Silver Fang
"There sure are a damn lot of them."
I muttered it as I watched the monsters closing in, a tide thick enough to choke the ground before the Wind Fortress. Several thousand, at the least — a number you saw only at a colossal S-rank gate, or in the moment a gate burst. I couldn't let a weak word slip here. Unless I was badly mistaken, the Blue Wall at the center had drawn several times the demonkin now filling my sight.
"......"
Even so, the air around me sat heavy. However few they were beside the other fronts, this was still a war staked on lives.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The earth shuddered under the footfalls of the great beasts. I looked down on them: an orc unit armed with axes and hammers, a werewolf unit swinging maces, and, last of all, enormous ogres. The demonkin come against the Wind Fortress fell into three kinds. At a glance the orcs were the main force, the werewolves — blessed with powerful legs — the mobile troops, and the ogres looked meant to stand in for siege engines.
"Ready!"
An unfamiliar voice rang from the top of the wall. Not Serena, and none of Roenheim's knights — the commander of the reinforcements said to have come from the Imperial Capital.
"Loose!"
Arrows poured out with the shout. The shadow of the volley, rising as one, briefly blackened the air, then came drumming down upon the heads of the monsters pressing in.
"Urgh!"
A pack of orcs was scythed away, bristling like porcupines. Decent skill — but there were simply too many demonkin for the archers. Before they could set arrows to string again, several times as many orcs as had fallen were already clinging to the wall.
"Grr!"
Werewolves leapt in among them. Those wolves on two legs scaled the sheer wall in a heartbeat, sharp claws biting stone.
"Fire!"
This time Serena's cry sent several massive shafts surging out — bolts many times the size of an ordinary arrow, punching clean through the werewolves climbing the stone. Knights bearing greatbows had taken their places all along the battlements: the Blue Plum Knight Order, one of the orders under Roenheim. A company made entirely of archers trained against demonkin, their art was to pour mana into greatbows and arrows the size of a man, power enough to silence even an ogre.
"Graaagh!"
The werewolves they pierced tumbled from the wall in a clatter. Some, though, clawed their way onto the rampart all the same.
"Strike them!"
The knights waiting there charged. The handful of werewolves were cut down quickly, but in that span the orcs were already crawling up, and what followed was a frantic melee. Orcs came without end. Werewolves kept scaling the stone, and ogres with both arms wrapped over their heads tried to rush the gate the moment a gap showed. Knights sprinted along the wall to meet the demonkin that had climbed it, while the soldiers loosed arrows until their fingers threatened to tear free.
I was not standing idle in that fierce fight either.
"Grk!"
The werewolves kept climbing, trying to fix ropes and ladders, and orc warriors crawled up those onto the wall from every side.
"That one..."
Among them, one stood out. A werewolf with uncanny silver fur and eyes of a vicious red. It was no larger than the others, but the presence rolling off it was strangely ill-omened. I knew what it was. Among monsters, individuals of the same kind sometimes appeared that were freakishly strong, like mutants. Such things were commonly called special specimens — or named monsters. This Silver Fang was one of them: a werewolf, yet a special specimen granted a name that set it apart from the rest.
"Urgh!"
A knight who moved to bar its way was blasted aside by a single swing of its mace. He wore the armor of the Imperial Knight Order. Left alone, that thing could slaughter not only him, but soldiers who had done nothing to deserve it.
So I did not leave it.
With a sharp snap I unleashed the Scream Sword's Fear. That unpleasant scream, which I was slowly growing used to, rang across the wall.
Themarck was a mid-rank knight of the Imperial Knight Order. The reason he had come all the way to this distant south was a request from the frontier: an unprecedented horde of demonkin, numbering in the tens of thousands, was said to be on the march. It was a claim hard to credit. Where could so many demonkin have suddenly sprung from?
Even after the decision to send aid was made, doubts circulated quietly — not only through the imperial court, but within the knight order itself. Was the Ducal House of Roenheim plotting something? Or was the duke of this generation simply weak-willed? Suspicions of that sort.
Themarck had thought the same. So when he arrived at the Wind Fortress at the head of the archer unit placed under his command, he watched the castle's lord, Serena, and the ducal figures such as Lucas more closely than he watched for demonkin, wary that they might try to stir up some trouble.
But today—
"Kuaaaa!"
Once the war began in earnest, everything changed. Thousands of demonkin surged in like a wave. The Wind Fortress was not even a particularly large castle, and yet monsters enough to conquer a small kingdom came shoving in, packed tight.
"How can this be...!"
He was aghast at numbers he had never once seen near the Imperial Capital. Staring blankly at the approaching host, he suddenly looked around — and only then saw the unrest in the others. Soldiers with bows in their hands were trembling. Even the valiant knights seemed overwhelmed by the sheer count, swallowing their breath. He noticed one thing more.
