Chapter 161
Chapter 161
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 161
Chapter Title: Survivors of Hazat Palan (2)
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*
Dozens of men hefted axes as big as human heads with forearms just as thick. A campsite teeming with such folk was bound to feel menacing. All the more so since this was a refugee caravan—and these northerners held dying in battle as more honorable than fleeing.
Hatred and rage, emotions with nowhere to go and no outlet, hung thick over the camp. Especially now, teetering on the brink with not even a campfire to light. The rough warriors, thrust into homelessness in an instant, glared at one another as if ready to hurl axes at the slightest provocation.
Yet amid them, no voices rose in anger, no blood was spilled. A bard might call it a miracle, but to these folk, it was simply obedience as it should be.
The hulking tribal warriors were forced to muster every ounce of calm they possessed. Because one person held sway over them all.
The Yarl, ruler of the tribe. In rougher translation, accounting for a few nuances, a position akin to "lord"—but in northern society, where might made right, a Yarl commanded greater honor than any lord.
Unlike southern lords, whose authority stemmed from bloodlines and edicts, a northern Yarl dominated warriors by crushing countless challengers or sheer force of charisma that made challenges unthinkable.
One oddity stood out: Hazat Palan's Yarl was remarkably young—
"Enemy attack."
The husky voice didn't rumble like a warrior's growl. It was closer to a pleasant alto, a melodic lilt that resonated sweetly. A woman's voice.
"Something's off. They're coming from the west."
"Turandar. Those bastards."
The warriors snatched up their axes in unison, seeking the foes who would unleash their ferocity. Those cloaked and seated rose as one, without exception.
Not even the exhaustion from prolonged pursuit and retreat, punctuated by countless skirmishes, could dull their innate savagery. They gripped their axes with nearly the same fervor as at the start.
"If the enemy flees, don't pursue. My instincts are screaming no."
Handling warriors prone to berserk states in battle was no easy task. Yet they all signaled obedience at once.
The giants stepped back. In their midst sat a woman on a threadbare blanket. Her roughly bound mane of wild golden hair flowed like a lion's, her ice-blue eyes gleamed like frozen glaciers.
Shieldmaiden of the previous Yarl, now Yarl of Hazat Palan. Aeren Palensen. The heroine dubbed Valkyrie descended to earth. After the prior Yarl fell to Erik's hand at the Great Tribal Council, she had crushed every challenger for the title.
She spun her axe half a turn and sheathed it at her waist, rising slowly. If need be, she'd have to crack those thick skulls and drag them back herself.
Hazat Palan had fallen. She had just begun this long exodus staking the tribe's fate, and she couldn't lead her warriors into a trap to die.
*
Fernandez and his group had covered nearly a full day's distance in pursuit of the trackers. According to that dimwitted demon's words, Hazat Palan's survivors had fled about two days prior—hope lingered yet.
'Bloodstains.'
-Six hours old?
Fernandez knelt by the blood-soaked underbrush, rubbing the damp soil between his fingertips. Since starting the chase, they'd slain five demons en route; no chance they were off course.
Tracking demons was basic Inquisitor training, with Heretica especially versed in it. But stripping away technique, none sensed demons faster than Demonica. The divinity laced through the blood stirred instinctive revulsion, pointing straight to the demons.
Worshipper of demons or demon hunter—the line was paper-thin. Worship or track. Thus, Fernandez might be the finest hunter in the material world.
He'd worshipped demons before and honed the physical prowess to hunt them now. Fernandez brushed the dirt from his hands and stood.
As he advanced, the group followed wordlessly.
*
The enemy assault grew fiercer than Aeren anticipated. Silhouettes she loathed flickered among Hazat Turan's attacking warriors.
"World Serpent monsters!"
The first warrior to spot one bellowed. Towering twice a man's height, with four tree-trunk legs, the beasts charged through Hazat Turan ranks.
Their red eyes glowed vividly even in the twilight. Aeren clicked her tongue and gripped her axe tight.
"Fall back! Into the shield wall!"
"For glory!!"
