Trial by Duel
The dwarf centurions found themselves unconsciously glancing at McCalde.
If things went on like this, the matter would almost certainly end in a pitched battle. And if that happened, the siege McCalde so desperately wanted would...
"...I am fine with it. Even without a siege, I daresay we can still demonstrate our valor."
"Well said, Commander! Let us show those vampire vermin what the dwarves are truly capable of!"
Siege or no, the dwarven mercenaries were formidable. Armed with longspears, axes, and shields, they advanced like a walking fortress — solid, unyielding, immovable.
"So the intelligence leaked."
Johan muttered it with visible displeasure. The mercenary captains stiffened at his words.
The business of plague and curse had ended, but Johan's authority remained absolute. The mercenaries still revered him. If he strode out before their ranks and cried, 'Hang your commanders!' the men would come charging like hounds to string up their own officers without a moment's hesitation.
When a man like that spoke so sourly, tension was inevitable. Information had slipped out. And if the culprit was among them...
"Might I ask why you believe so, my lord?"
The only captain with the nerve to speak was Gurerik — thanks to being the first to switch sides.
At the start, the other captains had sneered at him. What could possibly make him follow such a green boy? Now the sneers had turned to admiration. That's Gurerik for you. There's a reason he alone survived the Galz War.
The other captains watched Gurerik's every move. Few things in this world were more terrifying than a lord's aide-de-camp — a man who could hold the lives of all his inferiors in the palm of his tongue.
"The vassals are joining him faster than we expected."
Count Zhikilid was not mad enough to come charging at them with a few hundred men. The only reason he could march out like this was that his vassals were rallying to his banner.
The situation was nothing like when Johan had torn through the south like lightning and seized the county.
Back then, Johan had held full legitimacy with the Church throwing its weight behind him. On top of that, the Asada brothers had been working overtime in the shadows, slandering the count at every turn.
Even without stepping forward, the vassals had found the atmosphere already made for them.
But now, Johan was a heathen — an invader come across the sea. No vassal stayed home from an invasion like this. However much they dreaded the march, they had no choice but to answer the summons first.
"Still... you anticipated this, did you not, my lord?"
"I did."
Johan had indeed expected the count's vassals to come running. The two sides had squared up to each other and declared war — no sane enemy would fail to prepare.
But the enemy was moving far faster than the intelligence had suggested. Johan had assumed the enemy host would assemble around the middle of the siege. He'd even drawn up plans to shatter them piecemeal...
He'd meant to swallow them raw, and now that the enemy was behaving normally, the missed opportunity gnawed at him.
Then again, nothing in this world ever flows that easily.
"I... I never told my own centurions about the expedition, my lord."
Deersam, captain of the Gorgale Company, spoke up with a guilty conscience. Johan looked at him quizzically.
"I believe I said you were free to tell your centurions?"
"Ah, no... I thought security came first, so..."
"A useless gesture. Telling the centurions means less confusion in the ranks. Your men must have suffered preparing without warning."
To have spoken so earnestly only to be treated like a fool — smiles rippled across the lips of the other mercenary captains. Few pleasures in life compared to watching a sharp-cornered man get hammered round.
"Most likely the hostages smuggled the information out. Envoys down to servants have been coming and going; passing word along wouldn't have been difficult."
"Ah... of course, my lord!"
"Exactly as you say, my lord!"
The captains relaxed. So Johan hadn't been suspecting them at all.
"That men who live only by your grace would commit such treachery! They must be dragged out and executed at once!"
The quick-witted ones moved one step ahead of the rest here. The others wore expressions of regret. I should have said that first!
"No. I cannot execute nobles on suspicion alone. It would be a stain upon honor."
Johan declared it flatly. Of course, it wasn't honor but ransom that stayed his hand. The hostages in his keeping were scions of this nation's noble houses. Kept alive, they were men he could put to very good use.
