Omen 3
Omen 3
The aftermath of the curse's destruction spread to those nearby.
Eugene and Marbas possessed strong resistance to otherworldly energies and were utterly unshaken, but the others were a different story.
"Ngh!"
"Eek!"
Even mercenaries brave and loyal enough to protest to a knight commanding hundreds felt gooseflesh rise over their entire bodies.
They had thought mercenary life had exposed them to every kind of cold—chilly, freezing, biting—but this was a sensation they had never known.
It felt as though shards of ice had entered their veins and were drifting through their bodies, chilling their blood.
Homi's tail stood straight up like a startled cat's, the fur bristling in every direction like a chestnut burr.
'...'
'...'
Despite the situation, the sight was so endearing that Eugene's subordinates recovered their composure a second sooner.
"Calm down. I had no intention of harming him. I was removing the curse tormenting him."
Eugene's explanation left the two mercenaries unable to refute him. They knew his words were true, for they had just experienced it with their own bodies.
Above all, their comrade's complexion had visibly improved. He had been suffering as though an invisible serpent was coiled around him, constricting him.
"W-were you a priest, sir?"
"Idiot. If he were a priest, you would have noticed immediately."
Eugene's body bore not a single religious symbol that clergy commonly wore.
Besides, armed priests and holy knights tended to gather with others of their kind. No matter how one looked at Eugene's unit, it seemed far removed from a religious order.
"To carry out God's... the Goddess's will, I do not necessarily need to become a priest. If I temper my soul and faith, She will use them as She sees fit."
Eugene clenched the hand that had torn away the curse. Even for a knight, it was a large hand, gleaming in the sunlight within its gauntlet.
After what they had just witnessed, to the ignorant mercenaries it truly looked like a glorious hand blessed by a god.
"Ooh!"
"You said the Goddess, sir? Her holy name is?"
In a world where multiple faiths coexisted, there was more than one goddess.
"Vanas. In the savage past, She was the first to give birth to tolerance and spread it. Any forgiveness or consideration you have enjoyed even once in your lives ultimately began with Her."
"Vanas."
"The Goddess of Tolerance."
The two mercenaries murmured solemnly.
To ordinary people, the love of the gods preached by great religious orders felt distant. But after witnessing a miracle(?) with their own eyes, even unbelievers could not help feeling awe.
And tolerance, of all things. To mercenaries who lived with their lives on the line, it was far more appealing than gods of honor, craftsmanship, or bountiful harvests.
Who knew? Perhaps one day, if they suffered an unlucky defeat and were taken prisoner, the Goddess's grace might see them freed.
"When did you become a believer?"
Marbas whispered quietly.
"Just now. I couldn't think of a better excuse, and explaining everything about myself to them would have been awkward."
"...Is it truly acceptable to decide one's faith so hastily?"
"Let's call it a short-term contract. I get a convenient explanation, and the Goddess Vanas gets her existence advertised."
"It is a frame of mind this old man could never hope to follow."
"Before she is a god, she is a tenant. There's no need to fear her that much."
Even for a faded god, what an unhesitating attitude!
'Must one reach that level to behold the abyss of another world and keep one's sanity?'
Marbas felt not so much bewilderment as outright admiration.
* * *
Eugene's subordinates rested briefly in the village and procured supplies.
Meals during operations were provided through logistics at no cost, so the soldiers spent their attention on treats and snacks. With no meal expenses, they had money to spare on such things.
"Give me ten eggs."
Eggs were a popular snack in this era. The mercenaries, who had learned the concept of protein under Eugene, liked them even more.
'I must grow stronger!'
Good jobs attracted competition. Eugene's mercenaries had begun treating even their diet as an extension of training.
"Just 200 credits, please."
"That's quite cheap, isn't it? Give me a chicken as well."
"That'll be 300 credits."
The mercenary, who had expected the villagers to charge high prices with so many customers around, was puzzled.
"We're planning to leave for the city today or tomorrow."
"Ah!"
During an evacuation eggs were fragile and hard to preserve, so the farmer seemed eager to sell them quickly.
"No need to worry. If we're going, whoever the enemy is will be dealt with." "That's reassuring. I'll throw in one extra egg."
Perhaps taking a liking to the mercenary thumping his own chest, the farmer offered a thin smile. Yet he did not seem to have abandoned his intention to leave.
Meanwhile, Eugene questioned the most badly wounded mercenaries. The severity of their injuries meant they had been close to the enemy and were likely to know more.
