The Funeral Pyre
The wind across the plain blew cold and sharp.
Beyond the hill the setting sun bled red, as if it meant to swallow the battlefield’s reek of earth and blood into its own flames.
There, a vast fire pushed back the gathering dark.
Yet the faces of the soldiers ranked before those roaring flames were more solemn than they had ever been, eyes blazing with fury.
Silence.
Every man had accepted that death might find him in war. None had imagined they would be used in so wretched a fashion.
To comfort the spirits of comrades who had been made tools of such cruelty—that was the only thing Arteon could do for them now.
Then came the sound.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
A great host approached from afar. Armor clanked in rhythm as measured footsteps rolled across the plain.
The commanders at the head of the column saw the towering blaze.
“Well done.”
Velkain drew near Arteon, his expression heavy. He already knew from the reports what manner of death these men had met. That was why, even in the midst of an active campaign, he had permitted their cremation.
Whoooosh!
Flames leapt skyward as though the heavens themselves were no limit; the enemy lines would see them clearly. It no longer mattered whether they watched or not. Such things had lost all meaning.
“Do not forget the soldiers who died for the Empire. Every history we build from this day forward will stand upon the blood they shed.”
At Velkain’s words the soldiers bowed their heads in silence.
When the fire at last began to wane, the men stepped forward one by one and drove their spears into the earth around the pyre. The banners hanging from those shafts caught the northern wind and the firelight, flaring red as they snapped and fluttered—like a legion of flame standing guard over the graves of the dead.
Velkain himself advanced, halted before the fire, and turned to face his army.
“Soldiers of the Empire, hear me!”
The cry rolled out as though it were aimed not at his own ranks but at the enemy camp beyond. Every eye fixed on him burned with fierce attention.
He continued.
“When the sun rises tomorrow we prepare to advance. Beyond this plain we will seize Belikezel, the northern land itself, and make a river of their blood run beneath it!”
“Uwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”
A thunderous roar surged up as if it would tear open the night sky. Morale soared. Velkain turned his gaze to Claw.
“Claw.”
“Sergeant Major Claw. Awaiting your orders, Supreme Commander.”
“Record the names of the dead. If victory comes, it will have been bought with their sacrifice.”
“Understood.”
“Arteon.”
“Lieutenant Arteon. Awaiting the Supreme Commander’s orders.”
Arteon clenched his right fist and pressed it to his left breast. Velkain’s eyes grew heavier still; he could not shake the thought that he was forever laying too much upon the younger man’s shoulders.
“Thank you for letting us honor their spirits. You did the duty that should have been mine as commander.”
“I merely did what needed doing.”
They fought in a land of death, yet every man here was a comrade, a brother-in-arms. Those brothers had died treated worse than dogs. To honor their spirits was only right.
Velkain’s lips curved in a faint smile.
“When this war ends, your name will be carved deep into the Empire’s history.”
“I will strive all the harder.”
Velkain turned back to the ranks.
“From the hour the sun rises tomorrow we will trample those cunning, beast-like bastards into the dirt!”
No more crouching. No more waiting for the perfect chance.
“The entire army will move. Before the Empire’s host they will meet death without being able to lift a finger!”
“Uwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”
“Uwaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”
The soldiers’ roar shook the plain. Velkain’s eyes flashed with cold killing light.
“Prepare the advance.”
At the Supreme Commander’s order, fire kindled in every chest. And across the battlefield plain—
Whoooosh—
—a tension deeper than death began to settle.
Bang!
The thick wooden table split clean in two. Wood dust sprayed from the crater left by Kortzan’s fist.
“Impossible!”
His voice filled the tent. The news was simply beyond belief.
“Bowukartaon is dead? How can that be?”
After his leg tendons had been severed, Bowukartaon had chosen the path of the madman in order to rise again. It was a gamble that could easily have killed him, yet the madness drug had given him power far beyond what he once possessed. A body that felt no pain could detonate mana and shatter the earth; the surging mana had even allowed a fiercer aura to bloom. The price, of course, was a lifespan measured in mere years.
Even I… would not have found it easy to defeat him.
And that Bowukartaon was dead?
Kortzan’s pupils shook. Did the Imperial army truly possess such a monster? Questions clawed through his mind until his eyes could find no focus.
