Blue Blood (2)
Including the infantry of Baron Ripe and the mercenaries he had hired, nearly six hundred soldiers had waged the siege. Fewer than two hundred returned alive. The inner walls of the fortress were blanketed in thick frost, frozen solid as if clad in armor. Ordinary frost was thin like snow, but the frost conjured by the Goethe Count was thicker and sharper than a sword hilt. Layer upon layer of it interlocked like teeth, piled high. It was beyond the reach of siege rams. At minimum, they'd need a 3rd Class Mage or higher to unleash a torrent of fire magic.
But the mages brought by Viscount Boatmer were mostly 1st Class or 2nd Class mercenaries. A blizzard began to howl once more. Amid it, the darkened silhouette of Winterband loomed ominously. The gate resembled a gaping maw, and the frozen walls looked like a colossal frost giant from the Demon Realm crouching in wait. Catapults and cannons rent the night air again. Shells, boulders, pitch, and jars brimming with madness-inducing powder rained down on the fortress once more in nets. Yet the stronghold remained silent. It was like slashing at ghosts with blades.
"Pour it on without rest for two days," the viscount commanded.
The engineering captain bowed and exited the personal tent.
"It's Robert. May I enter?"
"Come in."
A knight stepped inside.
"Walter didn't return, did he?"
"No."
The viscount took a sip of wine.
"I heard from the returned soldiers. They said the enemy commander had his head on display."
"That's right."
"He's quite infamous among the mercenaries as the 'butcher baron.' As long as he's holding out, regular infantry won't breach the gate. I'll lead the attack in two days."
"……."
The viscount stared at Robert in silence. Rage filled Robert's face. Among the viscount's knights, Walter and Robert had been especially close. Orphans brought in at the same time. Bonds like that were truly potent. They sparked motivation no material reward could match.
"Robert."
"Yes."
"Walter was my son."
"Yes, he was."
"They took my son from me."
The viscount's voice was raw with grief. No act—it was genuine. Raising a knight like Walter required years and the wealth of several estates. Losing two such knights—Schwalier and Walter—was a bone-deep loss. It hurt far more than losing his natural son, Rutger. In his youth, he'd indulged endlessly with women, so he could sire bastards aplenty if needed. But a powerful, loyal knight? That was different. Talent, the will to endure training and trials, unwavering loyalty to father or lord. All had to align perfectly. It defied monetary valuation. And Goethe's whelp had stolen such treasures from him twice over.
"But Robert. You're my son too. I'm afraid of losing you as well."
"……Father."
Robert's voice choked with emotion.
"I won't stop you if you go. Walter was like a brother to you. Just promise me one thing. Return alive."
"……I'll avenge him and come back."
Robert dropped to one knee, his resolve firm.
"Good."
The viscount placed a hand on Robert's shoulder, patting it gently.
"Go now. Rest for the sortie."
"Yes."
Robert left the tent, his face alight with fervor. But the viscount's gaze wasn't on him. His clouded eyes fixed on the tent wall, then the floor. A field mouse had been circling nearby. Once Robert was gone, it approached, a tightly rolled note in its mouth. A message from the old druid Melgara.
The moon's disposition is uneasy. The sun moves while hiding in the clouds. The shadows urge.
The note was in code. The viscount's eyesight was too poor for the tiny script. He traced it slowly with his fingertip. The moon was the Second Prince. The sun, the First Prince. The shadows meant the council faction and imperial figures. The rest made sense. The hot-tempered Second Prince, the council, the empire's men—they craved swift results. Be it full civil war or Winterband's fall, they itched to charge down the path Boatmer had paved.
But one part eluded him.
"Hiding in the clouds, huh……."
If it had simply said the sun was moving, that meant the First Prince mobilizing. But hiding in clouds suggested no open march. The First Prince surely knew of the Boatmer-Goethe war. Even royalists watched closely, alongside the council. For him to lurk in the shadows now? It didn't sit right with the viscount.
"Has he abandoned Goethe?"
The viscount scowled. Events weren't unfolding as he wished.
Two days later, Robert led Boatmer's elite against Winterband. The fortress fell with eerie ease. The blizzard raged on into its second day, the walls still iron-hard with frost. But beyond the inner walls, Winterband's citadel was deathly still. Two days of heavy snow had piled drifts knee-deep in the depths. Not a single footprint marred the pristine white. Corpses of soldiers and beasts lay buried everywhere.
"……."
Robert easily spotted his brother amid it all. Walter. His eyes still open in death, head impaled on a spear. Likely raised high to crush Boatmer morale. Robert gripped the shaft—and it crumbled to dust. Walter's eyes wouldn't close. His frost-shrouded face was frozen to the bone; the slightest force would shatter it like glass. There was nothing Robert could do for him. Just gaze at the pain-twisted features and recall joyful days past.
Robert cradled the head in one arm and advanced on the gate. His boiling rage and murderous intent erupted as aura. Dark blue aura cloaked the sword dangling from his hand. He hacked relentlessly at the frost-bound gate. Once if needed, twice, thrice, four times…….
Crack—
Ice shards exploded with a roar.