"This is not a curse."
Of course, nothing came free, so he had to examine the mercenaries who begged him to cure what they thought were curses.
"Th-that cannot be. The wound is small, but my insides hurt terribly. This is most certainly a curse!"
The mercenary showed the wound on his abdomen, roughly the size of a thumb joint, his expression twisted in agony.
"Have you eaten?"
"Yes. This is how we make a living. If I'm going to die, I might as well do it on a full stomach—that's our way."
"What did you eat?"
"Wheat porridge with pieces of dried cod in it."
"Homi!"
Nod.
At Eugene's summons, Homi approached and knelt before the mercenary.
If beauty meant freedom from distortion or corruption, Homi's beauty came from a purity falsehood could not invade.
The mercenary, who had lived his life caking his soul in filth, dared not look upon that innocent face.
Sniff, sniff.
Homi sniffed the wound in the mercenary's abdomen. A moment later, her expression hardened and she shook her head.
"It is definitely not a curse. I'm sorry, but the wound is deep enough to have damaged your intestines. I can smell the food you ate leaking from inside your abdomen."
"...!"
"Oh, no!"
The mercenary's face contorted in despair, and the comrade nursing him dropped his head in grim dismay.
Medical treatment in this era was largely limited to medicines and external surgery. Internal surgery—especially damage to the intestines—was beyond what they could treat.
"I am sorry."
It could not be said that death was certain, but neither could the outlook be optimistic.
There were many wounded, but only two had actually been cursed: the man Eugene had first saved, and another whose wounds were so terrible that a merciful death would have been kinder.
The investigation confirmed that the lamia spreading the curse was indeed a champion of an evil god.
"Sir Knight. To begin with, there is no precedent for a lamia wielding magic."
Rex, who had extensive hunting experience, nodded as if he had known it would be so. The tribal warriors, who had shown tension when they first heard of the curse, had now regained their composure.
"I'm glad everyone seems to have relaxed."
"What is there to worry about when we have a champion of our own?"
"A champion? Surely you don't mean me?"
"If both sides enjoy divine protection, the stronger warrior is bound to prevail."
Everyone knew that beyond being merely a powerful knight, Eugene commanded various mystic forces.
But the sight of him tearing away and destroying a fearsome curse before their eyes struck them as something even more extraordinary. It planted in them the faith that he would protect them from calamities against which bow and blade were useless.
There were times when a single monk gave soldiers greater reassurance than ten knights.
'If things go wrong, the Castle Lord will save us.'
So long as they had a means to resist, the enemy was no longer an object of pure dread.
"Everyone, prepare to move out. Word is that orcs have descended nearby."
Listening to the accounts of the mercenaries and refugees, there was scarcely a village left intact on the other side.
The lamia champion was encroaching on the territories of other native monsters, causing three-way and four-way battles to erupt throughout the region.
The mercenaries collapsed here had been caught in those chaotic free-for-alls, where no one could tell friend from foe.
* * *
The orc was the very symbol of monsters.
Goblins were more numerous, and their combat prowess only slightly exceeded that of peasant conscripts, but there were two elements that made orcs exceptional.
The first was that orcs possessed the most advanced technology among monsters.
The weapons and armor they crafted were heavy and crude, but in terms of sheer toughness they did not fall short when compared to human equipment.
The second was that orcs spoke the same common tongue as humans. Scholars had proposed countless theories explaining why, but no one knew the truth.
Not far from the village where Eugene had halted, there were two bands of orcs. All of them were covered in wounds and grime, as though they had endured bitter trials.
"Damn it! We're done here!"
The smaller orc shouted. He was Maglum, chieftain of the Gut-ripping Tribe that lived in the forest bordering the desert.
"Didn't we swear to stand together against the serpent queen?"
Scone, the captain leading the desert orcs, glared at Maglum.
"I thought we could win then!"
"This isn't a fight. It's war. In a fight, the first one to run loses. In war, the side whose heart stops last loses."
"And can you drive a blade into that serpent bitch's heart?"
Scone glared at the sneering Maglum. Maglum glared back, refusing to back down.
The difference in size was so great that Maglum barely reached Scone's neck. His face twisted with humiliation as he spat on the ground.
"Fighting like this is suicide. I'm returning to the forest."
"How long do you think it'll take the serpent queen to chase you down to your nest?"
