Chapter 370
Chapter 370
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 370
Chapter Title: Kingsgate Battle (1)
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-Bwoooo!
-Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong!
The sound of advancing trumpets and drums echoed from beyond the horizon at the end of the narrow pass. Toward this cramped alley leading to Altbert, a thunderous roar shook the mountains and heavens as if the very earth trembled.
The archers atop the hastily built gallery of Kingsgate rubbed their sweat-slicked palms on their trousers, staring straight ahead. The enemy seemed endless.
Around thirty thousand strong. An army the size of a mid-sized city's population marched armed and brimming with murderous intent. The archer unwittingly glanced to his side and behind him.
No one's face looked any better. All were pale, steeling themselves with forced resolve. At a glance, their number barely exceeded a hundred. Even including those waiting in the rear, it was only about double that.
Moreover, those present were serfs like himself, or at best freed peasants. People who had never held a bow or sword in their lives, whose experience of war extended no further than village squabbles.
"Lord..."
The serf archer swallowed dryly and whispered. At that moment, someone gripped his forearm tightly. Startled, he turned to see the prince clad in full plate armor.
"The Lord cannot aid us."
"Y-Your Highness...!"
"Only you all can save us. Fear not. This is Altbert, and the blood of King Dane has never once faltered here."
Beneath the lion-shaped visor of his helmet, the prince's eyes gleamed fiercely. The serf nodded unconsciously, biting his lip hard.
"Behind you stand your parents, your children, your siblings! The enemy outnumbers us and presses with fierce momentum—will you retreat? Will you hand over your children and parents and beg for your lives?!"
The prince bellowed. The gallery was so narrow his voice echoed thunderously beyond the walls. The militia's eyes fixed on him.
"No, sire!"
"Right, no! We shall spit in death's face and declare: Take my death meant for my family! Take me instead!"
The boy, barely thirteen and laughably young, hoisted a greatsword as tall as himself and shouted. A strange elation made his body tremble.
Every noble youth of Dane grew up on tales of knightly romance. They nurtured dreams reading of their great ancestors' deeds and lives. This boy was no different.
Now, he gripped his sword to write his own romance. Amid a crumbling kingdom, burning lands, and leading helpless refugees.
"If the death approaching our families and neighbors comes for us, we shall greet it with smiles! When that moment arrives, remember this one thing: Your prince faced the same death on the same day, arms outstretched! You shall not die alone! Our deaths are our families' lives!"
"Eric!"
"Eric!"
""Eric!!""
The peasants cheered at the prince's cry. Yes, this would do. The prince felt a touch of fatigue as he gazed at the enemy approaching the walls. Supplies, troops—all were lacking. But morale, at least, was unyielding.
In future histories, this scene would be depicted: regardless of victory or defeat, Dane's people were truly valiant. That alone sufficed. With the hall of ancestors at Altbert to their backs, they were descendants unashamed.
"A fine speech, Your Highness."
His guard captain approached and murmured quietly. Eric shrugged without reply.
"Are you not afraid?"
"Terrified. Honestly, I want to run."
"Hah, carving an escape for one prince might not be so hard."
"My father entrusted his queen to me. How could I flee alone?"
Eric grumbled, slamming his sword into the ground and closing his eyes.
"And, 'Choose a death more valuable than life over a life worse than death.' That's the precept Father taught our house."
"His Highness Vicente will be proud of you."
"Yeah. I miss Father."
Eric grinned fiercely, gripping the hilt.
"So let's survive until Father arrives. All of us."
"As you command."
* * *
"That brat's got some mouth on him."
Sigismund chuckled at the voices from atop the walls. Eager to be a tragic hero, eh? Childish impulse, but understandable. Everyone that age is like that.
"Who among you will teach that boy the sanctity of military discipline?"
"Georg of the Faith shall show that impudent whelp its gravity, Your Highness!"
"Send me, sire! Jürgen shall present that boy's head to you!"
His generals thirsted for glory. The dragon's majesty was formidable, but beyond the walls lay only serfs and refugees—if they endured the losses and scaled them.
How many troops could one dragon block? Excluding its flames, its charge covered limited ground.
And once over the walls, they could hold the populace hostage to seal the dragon's fire.
"Hah, how could I doubt your valor? And the mages? How long to pierce their spells?"
"Half a day suffices, Your Highness."
"Good. Hear me, lords!"
Sigismund rose, parting the command tent flaps, and bellowed. Watching the backs of his advancing troops, he sneered.
"In half a day, the dragon's flames cease. Once the slave troops blunt the first wave, begin the siege! Lord Jürgen!"
"Yes, Your Highness! Command me!"
"After the dragon's first breath, lead two thousand infantry over the walls! Lord Günter!"
"Yes, Your Highness!"
"Advance with Jürgen and shatter the gates!"
"Yes, Your Highness!"
"No complex tactics. Save for the dragon, it's just a handful of ragtag militia on crude barricades!"