Young warriors ablaze with vengeance went berserk in seconds, charging ahead. Fools. Aeren clicked her tongue again and signaled the archers still clinging to sanity. The moment they nocked arrows, Hazat Turan warriors slammed up a shield wall.
-Thud thud thud!
Mass volleys against large forces cared little for accuracy. Enough archers firing in unison made the arrowstorm lethal enough. Here, archer skill meant reload speed, not aim—and Hazat Palan's bowmen were no elite specialists.
They were hunters at heart. The shield wall weathered two volleys intact before shattering; northern warriors roared and charged.
The clash favored Aeren's numerically superior force at first. But demons burrowing through played shock troops, stalemating the front.
Aeren tsked sharply. Stalemate meant attrition—and for her retreating force, bereft of base, it was a grievous toll compared to entrenched Hazat Turan.
-CRUNCH!
"Gaaargh!"
Only three demons, but plenty. No specialized big-game hunters here; their arms were hand axes and longswords for man-to-man.
The demons reaped lives with massive glaives like pillars. Aeren moved to order retreat. Escape before more losses. She raised her hand to commit the veterans holding the phalanx.
'Hold just a bit longer, and we counter.'
The capital fell to surprise, but Palandar clan was vast. Save the Yarl's guard, other forces were naturally near tribal borders.
-BWOOOO!
A horn blared. Aeren scowled at the opposite ridge. Dozens of men approached from the moonrise direction.
No allies, obviously. That way led to fallen Hazat Palan—their flight path.
'We braced for traps, but walked right in.'
Aeren bit her lip, thinking. Foes would expect her to head for nearby villages. Skirmishes en route were mere delays.
Buying time to encircle. She eyed Turan warriors closing from all sides, shoving her terrified squire behind.
"Stand at my back. And arm yourself."
"Y-Yarl."
"Galendil, stay calm. Our lives are in the gods' hands now."
As forward warriors fell, survivors and refugees clustered around Aeren. Veterans disciplined enough not to berserk formed a circular shield wall.
Aeren glanced west, where her youths died to demons and foes, then east. Demons mixed there too, without fail.
World Serpent spawn. Beasts three men couldn't guarantee victory against. Abhorrent fiends mocking the gods by existing. Aeren spat on the ground and gripped her axe.
"Fight your best, face ancestors proud. Better one glorious moment dead than a day in dishonor."
"No one lives forever!!"
Warriors echoed her, steeling resolve. The encirclement tightened beyond the shields. A veteran sidled close, whispering.
"Yarl, fall back."
"Light a fire."
"Pardon?"
"Our position's blown anyway. Why else encircle us? They fear us rallying others—meaning those warriors live yet."
Contrary to the veteran's gloom, Aeren's eyes still sparkled with odds and hope.
"So light it. Night falls soon; Karandal camp will spot it. Hold till they arrive, and we win."
"...! Yes!"
In desperation, hope spreads like plague. Aeren eyed the fragile optimism rippling through warriors and tribesfolk, wry within.
She knew holding was impossible. Karandal lay three hours off—at least—and even that was too much for her and her warriors.
Seven demons in sight alone, enemy numbers matching hers. No mere hope could bridge that.
Yet Aeren rallied her tribe, glaring at approaching foes. One day massacred in despair sufficed for Hazat Palan.
Miracle, not hope, was needed. But no one lived forever. As foes charged roaring, Aeren roared back.
*
'Seven Demidraco...'
Fernandez and company paused atop the hill, surveying the battlefield below the ridge. Blood-mad berserkers below noticed them not.
Fernandez stroked his chin, eyeing Demidraco shoving lines ragged across the field.
Summoning adult Demidraco fully to the material plane demanded vast rite and sacrifice. In this era, they weren't commonplace demons.
Seven here, plus five he'd felled in two days northbound. Twelve on one front meant the war graver than he'd thought.
Then his gaze caught a woman deep in the phalanx, swinging an axe and bellowing.
Wild, abundant golden hair like a lion's mane, blazing blue eyes. Fernandez chuckled, unsure if coincidence or fate.
-A familiar face.
'Indeed, a "perilous situation."'
Sardiel of Might and Justice. The proud angel who'd once declared to him, "In the end, you were just," stood there now.