Then a voice called from outside.
“Ko—Kortzan-nim!”
A subordinate burst into the tent, breathless. Kortzan scowled.
“What is it?”
“K-Krelmuk-nim… summons you.”
“...!”
Color drained from Kortzan’s face. Taman Krelmuk. He knew exactly what a summons at this moment meant.
Still—
“...I will go at once.”
He set out in silence, expression grim. One thing was certain: he would answer for this defeat in some form. That form might well be his own neck.
When he reached Krelmuk’s tent he stopped short.
“...?”
Not only Krelmuk waited inside. Every senior commander of Belikezel was present.
A woman already seated spoke first.
“If you are late, sit quickly, Kortzan. The Taman is waiting.”
“Forgive my delay.”
Kortzan bowed to Krelmuk and took the empty place. Two officers sat to either side of the Taman; their auras alone made the air inside the tent grow cold.
Closest to Krelmuk sat Baolk Sravan on the left and Herkan Belot on the right—elders among elders who had guarded Belikezel since the days of the previous Taman. They rarely entered the fray themselves, yet their presence had protected this land for generations.
In the second rank, opposite Kortzan, sat the woman: Heritikan Belot. Taman of the Belot tribe, mistress of both strategy and steel. Younger than Kortzan, she already bore five feather tattoos.
Kortzan’s gaze lingered on her.
Baolk spoke.
“All are gathered. Speak, Taman.”
Krelmuk nodded.
“I have heard we were defeated once more. A bitter thing.”
The presence of the elders kept his tone more measured than usual, yet the fury in his eyes remained.
He fixed Kortzan with that gaze.
“Kortzan. Have you considered the responsibility for what you have done?”
“...If you demand my life, I will offer it here and now.”
Kortzan bowed his head. Baolk shook his own.
“The death of so capable a warrior would only wound us further. Still… the Imperial army’s strength exceeds what we expected.”
Belikezel had never once allowed Imperial boots upon its soil. Yet the enemy now stood at their very threshold, had turned back multiple assaults, and claimed victory each time. And last night—
“A great fire burned in the center of their lines. Reports say they held a funeral for the soldiers who fell in battle.”
“A funeral in the middle of war,” Herkan muttered, face dark. “How much leisure must they enjoy to do such a thing?”
In the heart of a battlefield where combat could erupt at any moment, the Imperials had done exactly as they pleased, without so much as a glance toward their enemies.
Baolk looked to Krelmuk.
“We cannot simply watch them any longer.”
“From the previous generation, and the generation before that, Belikezel never once permitted the Empire’s footfall. To suffer this humiliation now is a blow that falls squarely upon you, Taman.”
Krelmuk knew it. His eyes remained calm as he regarded them.
“Are you confident?”
Until now they had never advanced first upon this land. The enemy had never come so far; there had been no need. The situation had changed. The arrogant Imperial host that thought itself invincible had to be crushed utterly by overwhelming force.
The four commanders fell silent. The question had already answered itself.
Krelmuk rose.
“We have lost because we have not fought as we were meant to fight.”
They were raiders. Hunters. Digging in and trading blows was never their way.
He addressed the elders.
“Baolk Sravan.”
“Yes, Taman.”
“Herkan Belot.”
“Yes, Taman.”
Then he turned to Heritikan and Kortzan.
“From this moment, carry word to every warrior.”
Decision already burned in his eyes.
“We go to hunt the Imperial dogs who have dared enter our land.”
The order to advance had been given.
“The soldiers’ morale… is enormous.”
Grein could not hide the tension that tightened his features at the army’s transformed atmosphere. From the moment the sun cleared the horizon, tents had been abandoned and preparations for the advance begun in earnest.
Arteon approached while Grein watched the bustling ranks.
“From here on we keep our wits sharp.”
The very air of the battlefield had shifted. Their own side was readying to march—yet the Kar Tribe would be far more desperate.
They will not crouch any longer. After losses like these they will never simply endure.
It was a judgment only a man who had fought the Kar for long years could make. No—a certainty.
“In the next battle… many soldiers will die.”
“...Sir?”
Grein’s face went cold and still at Arteon’s words.