His mood was sour, but Johan could wait as long as it took. For this affair, he intended to collect many times over.
"Confine the hostages' servants to quarters and double the watch. What is the enemy's strength?"
By the reports, the enemy host numbered some three to four thousand. The vast majority were lightly armed or hastily conscripted soldiers.
When they heard that, the mercenary captains laughed openly. Their own numbers were a full five thousand — and that was the count of an elite force, culled and hand-picked from the rabble and the green.
Nearly all were well-armed, veteran, with a solid core of heavy infantry among them. For a rabble of that caliber to dare challenge them — it was laughable.
Just how much do they underestimate us?
Hiding behind their walls, trembling — even that would be too good for them...
"Don't grow arrogant. This is enemy territory."
"Our apologies."
"Keep a sharp eye on their cavalry. Anything could happen, so stay ready."
"Yes, understood."
Even in an overwhelmingly favorable position, Johan prepared thoroughly. This time as well, the fleet shadowed their advance along the coastline. Whatever happened, supply and support would hold.
I expected them to hold the walls, yet they march out. Do they have some card up their sleeve? I should stay cautious.
"The enemy's spirits run high and their discipline is impeccable. Perhaps it would have been wiser to shelter behind the walls after all..."
"Hush. Keep your voice down. A knight of the Dakhya family said those very words yesterday, and he was flogged for it."
Count Zhikilid's vassals were anxious as well. The rumors they'd heard before and the reports on the invaders who had landed were... somewhat — considerably — different.
By every account, the enemy was no disorderly bandit horde but a formidable army under iron discipline.
Yet Count Zhikilid answered his honest vassals with the lash.
Bandits are rampaging through my own front yard, and you would have me cower inside my castle — and you call that counsel now? Every noble on this island down to the last slave will laugh in my face!
And the count's argument was not without reason.
By sheer fortune he had been able to summon his vassals first, but that very host had become a poison.
With an army of that size, holding the castle was impossible. Food and supplies would run dry in no time.
He could have abandoned the castle, maneuvered in the island's interior, harried the invaders and dragged out the war — but for the count's face, such a course was unthinkable.
The bandits would strip the land of everything worth plundering and sail away, and then how would he answer for it?
Had the count truly understood, from this moment on, exactly whom he was facing — he would have chosen that path without hesitation.
"Does the count have much military experience?"
"No, my lord. As far as I know, the Emir has done no more than put down bandits and serfs in revolt."
"Then what in the world is that meant to be?"
"...It looks to me as if he means to try his hand at us..."
Ahir cautiously spoke up.
Down the hill ahead of them, dozens of banners snapped in the wind as an army unfurled. Count Zhikilid's host was taking position to offer battle.
Sea on the right. Flat plain on the left — nowhere for an ambush to hide. Even if they wanted to dig traps, there's no ground to sell them on. An ambush behind the hill, then? But even if they came out from behind, what would it avail them? A surprise attack is impossible.
Johan was baffled.
Did they genuinely intend to settle this with pure strength of arms?
Was the count an imbecile?
Does this army look like a bluff to him?
"Send orders to the left and right wings. Signal them to advance."
"Yes, my lord!"
As Johan's host began its slow advance, a single knight spurred out from the enemy lines. In what sounded like memorized Imperial tongue, he bellowed at the top of his lungs.
"What's that fool yelling about?"
"He is challenging you to a duel, my lord. He says if you refuse, he will mock and insult your honor before all..."
Duels before battle were a common custom. To the victor went acclaim and glory; to the vanquished, mockery and death.
And it was never merely a private matter. The outcome of such contests swayed the morale of entire armies.
Soldiers believed the side beloved by the gods would win the battle. The result of a duel was a gauge by which that favor might be read.
"Goiden. My weapon."
Taking the weapon his servant offered, Johan mounted Cardirian. Sensing the prospect of blood, the bicorn let out a satisfied shriek.