The lamias of Samur could inhabit both desert and forest. Since their stronghold was in the desert, it would take time—but sooner or later, they would overrun the forest as well.
But Maglum only snorted.
"Orcs don't think about tomorrow. That's what weaklings do."
"You. And you call yourself a chieftain?"
"I'm better than the one who babbled about the future while turning his warriors into chunks of meat yesterday and the day before."
Grrrrr.
A threatening growl leaked through Scone's teeth, warning that he would tolerate no more mockery.
At that moment, every orc's nose twitched as one.
"The fish-stink!"
"The snake bitches are coming!"
They all seized their weapons and roared fiercely.
By the time they hurriedly formed ranks and readied themselves for battle, unpleasant breathing sounds were approaching from the distance.
Hissss.
Sssst.
It was not the sound of bipedal footsteps but of something long and thick dragging over the ground, accompanied by forked tongues slipping between lips.
* * *
"It is the noise of battle!"
Eugene's army, having completed its refit, had taken up pursuit based on intelligence passed on by the routed mercenaries.
"Ever since coming to Samur, I've ended up joining a lot of fights already in progress."
"Is that not simply proof that Samur is in an age of chaos?"
"We welcome it. It's convenient when someone else is up front serving as a meat shield."
Mercenaries loved nothing more than entering a battle between two other groups and taking advantage of both. For the tribal warriors, who preferred ranged swarm tactics to close combat, it was twice as appealing.
"Groooar!"
"Cursed sand-snakes! Even if I die today, I'll die chewing your flesh!"
Once they drew close enough, the shouts the orcs were hurling became audible. They were of two kinds.
One was a deep, unrefined voice mixed with an animalistic growl, its cadence clipped like a soldier's.
The other sounded as though it came through vocal cords shaped by innate viciousness and baseness. Even the finest words spoken in that voice could never inspire goodwill or trust.
As they crested the hill, a ferocious battlefield spread before them. Common orcs and huge, muscular orcs were locked in mutual slaughter with the lamias that encircled them.
"Khuuaaa!"
A muscular desert orc swung a crude two-handed sword. A fierce gust followed as part of the lamia's serpentine body split open.
A piercing scream rang out, though the wound was not fatal enough to kill.
The lamia, her face twisted with hatred, made a threatening gesture with her claws, and the desert orc readied himself to answer it.
But it was a trap. His attention was so fixed on her talons and her aggressive momentum that he missed the snake's tail which had stealthily slithered around behind his ankle.
Wham!
The desert orc lost his footing under the violent sweep of the serpent tail, and the lamia lunged into the opening.
The lamia's body was as thick as the desert orc's torso and far longer, giving her vastly greater constricting strength.
CRACK!
"Guaaaagh!"
The moment he was wrapped in her coils and squeezed, bones cracked and blood rushed into his yellow-brown face.
The desert orc struggled, but everything ended when the lamia raised her head and drove sharp venomous fangs into his neck.
The desert warrior, once utterly ferocious, was reduced to nothing more than a trembling mouse.
"Come to think of it, this is the first time I've gotten a proper look at an orc."
"Really? You've killed so many monsters, though."
"By chance, I just never had any dealings with them."
Eugene found it as curious as Rex was surprised.
"They really are hideous."
"Why else would they be spoken of as the very byword for monster?"
Compared to any other monster, an orc possessed a uniquely twisted form.
Even among different human races, outsiders often looked alike; with entirely different species, distinguishing individuals was harder still. It was much like how human eyes struggled to distinguish the faces of wolves, foxes, cattle, pigs, or deer.
Orcs were different. Their features were so distorted that even members of the same family might not resemble one another. Eyes, nose, mouth, build, jaw structure—everything varied wildly.
It went beyond simple ugliness. Every individual looked like a different radiation mutant.
Monster. There was a reason orcs had become the symbol of creatures alien to humanity.
"Prepare for battle!"
At Eugene's command, everyone took up their weapons.
The orc formation was already beginning to collapse. It was advantageous to strike the lamias from behind while they were still holding on.
"What of the orcs? Do we sweep them all away together?"
"Focus on the lamias first. The orcs can talk, so we may be able to extract useful information. If they resist or interfere, you may kill them."
Meanwhile, the orcs, whose situation was turning desperate, caught a new scent.
Sniff, sniff!
"The stench of flesh!"
"Human flesh!"
The scent to which orcs reacted most keenly struck their nasal membranes.
