Herta's Flame
House Herta.
Four hundred years ago they stood among the meritorious retainers who helped found the Kingdom of Arkesia, and from that day to this they have served the royal house as loyal vassals. True to so long a history, their fame is no small thing—great enough to pass beyond the royal capital and reach the other nations of the continent.
So anyone who would serve House Herta must, as a matter of course, be worthy of the name. The butlers, above all, are chosen only from elites who have endured the most exacting training.
A butler's ordinary work—the labor of the household, the running of the mansion, attendance upon one's employer—must be carried out to perfection. But when the house takes their measure, what it prizes above all else is martial power. And martial power, here, does not mean mere strength.
Swordsmanship and unarmed combat, yes, and every other fundamental art besides—mercenary craft, horsemanship, the study of magic. Fluency in every discipline combat demands is the baseline required of a butler of House Herta.
Six months of savage apprenticeship do not end the forging. Through the years of actual service he keeps learning, keeps tempering himself, is thrown into real combat, and grows without cease. Only when he is acknowledged to be fulfilling a butler's role in full does a member of the house bestow this hilt upon him, and only then does he formally become one of Herta's own.
I pour mana into the spinel set in the hilt, and I chant.
"O Herta's Flame—become a sword, and cut down the enemies of the house!"
⟨ Herta's Flame ⟩
Fire roars up. From the hilt in my hand, black-sheened flame blooms and hardens into the shape of a blade.
The secret art of House Herta is flame. By the tradition of the house, the founder hunted a salamander and swallowed its heart, and thereafter the fire he commanded carried an uncanny power within it. Pour water on it, and it does not die. Let the wind come, and it only grows several times fiercer, roaring higher still.
It is a black-red flame that burns and burns until nothing is left that can burn. Keenly sensitive to mana, it yields like clay under a potter's hands: feed it mana, and it takes whatever form the caster desires.
But this singular flame can be wielded only by those born of Herta blood. And the people of Herta grant the power to handle it only to those who have exchanged a sworn oath with them. The ones who, through that oath, swing Herta's Flame as a sword—those are the butlers of House Herta.
I level the wavering sword of flame at the pack of corpses charging us. A ragged shriek tears out of them, and the zombies are nearly on us now. But so long as I have this sword, what is there to fear? I only have to stay calm and drive the black-flame blade into their heads.
The sword sinks in. Black-red fire erupts from the center of a brow and swallows the whole head at once. The zombie manages only a short death-cry before it collapses, limp, the black flame already eating its skull. And so begins a battle in which fire purifies the unclean.
I stay close to Esmela—close enough that the zombies cannot rush her, yet far enough that the blade will never touch her—and I swing. Across, down, and now and then a thrust. Every line the sword travels seeks nothing but their heads. The flame howls. Before they can so much as set their mouths on me, black fire burns their heads away, and they crumble without even a scream.
I cut them down in a blank trance, losing count of how many have fallen, and still I don't forget to shout, dragging their attention onto me so they won't go for Esmela.
"Where are you looking?! Over here!"
The monstrous cries ringing me dwindle, little by little... and then, with a dull thunk as the sword punches into the last remaining head, they cease altogether.
I look around. Zombie corpses lie strewn in every direction, heads burned past burning, melted down. Thirty of them, maybe. The black-red fire, finished with their skulls, goes hunting for fresh fuel and begins to crawl down the necks of the dead. I check carefully, in case one of them isn't actually dead, then draw back the mana I've been feeding the sword.
"Haa..."
Yeah. Still a little short on mana.
Wielding Herta's Flame takes several times the mana of ordinary fire magic. I trained hard during my education as a butler of House Herta, trying to shore up a relatively shallow reserve, but it seems I'll have to push myself further still.
I tuck the hilt inside my coat and go to Esmela.
"My lady, are you all right?"
I kept every last zombie off her, but I ask after her anyway, just in case.
"Yes..."
Esmela answers, dazed. She seems to have climbed out of outright panic, though she hasn't accepted the situation yet.
"We should move. By rights we would take a carriage and be clear of this place at once, but..."
I glance at the wreckage of the carriage, smashed to splinters.
"It seems we'll have to run."
"All right."
She says it with a hand pressed to her brow.
"Honestly, what is this situation even supposed to be..."
"My lady."
"What?"
"Once again, I will carry you as we move."
"What?"
She scowls and glares at me.
"I told you quite clearly never to do that again. What would that make of my dignity?"
A young lady of a noble house, carried in her butler's arms, would hardly look well to anyone else. Of course not. But—
"And it's not as if I don't have legs! I can walk just fine! Don't tell me you're using this as a chance to do something improper to me..."
Esmela spills words without pause. None of them reach me. I school my face and look her straight in the eye.
"My lady."
"Wh-what is it? Why are you suddenly glaring at me with that face?"
"Upon my honor, I will make bold to say this. Now is not the time to worry about appearances."
I press the counsel on her with everything I mean.
"We must get clear of this place as soon as we can. And in the shoes you're wearing, you cannot run properly. That is why I intend to carry you."
I say it while looking down at the glittering red shoes on her feet.
"...It's that serious?"
She must have felt that I mean it. She asks again, grave.
"Yes. At the very least, if my judgment is correct, I believe the whole of the royal capital has fallen into crisis."
At my answer, Esmela's brow draws tight.
"You make it sound as if you know something about all this."
I hesitate. But if I mean to persuade her, I have no choice. Resolved, I look at Esmela again.
"Yes. I know what those things are."
Her eyes fly wide. I ignore it and go on.
"But there is no time to explain it now. I promise that while we move, I will tell you everything I know, Lady Esmela. So..."
Please. Esmela. I'm begging you...
"Just this once—trust me, and follow."
I finish, and I wait for her answer, hoping my sincerity has reached her.
"...I can't easily accept any of it. Not this situation, and not a word you're saying."
Esmela looks straight into my eyes. In those two red irises there is trust, aimed at me.
"All right. Just this once, I'll go along with what you're suggesting."
"Thank you."
I dip my head, then waste no more time. I step in, brace her legs with my left arm and her back with my right, and lift her. This time she accepts it without resistance, and holding her comes easier for that.
"We're leaving. Please hold on tight."
I draw mana from my Mana Heart and send it down into my legs.
Haste
The instant the acceleration spell completes, I break into an all-out sprint along the northern avenue, toward the mansion.
"Eek!"
The sudden burst of speed startles her, and she throws her arms around my neck.
...Sorry. Impure thoughts I didn't even have are forming anyway.
And so, with Esmela in my arms and Pirke Square falling away behind us, I race through the empty streets of the royal capital toward Herta Mansion. The rush of wind fills my ears, and the hands wound about my nape send a living warmth into me.
"You know, now that I think about it, it's funny."
Esmela shouts so the wind won't steal her words. Her golden ringlets whip wild in the gust. She has just witnessed that carnage, and still, held against me, she looks somehow glad.
"What do you mean, my lady?"
My own voice rises to match.
"That thing you just said. About staking your honor."
"Was something wrong with it?"
"Since when does a commoner have honor?"
"..."
Right. Woe is the commoner. However am I meant to live.
"Ha ha ha!"
Esmela bursts out laughing, as if the more she turns it over, the more absurd it gets. I'm a democratic citizen who lived in a modern nation, and I'm just about to fire something back at this former villainess, pickled in the feudal thinking of a class society, when—
"Heh. For a joke of yours, that was actually pretty funny."
"..."
Watching Esmela smile so brightly in my arms, it stops mattering at all.
Yeah. This is enough, isn't it.
For my favorite's smile, what wouldn't I do—and what wouldn't I hear?