Prepare catapults, advance the slaves, sound horns and beat drums! Sigismund thrilled with surging exhilaration. Before the drums even sounded, a mighty power writhed in his veins.
The dragon's breath couldn't strike all at once. Committing to defense, it could only target approaching foes.
Altbert siege: Sigismund's opening move. Expend slave troops in waves to exhaust the dragon's breath.
* * *
"They're comingggg!!"
"Archers ready!! Ready!!"
The enemy, briefly regrouping, resumed their advance. Heavily armored soldiers staggered forward clutching mismatched wooden shields.
Sloppy formation, nonexistent morale—an amateur march even militia could spot. The guard captain and prince frowned at the sight.
"Your Highness, their lord sends fodder. Likely convicts or conscripts... to gauge and bleed our strength."
"Hah, even their fodder outnumbers us twofold."
Eric gave a bitter smile, eyeing the approachers. They glanced back often, waving weapons threateningly.
Then, a colossal voice boomed overhead.
[If they're sending chaff to wear you down, must you even step up?]
"Lady Abel...!"
Abel had arrived atop the walls, growling. She turned her head slowly toward the approaching host.
She was right. The dragon's breath wasn't infinite, but crushing their vanguard, seizing momentum, and boosting morale were essential.
The dragon's breath would symbolize victory for friend and foe alike. The guard captain nodded gravely.
"We leave it to you."
[What need for requests?]
Abel smiled softly and opened her maw. Whatever their schemes, the defenders' strategy was ever simple: Break the enemy's spirit, hold the walls with minimal loss.
The mightiest weapon wasn't hoarded. Their orthodox ploys met her orthodox response.
The dragon's jaws parted.
* * *
-Krummmble!!
The earth quivered sharply. Gravel and dirt clattered noisily. The slave soldiers, weapons raised in terror, halted instinctively.
'Hot...?'
It was late autumn, winter's doorstep. No armor could make it this muggy. They panicked at the sudden heat.
Bound hands prevented doffing helmets or armor.
One slave writhing in unease finally lifted his visor.
Then they knew the sticky heat's meaning. Overwhelming presence hit as the helmet came off.
The mythic dragon loomed, jaws agape toward them. Distant yet, its vastness made crimson-black scales visible to the naked eye.
"O... Lord..."
One soldier collapsed. Sweat beaded his brow—was it the heat? White vapor rose from the dragon's maw afar.
"Lady Abel...!!"
Muffled screams leaked from helmets. And—
-Kwaaaaaang!!!
White light engulfed them. Liquefied flame poured over their bodies. Over a thousand slaves—most half vanished without trace.
The pass where they stood vitrified, gleaming. Those spared direct hits trembled, limbs missing, rasping through scorched lungs.
Silence fell, then.
"Waaaaah!!"
Dane's soldiers atop the walls cheered Abel's feat. The mythic sight unfolded before them.
Morale soared. Abel smiled faintly, soaring skyward again.
* * *
Fairn's generals shuddered at the sight. The last dragon's vanishing was legend-scarce legend.
As fantasy became reality, they felt primal terror—not of will, but predator-versus-prey dread. Or mortal facing calamity.
Even the bravest trembled, eyeing the ancient beast breathing myth.
Then, tearing laughter erupted behind them.
"Hah, hahaha!!"
"Y-Your Highness?"
Coughing from excessive mirth, Sigismund wiped tears and spoke.
"Dane's guardian god burned its own people! Hahaha! Know what that means?"
"Your Highness, we don't quite..."
"It's no god! Fools! Cower before a beast blind to its own kin? Are you men of great Fairn? What are you waiting for! Send the troops! Advance as planned! Catapults ready? Fire! Fire! Fire!! Don't stop!"
Sigismund roared to his feet.
"Legend or myth—what matter! No room for ancient tales. Catapults! Fire! Teach it what it burned!"
Fairn's army, elite-scraped for swift landing, had no true slaves.
They were civilians caught fleeing late, local militia resisting to the end. Arms bound to rusty gear, whipped to the front.
Meant as offerings, but so what? Offerings abounded beyond those narrow walls. Sigismund chuckled merrily, sipping wine.
* * *
"Catapults! Your Highness, take cover below the walls! It could be dangerous!"
"Wait, those aren't stones..."
Black arcs crossed the noon sky. Eric, squinting from the walls, identified the projectiles only as they neared.
"What in the world...?"
People. The catapult-launched figure flailed screaming, smashing into the wall with a splat. Blood sprayed, armor shards clattered noisily.
All fell silent at the horrific, pointless assault. Even a hasty wall wouldn't crumble to flesh; mountains nearby offered ample rocks.
Their questions resolved most horrifically. One lobbed atop the walls survived, limbs shattered.
A nearby soldier removed the thick helmet. From burst lips came a faint voice.
"Y-Your... High..."
Dane's accent. Eric saw the bound broken shield and sword in his hands, the corpses from the dragon's breath—same garb, same arms.
[These... bastards...!]
-CRUNCH!
The dragon's claw crushed a corner of the sacred banner.