The Warlord's Brand
The southern reaches of Elbarphiel Lake lay smothered in fog denser than usual.
And beyond that fog...
Black silhouettes wavered faintly as they approached, trailing the thick stench of blood.
"Kh...!"
Broken spears and axes. The warriors of the Kar tribe limped across blood-soaked undergrowth beneath a sky that had already gone black, moving in silence.
They had collapsed helplessly before the Empire's unexpected assault. The crushing defeat rendered their recent great victory at Elbarphiel Lake almost meaningless. And the enemy force had numbered fewer than a hundred men.
Despair settled over the Kar as they finally reached their own lines on the lake's southern shore.
And then...
"Support the Taman at once! Quickly!"
Ulgraak entered the tent that had been converted into a field infirmary. His left shoulder was a ruin of blood. The wound left by Arteon's spear had torn flesh and shattered bone. Even with every effort to stop the bleeding, the blood refused to cease; pus-streaked fluid oozed thickly down his side.
"Taman, are you all right?"
"...There is no need for a fuss."
Whether from blood loss or something deeper, Ulgraak's complexion was poor. Still he turned his gaze on the deputy supporting him—Moldur—and spoke.
"Moldur. Form a scout party at once from the swiftest uninjured warriors."
"...A scout party?"
Moldur's brow furrowed. Scouting, in this state? The warriors had barely made it back alive.
But Ulgraak only nodded.
"Send them toward the Imperial lines. Confirm the enemy's movements. Those foxes will never let an opportunity like this slip past."
"They lost heavily to us only recently. Raising a proper force so soon will be difficult for them."
That was precisely why the enemy had come in such a small unit, was it not?
Ulgraak's expression hardened.
"Moldur."
"Yes, Taman."
"The air has changed. They will force an attack even if it strains them."
Ulgraak thought of the boy-soldier he had fought. No—calling him a boy-soldier was an insult to the combat power the youth had displayed. And more than that...
Those eyes...
They had been a warrior's eyes. The eyes of a seasoned, iron-willed fighter who had already crossed the line between life and death more times than most men ever would.
Ulgraak glanced down at the ruin of his shoulder.
I managed to stop it... barely.
If the boy's strength had been even a fraction greater, the axe haft would have shattered and the spear would have pierced his heart. The youth's still-unfinished body had, in the end, saved Ulgraak's life.
He pressed a hand to the wound. Blood sprayed out as if he were vomiting it.
This would not do.
"T-Taman!"
Ulgraak rose without a word. Moldur called after him, but the warlord moved to the rear of the tent where a metal rod glowed on the charcoal brazier.
"This humiliation... I will repay it without fail."
The thought of Arteon turned Ulgraak's eyes blood-red. He seized the heated iron and pressed it to the open wound.
"...!"
A short scream rose only to be crushed behind his teeth and swallowed back down his throat. The stench of burning flesh filled the tent; agony raced up his spine and exploded behind his eyes. Yet Ulgraak never broke his stance, holding the iron perfectly until the wound was sealed.
His clenched molars ground as though they might crack.
"Hoo."
At last a breath of white steam left his lips.
The cold northern wind cut across his skin like a blade. Ulgraak turned his head toward the direction from which they had come.
"Next time..."
I will take that head in a single stroke.
His gaze stretched past the fog toward the small figure of the boy who had wounded him.
Before dawn the 4th Line's camp was already alive with torchlight and noise. Word that the advance order had been issued sent soldiers into hurried motion, yet their faces were a tangle of complicated emotion.
"We're going back to Elbarphiel Lake...?"
Whispers never stopped among the ranks. The recent defeat had left nearly half their strength dead or broken; nameless corpses still lay somewhere along the lakeshore. And now, on the strength of a single reinforced company, they were to fight again?
It was not merely reckless—it was suicide.
Doubt spread through every corner of the camp. All except one place.
The 3rd Platoon breathed a different air entirely.
"Bring that."
"Here it is."
Grein and five platoon members carried over something blackened and rectangular—half wooden board, half armor plate. When they set it down, a nauseating reek of oil punched into every nose.
Arteon prodded it lightly with the tip of his spear. Marks remained, but the material did not puncture. He gave a small nod of satisfaction.
"Everyone wear one under your armor. This will stop an axe blow or two that would have finished you otherwise."
The black something was leather armor repeatedly soaked in oil and dried under the northern sun and freezing wind. The process left the hide softer yet denser, springier, far more resistant to friction and tearing—effective protection against the Kar tribe's brutal weapons.
