of His Majesty the Emperor and God Luce, what does our cleanliness matter?"
Watching Helen deliver that rebuke to the hesitant knights, Diana and Kendrick quietly applauded from behind.
"Sir Diana, it seems Sir Helen has been deeply impressed by Sir Arendt."
"I only pray she hasn't drunk poisoned water..."
That this exchange had passed between Kendrick and Diana was something Helen would probably never know.
Benjamin had done his part in persuading the 1st Order as well. With their youngest running back and forth rallying everyone, the seniors had no choice but to fall in behind him.
And needless to say, while the 1st and 2nd Orders were still bickering over it, the 3rd Order—long since finished with its departure preparations—had already swapped clothes with the merchants and taken the loads they'd been carrying onto their own shoulders.
Laios turned his gaze toward Warren.
"The village is safe as well. I hear the Commander of the 1st Order led the sortie in person and succeeded in subduing every mercenary garrisoned there."
The process, of course, had been anything but smooth.
Kicking his subordinates' backsides the whole way, Kendrick had pulled off the remarkable feat of covering a considerable distance in just two days. It had been a forced march brutal enough to leave the celebrated warhorses of the Imperial Knights utterly spent and collapsing where they stood—nothing more needed saying.
Warren lowered his eyes for a moment, then slowly exhaled and bowed his head.
"...Thank you for thinking of them."
"The debt is ours."
Rather than a long speech, Laios gave Warren's shoulder an encouraging thump.
Warren stared blankly for a moment before catching the meaning in that small gesture and letting out a wry, self-conscious laugh. Thanks for keeping pace with that insufferable apprentice, in other words.
Arendt, who had been watching the two of them quietly, abruptly changed the subject.
"Let's head down for now. Looks like things down below will be wrapped up soon enough—and we need to find Rebecca."
"You just stay put and rest."
"No, thank you."
Refusing flatly, Arendt didn't even wait for an answer. He ambled off, weaving unsteadily, and descended the stairs ahead of everyone else.
The all-out ordeal Arendt and Warren had been through had apparently been worth something, for the interior had already been secured by the knights who had infiltrated ahead of them.
"Nothing but a straight-up burglary of an empty house, isn't it?"
"...Please don't put it that way."
"Why not? It's not exactly wrong. The moment word came that Commander Laios himself was coming, every combat-ready man here would have been outside in battle formation."
Arendt said it with an air of indifference as he surveyed the surroundings.
Just as he'd said, all that remained inside the fortress were the noncombatant servants and the bare minimum of guards assigned to protect Rebecca.
"The side that fell for an operation this simple is the fool."
"......."
Well, can I really call this a simple operation? Laios wanted to fire back that the lunatic spectacle of running wild at the heart of enemy territory, demanding everyone's attention, was something only you could pull off—but he held it in.
Warren seemed to share the sentiment, judging by his sour expression. Having endured so much of late, he prudently refrained from opening his mouth.
Just as that pointless exchange was winding on, Glenn spotted Laios and came scrambling over.
"Commander! Oh—Arendt. You're alive? You didn't die?"
"Is that a complaint, senior?"
"Yes, I'm bitterly disappointed. No, wait, that's not it."
After trading that heartwarming exchange of greetings between senior and junior, Glenn collected himself and squared up properly before Laios.
"The interior is fully secured. The mercenaries who held out and the staff have surrendered. However, we have not located the woman presumed to be Rebecca."
"What?"
Laios's brow furrowed.
"Don't tell me she escaped?"
"We blocked every escape route the moment we stormed in, so I'd say the odds are slim. They said she has hardly any combat ability. Though she could be hiding among the servants..."
"I doubt that."
At that moment, Warren cut Glenn off flatly.
"Did you search the inside of the fortress thoroughly?"
"Er, yes, for the most part. We even checked the back gate—the one you said you couldn't approach."
"There's something that doesn't sit right."
Warren cast a sidelong glance at Laios and Arendt.
"Bring a few men and follow me."
"Do it."
Laios, who had been studying the werewolf's calm face for a moment, nodded.
Warren set out ahead of them.
The knights, busy subduing the remaining mercenaries and running about securing evidence, hurriedly bowed their heads when they caught sight of Laios—then went wide-eyed when they saw Arendt trailing in his wake.
