Warrior Marygold (9)
“Board the train by noon tomorrow after completing all preparations?”
Lancel received the letter on the evening of the wedding day itself. Anyone else would have grumbled about turning someone into a widow right away, but this was a missive from none other than the emperor (the fake one). It was too overwhelming an authority to complain about. And it wasn't like his death was set in stone already.
“War, huh. War at a time like this...”
War wasn't anything surprising. The empire was a nation perpetually entangled in big and small conflicts. Naturally, anyone from the knightly class had frequent opportunities—willingly or not—to march off to one front or another. That was why Lancel had spent most of his early loops in the border regions, thanks to these endless damn wars. True to form for a great empire that had swallowed half the continent, its front lines were ridiculously vast.
He flipped the letter over. The imperial seal was stamped into wax mixed with gold dust.
'An imperial support force.' That meant a royal was likely leading the unit directly.
“What are your plans, sir?”
Hestie asked with a worried look.
“Gotta go.”
“Master.”
No sooner had the words left Lancel's mouth than Marygold approached.
“Take me with you.”
Her eyes burned with resolute determination.
“If Master goes, I'll follow. No—even if I have to walk.”
She clutched the necklace Lancel had given her.
“It's an imperial support force route, so it won't be that dangerous. But a battlefield's a battlefield. You really gonna come?”
He didn't even need to hear her answer. Marygold looked ready to follow him through hell if she had to.
Bam!
“Lancel!”
“Lord Court Count?”
A man burst through the door in the dead of night, rain pouring outside. He shrugged off his drenched overcoat and strode toward Lancel.
“Knock...”
Hestie started to mutter, but someone quickly covered her mouth.
“You heard?”
“This?”
Lancel held up the mobilization order.
The Court Count wiped his face.
“Seen it, then. His Majesty decided it on his own—I couldn't intervene. If I'd known ahead, I'd have tried something.”
“It's fine. Not like I'm marching off to die.”
“No guarantees you won't.”
As he spoke, the Court Count pressed something into Lancel's hand. The Iceford family crest.
“Wear this and board the train. They'll put you in the very back—right next to His Highness the Prince.”
VIP treatment, in other words. Even in war, there were relatively safe positions.
“I wish you victory. Come back alive, and I'll throw you a feast fit for a king.”
Whatever the hurry, the Court Count said no more and vanished again.
“Knock...”
Hestie's voice trailed softly after him. Was some knockless ghost haunting the place?
'Looks like I'll finally get to see Marygold and the prince in the same room.'
What kind of guy was he? The imperial family had seven princes in total. And every one of them had a potential connection to Marygold—at least in the game. Even excluding the fifth prince already at the front, that left six candidates.
Lancel pondered who among them might be the 'best' and 'worst'.
'Hopefully the second prince. Or the fourth would be okay too.'
The second had some common sense, at least. The fourth was sickly but sharp-minded. Those seemed the best bets. The worst...
'No need to say it.'
Lancel grimaced as one face came to mind.
...
“Question. Who do you suppose commands this force?”
Lancel couldn't stop his eye from twitching.
“That would be me.”
Marygold has joined the 1st Imperial Support Force, commanded by '6th Prince Karin Craig Phrigia'.
“The empire's luckiest and most handsome man. Karin Craig Phrigia.”
Lancel fought desperately to keep a straight face. Marygold looked at him with concern.
“Master, you okay?”
“Nah. Feels like last night's booze is coming back up.”
“That's what you get for overdoing it...”
She patted his back, but the nausea churning in him had nothing to do with a hangover. Lancel swallowed bile as he eyed the sixth prince.
'Why'd it have to be this asshole?'
The absolute worst.
“I assume you all know who I am. I hope none of you displease me.”
Literally the worst candidate.
19.
“Why's the seating so cramped? Change it now. How am I supposed to endure ten days in this stifling space?”
No sooner had he boarded the train than complaints oozed from the sixth prince's mouth. Thanks to his father-in-law's consideration, Lancel ended up seated right next to him—and was suffering all the more for it.
“This music sucks! Play something faster, livelier! The food's cold, the wine's not chilled. Who the hell made this?”
The imperial support force, gathered for war, was being treated like servants. Even knights were sweating buckets as they pitched in.
If Lancel and Marygold hadn't worn the Iceford crests, they'd be slaving away too.
“Finally, some breathing room. You, open the window. It's dusty as hell because of you lot.”