Strangely, the only ones so shaken were the soldiers and knights who had come as reinforcements from the imperial court. The scions of the ducal house he had always regarded with suspicion, and Roenheim's own knights, were simply watching the demonkin with calm composure. Their eyes seemed to say it plainly.
Did we not warn you?
Why did you doubt our words?
"...!"
Having seen the truth with his own eyes, Themarck shook his head, too late. It was a wretched showing, but he could not stand there staring. Who were he and his unit, if not the proud army of the empire? For the honor of His Majesty the Emperor, he had to display a majesty that would not fall short of these southern knights. Just then, the vanguard that had been far off strode into range.
"Archers, aim!"
He shouted, pouring mana into his voice. At that roar of a command, the soldiers drawn tight with fear hurriedly set arrows to their strings. The knights serving as frontline commanders seemed to come to themselves at his cry and began directing their troops.
"Loose!"
And so the battle began. The soldiers shot until their fingers nearly broke, but the tough demonkin did not fall to a few arrows. An orc warrior bristling with shafts still managed to climb the wall, only to die on a knight's sword. A werewolf with arrows lodged in both eyes attacked the soldiers by sound alone. It was a hellish melee, the likes of which no war between humans could show.
"Archers, do not let your bows leave your hands! Knights, protect the soldiers!"
Amid the chaos Themarck shouted until his throat tore, driving his unit with desperate command. Perhaps that very sight caught the demonkin's eye.
Thud!
An uncommon demonkin appeared atop the wall where the archers were stationed: a wolfman clad in silver fur.
"Fall back! I will take this one!"
Sensing at once that it was no ordinary foe, Themarck pulled the other soldiers and knights behind him. A werewolf was an opponent even a 2-star knight could handle well enough. He, a 3-star knight, believed he could defeat even the strongest of them.
But—
"Hah...!"
A groan escaped him as he caught the mace. Its weight was abnormally heavy. Worse, every time steel met steel, some force from the werewolf gnawed his aura away in chunks. Demonic energy — a special power said to be held by only the rarest of demonkin.
"How does a thing like this—"
A mere werewolf, possessing that? The words never reached their end.
Crash!
The silver werewolf's mace slammed into him. His sword, its aura eaten thin, failed to kill the force.
"Guhk!"
The blow took him in the side and flung him through the air. He barely kept his senses, but in that instant he knew death. If the silver werewolf came at him again, he had no strength left to stop it.
That was when it came.
"Aaaaaagh!"
A chilling scream rang out from somewhere. He turned toward the sound before he knew he had moved, and what he saw was Young Master Lucas of the Ducal House of Roenheim.
"That man..."
Even then, Themarck did not grasp that Lucas was coming to save him. The name of an incompetent wastrel was no stigma confined to the ducal house. But when he saw the crimson aura streaming from Lucas's sword, his eyes flew wide. In a way it was more ill-omened than a demonkin's demonic energy — and at the same time, an aura of peerless ferocity.
"Grrrrr!"
The silver werewolf hurled itself at Lucas. A streak of silver in full charge met his sword.
Clang!
Themarck was certain Lucas would be blasted aside at once — lucky to keep his life, and perhaps dead on the spot. He was wrong. Steel screamed. The silver mace came driving down like a savage hail, and crimson flame stopped it cold. Those attacks, which had been nothing but solid weight, were gradually forced back and thrown into disorder.
"What...?"
Themarck doubted his own eyes. Lucas, the man rumor called incompetent, was overwhelming that monster.
"Graaaah!"
As if in fury, the silver werewolf let out a howl and gave a little ground. Lucas pressed after it at once, unwilling to let the opening slip.
"Look out—"
It was a trap. As if they had been waiting, more werewolves surged in from both sides.
But—
"Not a step!"
A knight cut across the left. The other side belonged to a beastkin whose name Themarck did not know. He had been watching Lucas as one of the ducal house, and he knew who they were: the guard knights Lucas was said to have taken into his service of late. A knight he could understand, but only days ago he had been unable to fathom why Lucas would set a beastkin as his guard.
"Graagh!"
Then he saw those claws tear a werewolf's chest open, and he had to change his mind. Perfect coordination, perfect skill, with neither of them falling a step behind. While the werewolves were held by those two and could come no closer to Lucas—
"—!"
Lucas was already upon the silver one. The beast swung its mace in haste, but the momentum it had carried moments before was gone from a creature already being overwhelmed.
In the end—
A clean slash. The silver werewolf's neck caught on a dark-crimson line. A beat later, the wolf's head tilted. Blood burst forth, fouling the silver fur, and the body collapsed.
Is this truly the young master they called incompetent...?
Standing before the fountain of blood, Themarck looked at Lucas — whose expression had not changed in the slightest — and murmured it inwardly.