Under ordinary circumstances, they would have cheered with drooling mouths, but they had no such leisure now while fighting the lamias. Above all, mingled within the smell of human flesh were other things.
"A great army! Knights have come!"
The smell of iron armor and the sweat dripping from horses wafted thickly upon the air.
Rumble-rumble!
The horse archers, dispersing to both flanks and enveloping the perimeter, aimed their bows skyward as one.
Thrum-thrum-thrum!
Then came the sound of bowstrings loosed in unison—a sound that was always satisfying to hear.
Arrows that had sliced the heavens plunged down and drove into lamias' upper bodies and serpent trunks.
With tearing screams, the lamias wheeled about, faces like demons. At that, the orcs' reaction split in two.
"Flee!"
The lesser orcs, seizing the moment to bolt.
"Die! Cowards!"
"Where are you looking?!"
The desert orcs split open the fleeing lesser orcs' skulls while also attacking lamias that had turned their backs.
"Damn it all. This is why I hate lamias!"
The tribal warriors spat curses as they loosed arrows, but more than half of them struck only bare earth.
They were expert marksmen, but lamias could whip their muscular serpent bodies about with dazzling agility, making them irritating targets.
The battle was taking place in a depression, and the desert orcs were holding the lamias in place.
Those two advantages allowed Eugene's forces to pour in one-sided fire while keeping their distance.
For the lamias that managed to crawl up to the outer edges, the knights rode forth to engage them.
"Wha—, this wretch?!"
So agile were their movements that they could evade even a knight's lance.
"Leave it to me."
But against a flail arriving on an irregular trajectory, there was no dodging.
BOOM!
With a sound like hide bursting, the cluster of mace heads tore the serpent body apart. Flesh and blood exploded outward and entrails spilled beside the ruptured trunk.
As the lamia slowed, Haind's javelin pierced her weak point—the chest of her human-shaped torso.
With a harrowing shriek, the lamia tumbled head over heels down the hill.
"What of this?"
Varda, observing the battlefield from the rear, noticed a distinctive plant native to the region: Devil's Needle.
Devil's Needle normally did not bloom fully until autumn, but forest magic could bring the season forward—or force the plant into even more violent growth.
"Now, here, there is a bounty of hosts to scatter your seeds abroad."
Varda's complexion paled as she scattered reagents and chanted. In response, dark seed pods rapidly swelled from the ground.
Screeech!
The lamias crawling along the ground all shrieked and halted at once.
Their serpentine bodies were covered in black seed pods. They were not binding vines, but the pain alone was enough to halt their movement.
By contrast, the iron-shod hooves of the horses trampled and surged across the Devil's Needle without the slightest hindrance.
'As expected, she's incredible. Is there any mage more frightening when it comes to supporting an army?'
Eugene gazed upon his friend with eyes full of respect and affection.
Unlike thornvines, this created an ideal battlefield that hindered the enemy without impeding allies. As always, the ingenuity of Varda's magic was remarkable.
Ordinary Devil's Needle bore seed-pods no larger than a fingernail, but those grown by magic were bigger and sharper than a fishhook.
"Guaaaagh!"
When an orc struck by a lamia tumbled across the ground, Devil's Needle burrs embedded themselves all over his body.
"Everyone, be careful! If you fall off your horse now, that's what you'll end up like!"
The sight cooled the knights' boiling blood. They wanted to charge, but now was the time to keep their distance and harry the enemy.
Wham!
Thud!
Lamia after lamia, pierced by scores of arrows, began collapsing on every side.
"Groor!"
"Dieeee!"
The desert orcs hacked down with axes and swords again and again upon the lamias.
Draw.
When no more lamias remained to shoot, the tribal warriors' bowstrings were drawn toward them as well.
"Hold."
Eugene raised a closed fist and halted the fire.
"Do we enter an alliance with them?"
Rex glanced at Eugene, the logic of 'the enemy of my enemy' springing to mind. It was not unheard of — now and then, strange alliances did sprout upon the battlefield in the course of fighting a common foe.
"What kind of nonsense is that? They're orcs. I'm just saving a little on arrows."
"Ahaha!"
By the time the sweating orcs had finished tearing the wounded lamias apart...
"Loose! Leave only a few alive so we can extract information."
Eugene gave the order to fire.
The desert orcs panted heavily as they gazed in satisfaction at the lamia corpses. Arrows rained down over their hideous faces, still grinning in the heat of victory.