When a second knight burst from Johan's own lines, a roar followed. When it became known that the knight was Johan himself, the roar grew hotter still — a clamor that seemed as if it would shake the very earth.
Still, when the commander-in-chief rides out for a duel, shouldn't someone stop him?
The thought crossed Johan's mind as he galloped forward.
Johan himself was confident of victory, of course — but if his own liege lord went charging off to a duel, he imagined he would be too worried not to hold the man back.
Yet the warriors gathered on the plain accepted all of this as natural and utterly proper.
An honorable noble had to be the bravest and finest of knights. If he was the commander they served, stepping into such a duel was simply what was owed.
Hooves thundering, the enemy came into view. A vampire knight with a scarred cheek. Clutching his couched lance, he charged — and at the sight of Johan, he flinched, visibly rattled.
Broad and powerfully built, mounted on a bicorn of overwhelming menace, Johan looked at a glance like no ordinary knight. The armor revealed between surcoat seams threw off strange colors in the sunlight.
But that was only the beginning of the shock. The weapon in Johan's other hand — the one gripping no shield — came into view. A warhammer of obscene size.
"...The madman!"
There was a certain advantage to having studied the Eastern tongue: he could understand the enemy's screams. To his credit, the opposing knight possessed superb horsemanship and spearwork. Even mid-flinch he kept his seat, straightened his spine, and drove his lance in like a thunderbolt.
Well, they wouldn't send a man without skill to a duel like this.
Johan tensed his body and swept the spearhead aside with a slanting blow of his shield. The enemy's furious strike scraped a scar across the shield's face and glanced away.
At the same instant, Johan's counterblow fell. Giant Slayer came sweeping down from on high. The knight's eyes flooded with shock — he had never imagined a weapon so heavy could move so nimbly.
The shield—!
The knight heard thunder crack beside his ear. But it was not thunder. It was the sound of Johan's Giant Slayer shattering his shield and severing the passage of his breath.
Blood fountaining, the knight tumbled from his saddle and rolled across the dirt. The duel showed no mercy to the loser. Dust rose and swallowed him. Johan raised the warhammer with a cold, level expression — the glory permitted to victors alone.
Then a roar like rolling thunder erupted from Johan's lines. Jeers, laughter, and curses hurled at the enemy followed hard upon it.
"N-nahudim lost? Lord Nahudim?"
"Impossible...!"
The enemy nobles stood frozen, mouths agape in shock. The knight Nahudim was a seasoned duelist who had fought and survived more duels than he could count.
That was precisely why he had enjoyed the honor of riding out first before the enemy at this momentous hour, to offer the challenge.
And he had fallen in a single stroke. It simply could not be believed.
"He is calling for Lord Zhikilid himself!"
"That wretch...!"
In fluent Eastern tongue, Johan called out Count Zhikilid by name. If the noble had any regard for honor, let him come forth and settle this man to man — it was your war and mine, so why spill the blood of others? The count ground his teeth.
Having been challenged so openly, refusing now would drop his honor into the dirt. The count rounded on his grand chamberlain.
"Will you stand there and watch that creature speak to me this way? Do you mean to shame me?"
"......"
"My lord, allow me to stand as your champion!"
"Go, Amlal! Cut the wretch's throat!"
A new knight burst forth. Johan waited — then pounced like a striking hawk.
"I am Amlal of House Hato— urk!"
Amlal toppled even as he understood, at last, why the mighty Lord Nahudim had died. Johan's strength defied imagination. He wielded that colossal warhammer as if it were a dagger.
Attacks that exploded out of a trailing stance, too fast to follow. Terrifying enough on its own — but block with a shield, and the shield came apart in your hands.
Johan blasted the shield clean away in one stroke, then closed the distance and crushed the knight's skull like ripened fruit.
"......"
"......"
The next knight fell the same way. And the one after that. Count Zhikilid's camp had gone as silent as a graveyard. Shock and awe had sealed every mouth.