His nonstop griping eventually turned his entire train car into a party hall.
“Master, is it okay to have that much booze piled up on the way to war?”
“Think so?”
Wine bottles and oak casks filled one side. Lancel already knew their purpose—and sure enough, they came into play the next day.
“You, come pour my wine. You too.”
“Y-Your Highness. The wine right now...”
“Refusing a drink from the prince?”
“We'll receive it as a blessing!”
“Of course it's a blessing. Wine bestowed by the blood of the divinely blessed imperial line. What else could it be?”
Lancel had even swung a sword at him once and burned on the execution ground for it, but the sixth prince wasn't some irredeemable villain. Compared to true evil, anyway. He just loved indulgence to a stupid degree, and in the weirdest directions.
“Bring the ceremonial swords.”
Buzzed on booze, the prince tossed two blades at their feet.
Clang! A slender rapier spun across the floor, humming with metallic vibration.
And he wasn't done.
“Look at this. Gold coins. Imperial gold.”
Clink clink. Over ten imperial gold coins hit the floor. Swallows echoed everywhere. Even for nobles, ten was no small sum. For soldiers, life-changing money.
“Let's gamble. Two fight, winner takes all. Sound good?”
“Y-Your Highness, now's not the time for...”
“Why? Not ordering anyone to die. You think a ceremonial sword could even kill?”
To prove it, he snatched one up and dragged it across his palm without hesitation.
“Eek!”
“Your Highness!”
Lancel and even Marygold winced.
'Sixth prince, you crazy bastard.'
He flashed his bloody palm with a grin.
“See? Dull as shit.”
Lancel barely held back from blurting that you died to that blade.
“Warm-up before war, earn some cash. Only idiots pass. Right, Lancel?”
The arrow swung to Lancel beside him.
“Heard you snagged one of the empire's top three beauties with your sword skills. That girl? I'd marked her—nearly died of envy.”
The prince sidled up, kneading Lancel's shoulder like they were buddies. Loud enough for all.
“See? One good swing gets you beauties, titles, riches. Everyone, follow Lancel's lead. So, counting down from ten.”
The game of chicken began.
“10... 9...”
Before '8' escaped his lips, two soldiers bolted like lightning. They grabbed the swords simultaneously.
“Urgh...!”
“Mine first...!”
A smile spread across the prince's face.
“First to bleed loses. Go!”
They eyed each other warily, then swung. Clang! Steel clashed amid heavy breaths.
“Lancel, who wins? Bet? I'll take left—he's nimbler. Looks skilled.”
“Me too, left.”
“Can't bet the same.”
“Why bet if I'm losing?”
“...True?”
“Obviously.”
The prince's gaze shifted to Marygold guarding Lancel's side.
“Your lover? Married men parading mistresses? Lady Iceford would cry.”
“Misunderstanding. She's my guard and retainer.”
“Fancy term for lover.”
“No.”
“Really?”
“Why would I lie to Your Highness?”
“Guard, huh. Tall, but doesn't scream expert...”
“Stronger than any soldier here.”
“Ho.”
He eyed Marygold oddly. She stepped closer to Lancel, rebuffing him with a frosty glare before dismissing him entirely. A chill the prince rarely felt since birth.
“Hmph.”
The duel ended quickly.
“Argh!”
The loser crumpled, shoulder pierced. Dull or not, it tore flesh.
“I-I won! I won!”
The prince raised the winner's hand.
“Applause for the victor!”
Ten gold coins changed hands.
“M-Money! Gold!”
“Yes, yes. Real imperial gold, winner! After the war, bed ten women a night.”
“Thank you, Your Highness! Long live the Sixth Prince! Hooray! Hooray!”
Seeing real stakes shifted the mood—sultry, charged. Regret and greed flashed in soldiers' eyes.
'Shoulda jumped first!' Sighs erupted.
Soldiers' eyes gleamed with frenzy—until the prince's gaze fixed on Lancel. No, on Marygold beside him.
“Mary, right? Sir Lancel's retainer.”
“...Yes. Why?”
“Listen up! For the next week!”
What followed shattered all expectations.
“The man who seduces her before I do gets... three hundred gold coins!”
“Th-Three hundred...!”
“Whoa!”
Not just soldiers—nobles and knights aboard gaped. Three hundred gold was that much.
A confident smirk curled the prince's lips.
“Of course, I'll win.”