One soldier lifted a piece and grimaced.
"But... the smell is unbearable. No one can wear this—"
Thwack!
"Gah!"
The complaining soldier pitched forward with a scream. Grein had cracked him hard across the back of the head.
"It's better than dying, so shut your mouth and put it on. Anyone with a real complaint can have me cut his throat right here."
Under Grein's sharp words the platoon fell silent and hurriedly donned the armor. For all the stench, the fully dried leather sat surprisingly well against the body.
Watching them, Arteon felt a faint smile touch his lips unbidden.
Coldly speaking, the men had not undergone any dramatic physical change. They could not thrust a spear faster or run harder than before. At most a week or two of training had improved their stamina a little. No one could expect miracles from such a short period.
What had changed—truly changed—was something deeper. They no longer flinched from fear, and they no longer forgot a soldier's duty to fight no matter the situation.
I can see it in their eyes alone.
They were no longer men who simply tried to survive the battlefield. They had become warriors who intended to seize victory.
At that moment a horn blast tore the sky open.
Bwoooooooo!
The assembly call rolled across the entire camp. Arteon looked over his platoon.
"Move out."
"Yes, sir!"
A low order answered by a roar of voices. Seeing the men fully wound and ready, Arteon turned.
This war...
We will win it. Without question.
There was a quiet, iron strength in his stride as he headed for the assembly ground.
Northeast 2nd Line. The command post at the western tip of the forward camp.
Inside the cold operations tent, Rauben Crester, Commander of the 2nd Line, stared at the letter before him.
"..."
A short, disbelieving laugh escaped him. Open incredulity sat plain on his face.
"This... truly came from Legion Commander Velkain?"
His deputy Erd, standing quietly in front of him, nodded.
"The seal matches. The courier was confirmed as one of the Legion Commander's personal runners."
"...Hah."
Rauben looked down at the letter again. Then he crumpled it and flung it to the floor. Irritation flooded his features.
"These are the same people who used to bicker endlessly over the southern shore of Elbarphiel Lake. And now they suddenly intend to take the entire lake? Does that even make sense?"
Half the sneer was aimed at Legion Commander Velkain; the other half flew toward the distant 4th Line.
"Impossible."
Sheer nonsense. Erd lowered his eyes slightly and glanced at the crumpled letter on the floor. One corner had unfolded, revealing a fragment of text.
...if the possibility of seizing the entire lake becomes apparent, strike the enemy's flank to cover the forces of the 4th Line...
That single sentence was enough to reveal the order that had been given. Rauben exhaled a quiet sigh.
"Erd. What is the present situation on our forward line?"
"Thanks to our recent decisive victory, the Kar tribe has pulled their lines back."
"An opportunity for us to attack as well, then."
"If we move the troops quickly, I believe we can push them all the way back to the positions they currently hold."
"...Damn it."
Rauben muttered a short curse, then shook his head.
"Still—an order is an order."
Coldly speaking, whether the 2nd Line advanced a little or withdrew a little made almost no structural difference. The terrain was narrow, and even if the line were breached a natural barrier stood immediately behind them.
But...
The 4th Line was an entirely different matter. Rauben's eyes lifted to the northern map hanging on the wall. His gaze settled on Elbarphiel Lake.
"If that place can be completely taken..."
He did not need to finish. Erd understood and nodded.
"It would create a proper base from which to advance into the northern heartland where the Kar main force sits. If we hold both Helikel Canyon on the northwestern 1st Line and Elbarphiel Lake, even the Kar will have no choice but to grow tense."
"Exactly. And once the lake is ours, support will naturally flow to our side as well."
Erd asked carefully, "But... is it truly possible to take the entire lake?"
Rauben twisted the corner of his mouth in a dry smile.
"If it isn't? We simply watch from a safe distance and pull back. Honestly, the risk to us is small. Still..."
He let the sentence trail off and looked again at the ruined letter on the floor. The document itself was unrecognizable, yet the red seal stamped upon it remained burned into his memory.
Velkain. The coldest, most cautious legion commander in the Empire. And that man genuinely believed this operation could succeed?
Rauben began writing the troop-muster order in silence, murmuring to himself on one side of his mind.
...Does he truly believe it? That they can swallow Elbarphiel Lake whole?
The doubt did not vanish. Yet he spoke.
"Erd. Prepare the troops. We move immediately to the western side of Elbarphiel."
And if such a thing really were possible...
The entire flow of the north will change.
He did not know what—or who—stood at the center of it. Rauben simply continued to stare at the northern map and the lake marked upon it.