"You were alive? We figured you were dead ages ago."
"You look like one good poke would finish you. Why are you wandering around? Shouldn't you be lying in a ditch somewhere?"
"What a waste, truly. If they'd offered me a higher salary than the Imperial Knights, I was fully prepared to defect, you know."
To the seniors who tossed out remarks one after another as they passed, Arendt waved his hand in lazy dismissal.
"...Is that their way of saying they're glad the Imperial Knights came through unscathed?"
"Forgive them. They were all raised poorly."
Laios answered awkwardly to Warren's muttered disbelief.
It hadn't been like this until quite recently, had it?
Truly, the influence of a certain someone had become gravely serious.
Warren let out a short, dry laugh, shut his mouth again, and focused on walking.
A few paces behind, Arendt—who was bickering with Glenn over something—shot a sidelong glance at Warren and frowned faintly.
The place Warren led them to was the hidden back gate. Perhaps the knights had already torn through the place once, for the door that had been locked now stood broken and flung wide open.
Beyond it lay a small room furnished with nothing but a modest desk and chair, and a bookshelf that was nearly empty.
Warren strode inside without a moment's hesitation.
"I smell her."
That her fragrance still lingered despite all this chaos meant one thing: Rebecca had been in this space until just recently.
Sniff.
Warren's steps faltered. As though bewitched by something, he began to circle the small room slowly. Without quite knowing why, the others held their breath and simply followed his movements with their eyes.
And then, a moment later, he came to a stop before a bare, featureless wall.
"Here."
Fists clenched tight, Warren drove his hand hard into the wall.
BOOOM!
A hollow, empty reverberation filled the room with a dull weight.
Warren struck the wall again.
After several repetitions, the pristine white wall began to crack and split apart.
And at last, the moment Warren's fist hit the wall a third time, the thick barrier tore away with a deafening roar—revealing a hidden staircase.
Warren gazed into the dark space, where only a few lonely candles flickered, with an unreadable complexity in his eyes.
Arendt, who had until now merely watched from a distance, spat out a question.
"Is Rebecca down there?"
"She is. ...Down there."
But before Warren could finish the words —she already— Arendt had brushed past him and set foot on the stairs before anyone else.
Because no one spoke first, only the sound of heavy boots descending the narrow steps filled the silence. And the deeper they went, a faint scent of blood began to seep into the knights' nostrils as well.
When at last they reached the bottom of the stairs, Glenn let out a short, strangled groan.
What greeted them was a massive door opening onto yet another space. Statue-holders bearing torches stood firmly on either side, guarding the entrance—and Rebecca lay collapsed right before it.
With a dagger driven into her own abdomen.
She seemed already beyond breath.
Lying cradled in the pool of blood she had spilled from her own body, she looked for all the world like a pitiful offering laid upon an altar to a god.
The first to move was Warren. Step by step, one pace, then two, he approached the fallen Rebecca.
Splash.
The moment his foot touched the pool of blood, a small ripple spread across its surface.
Warren lowered himself to his knees before her.
The face of Rebecca, sleeping an eternal sleep, held no trace of agony or despair—only peace.
After a brief hesitation, he gently brushed her cheek with his hand.
It was cold.
Everything was truly over.
He had lived for so long as her lover, and her slave. He had suffered through every one of those years and hated her for them—yet at the same time, it was also true that the restraint had sated the instinct that craved a pack, and he had grown complacent within it.
He had been unable to run, had thrown away everything, because of the fragile sliver of security she had given him.
"...Goodbye."
After that brief farewell, Warren lifted Rebecca's body, carried her to a corner, and laid her down. Then he pulled off his outer coat and draped it over her chill-stiffened frame.
Rising to his feet again, his eyes happened to meet Arendt's, who had been watching him quietly all the while.
Arendt asked, matter-of-factly.
"It's over, then?"
"Yes. ...Thank you."
He probably guessed even the state of my heart. That must have been why he had waited so quietly.
When Warren offered his short thanks, Arendt answered with a shrug and turned his gaze back toward the door.
"Looks like we found the real thing, after all."
Carved from stone and ornately wrought, the door bore a crest he had seen many times by now.
Three swords piercing a single heart.
And a serpent climbing up along those blades.
The symbol used by Broken Heart's Sword.