"Hah—hah—hah—"
Breath ragged at his throat, blue blood trickled from nose and mouth.
Thud—
At last, the frozen gate crashed down.
"Plant Boatmer's banner. And find them."
Robert ordered his squire. His face was a demon's mask.
Hans couldn't lift a finger. He'd sensed it from Carlson and Everbin's clash. This war wasn't his place. Yet as Carlson's squire, Isaac's valet, Peter's father—he yearned to fulfill his duty. That's why he'd taken up the sword. If it aided allies even slightly, it was courage. But if it hindered? Recklessness.
Hans realized too late he'd been reckless. He'd fought in the 'Black Eye' mercenary company's ranks. Recommended by Bernsi's market boss, the Black Eyes fought well. They held against Mark and Hausen troops, even disrupting their lines to press forward. The company boasted several aura users beyond mortal limits. They cleaved foes with axes, hoisted and impaled fully armored enemies one-handed. Hans, fired up by their feats, felled several himself. Now he was a proper soldier, aiding comrades in peril, aided in turn. In the blood-soaked hell of the snowy field, knowing someone had your back felt profoundly reassuring.
Still, staring into the eyes of dying enemies wrenched his gut, stirring innate revulsion. But war was kill or be killed. Such qualms were a luxury. He truly grasped that when the line he'd helped hold collapsed.
Just one man. A long-haired figure strolled leisurely, bow slung over shoulder, short sword in hand. No one stopped him. Not even the Black Eye's famed aura users. Limbs sheared off in chunks. Valor-bound mercenaries charging on contract and trust met death uniformly. Blood pools formed in his wake. He seemed to have eyes in the back of his head—no mercenary could scratch him. Amid their dog-like deaths, Hans survived. Out of fear. Frozen, he hadn't budged.
Soon, no allies remained. Hans was alone. Far from other Binvelt lines. Their eyes met. Barely five paces apart. Hans's sword trembled. No—his whole body did. Splash, splash. The long-haired man waded the blood pool he'd made. Slow steps, but eyes scoured sharply. 'Raise the sword. Raise it. Raise—the—sword.' Hans urged his unresponsive body. Splash.'The sword…….'Splash.'Must raise…….' The man was nearly upon him. Splash, splash. Then he brushed past, ignoring Hans utterly. As if he were invisible, nonexistent.
Glancing back, the figure was gone.
"Hah—hah—"
Hans collapsed. Allied heads rolled at his feet. No rage, no vengeance stirred. He vomited.
'Ninety-eight, ninety-nine—'
Falkenvald had nearly wiped out Binvelt's mercenaries. His eyes swept the field swiftly. No time for small fry. He dispatched only those charging him. He needed to conserve stamina. The barbarian's gash from battle's start was widening. 'A hundred, a hundred one—'
The javelin hurtling at Karl—he'd half-anticipated it. This wasn't a winnable fight. Binvelt's mercenaries and troops posed little threat. The real danger: fur-clad barbarians. One-on-one, he could take most. Two? Dicey. Three? Doom. And some barbarians outmatched even solo—like the giant who'd halted Everbin and Kyle's duel in one blow. His mere presence chilled Falkenvald to the bone. Instinct screamed unbeatable.
Luckily, not his foe. Aura stormed a distant line—Everbin and Guillaume facing him, probably. 'Must get Karl out now.' Unlike charging troops, Falkenvald assessed coldly. In doomed battles, protect what must be saved. For the future. 'Everbin and Guillaume can handle themselves. Karl won't die easily.'
Unlike Rutger rejecting father's trials for faith, eldest Karl accepted. Gaining superhuman regeneration—minor wounds wouldn't kill him. Find and extract: simple. 'Karl must survive.' With viscount's death looming, Karl alone offered succession's legitimacy and stability. No way to lose him to that punk Binvelt baron.
"Kgh—"
The charging barbarian took two arrows yet stood. Axe and blade clashed five times; Falkenvald's feint exposed vitals. Stab— Sword plunged under chin, piercing skull and out the crown. Blood and brains dripped down the blade. Even then, the barbarian swung his axe weakly. Easily parried, but it grated Falkenvald.
"A hundred five. Damn barbarians."
He yanked the sword free, decapitated the corpse, and pressed on. His flank burned. Wound reopening from prior fight. Blood and cold sweat dripped. 'Karl, Karl, Karl…….' Injury worsening, stamina ebbing—his mind raced faster. 'A hundred ten, a hundred eleven.'
At a hundred twelve foes down.
"Karl!"
Falkenvald spotted Boatmer's heir. Dozens of paces off, facing the punk baron. Sword tip flickering with aura—crude, amateurish. Wouldn't kill Karl. Trial-hardened, his aura rivaled the viscount's knights. Even decapitated, reattach in time and he'd regenerate. His vitality matched Demon Realm beasts. Hold briefly till Falkenvald joined—rescue assured.
He exhaled in relief.
Whoosh—
"……!?"
Until the baron's sword blazed purple flame. Aura like nothing he'd seen.
"Ah……."
A shallow groan escaped him. Karl burned in the inferno. Boatmer's future crumbling to ash before his eyes.