The Marquis Who Would Not Turn Back
Marquis Crucho was, without question, a superb commander.
The hardest thing to do with an army was to retreat.
The armies of this world were not disciplined, well-oiled machines, and loyalty was even harder to find. When a few mercenary companies became famous for their loyalty, it only meant every other company was lacking it.
And so mercenaries and soldiers alike would bolt the moment an army's morale soured — no one needed to be first, no one needed permission. It was their lives on the line, after all.
And now — at a moment when morale could hardly have been worse — the Marquis Crucho's army was retreating with remarkable order.
"Marquis Crucho is an experienced commander. This much is only to be expected."
Johan nodded at the report from the knight who had gone out scouting. He already knew from personal experience that the Marquis was a capable leader.
The assault had lasted less than a week, but it had been fierce. Thousands of soldiers had thrown up ladders and poured arrows over the walls. Merely being able to organize men gathered from all over into such a concerted attack was proof of skill in itself.
But the Marquis had badly underestimated the fighting strength of Ulrike's army. These men were neither exhausted nor wounded.
They had endured a siege, yes — but they had come out of it virtually unscathed. Holding a wall was hardly beyond them. And Johan had been there too.
"I would hear your counsel."
At Johan's words, the knights' faces brightened and opinions began pouring out. Chase them down with a few hundred fresh cavalry and grind the enemy to pieces through repeated charges — strike straight at the Marquis's main body now, while we can — all manner of suggestions were raised. Johan gathered them together and made his decision.
"We follow at a distance. If their morale is already broken, that alone will scatter a good number of them."
"A wise thought, my lord."
Faking a retreat to spring an ambush was not something just anyone could pull off. Done clumsily, the feigned retreat could shatter the army for real.
Still, Johan resolved to prepare for every contingency. Hadn't Suetlg advised exactly that?
Either way they're in a bad position. Watching them a few more days costs us nothing. If they're genuinely fleeing in a panic, they'll collapse on their own.
On the first day, dozens slipped away.
On the second, hundreds.
By the third, he was almost afraid to count.
"I beg your forgiveness, my lord."
"It is nothing. The enemy commander is clever."
Marquis Crucho had not feigned his retreat — but it was true that he was trying to set a trap.
His plan had been to throw his remaining elite soldiers at the pursuit force, annihilate them, and reverse the collapse of his army's morale in one stroke.
But the enemy only trailed close enough to be seen, watching for an opening, never closing in. And so his soldiers' morale hit rock bottom. It was only natural, with knights who could pounce at any moment glinting in the dark somewhere nearby.
Fewer than a thousand men remained now. Most were infantry, and far too many were conscripts — the kind of men who would crumple the instant knights charged their line.
"Let us charge, my lord."
"No. Stand down."
When his knights moved to volunteer, the Marquis stopped them. The enemy, after all, were not all knights. Set aside thirty or so of them, and the rest would be heavy cavalry to a man.
But they numbered in the hundreds.
The Marquis's own cavalry, scraped together to the last horse, amounted to a few dozen. The knights lost in the siege and the mercenaries who had deserted in the night had cost him dearly. With such a force, he could not possibly be confident of victory.
In the wars of this age, it was no exaggeration to say that knights and cavalry decided everything. Conscripts and most mercenaries simply could not hold a line of knights. Once the front collapsed, it was over.
"Who leads those men? I've never seen that knight before. Could such a man have been in the Abner family all this time?"
Johan's name had already spread through the Marquis's camp.
The soldiers who had held the walls had passed the tale along, trembling — of a knight with monstrous strength.
The knights had refused to believe it at first. But now, with the man himself on their heels, they could not help dwelling on the rumors.
"They say he is a knight of the Yeats family, called Johan. Supposedly he slew a troll at Marcel."
"Hah... so such a knight exists. A pity we could not have recruited him."
"Worry not, my lord. He is young and unpolished. Meet him face to face, and he can be beaten."
The knights under the Marquis roared with proper knightly pride. A man whose blood did not boil was no knight at all.
"We must reach Rebuten without fighting if we can. If we clash in our present state, the losses will be ruinous."
"If we quicken the pace—"
"We're bleeding men at this pace as it is. Any faster and fewer than a few hundred will remain. And then the enemy will fall upon us for certain."
Speeding up the retreat would only open gaps — practically an open invitation to attack.
"But my lord... now is not the time to worry about appearances. If you are captured, the problem becomes many times worse."
"I agree. You must slip away first, my lord."
"What nonsense is this? You cannot expect me to abandon my army and—"
The Marquis asked with an expression of disbelief, but the knights' faces were grave.
"I will remain and command. Escape at night with the other knights, my lord."
Ordinarily he would have bellowed at them, but Marquis Crucho did not. He was that torn.
If he kept leading the army in retreat, they could reach Rebuten within days. A fair number of the scattered mercenaries would trickle into the city as well, and it could all be somehow patched together.
But if the army crumbled further here...
A moment might come when even the Marquis could not escape. With fewer than a few dozen men left, no ruse would avail him.
If he meant to slip away, it had to be now — now, while more than a thousand straw soldiers still stood between him and the enemy's eyes.
"...Very well. I will tell you once I have decided."
"Yes, my lord!"
When night fell, both sides rested. But while one camp slept in comfort, the other trembled with dread.
Johan brought a dozen-odd men close to the enemy camp. At the sight of their torches, sentries could be seen screaming.
"You bastards! If you're coming, then attack us already!"
"Either come or stay away — what is the point of this!"
The mercenaries, pushed past the limits of exhaustion, lashed out wildly, but Johan ignored them.
Tormenting an enemy without ever fighting him.
It was something Johan could do endlessly, and the knights marveled at the sight.
Had Johan been a knightless mercenary, they would have sneered at such petty tricks. But Johan was a knight who had already proven his honor. This was nothing short of astonishing cunning.
-Grrrr.
"...?"
Johan, circling the camp with Karamaf and needling the enemy, sensed something wrong.
After days of this routine, the wrongness stood out. The torches moving through the darkness, the men among them.
What had changed?
-Grrr!
"Don't tell me..."
One thought chilled Johan to the bone. But it looked very likely.
Rebuten was not far. The Marquis might well flee with only his own body.
"Prepare to charge!"
"!"
"We are ready, my lord!"
A dozen-odd men against a camp of nearly a thousand — yet the knights lined up behind Johan without a flicker of hesitation.
"Charge!"
Johan realized it was time once more to hand his body over not to reason, but to instinct. And instinct was telling him to drive into the enemy camp alongside the knights.
Now! Charge!
"It's a raid! A raid!!"
Soldiers shrieked and flung themselves in every direction. The days of harassment nearby had paid off — their formation was all but nonexistent.
Dudududu—
Hoofbeats shook the camp, and the knights' roars rattled every eardrum. The knights hammered down on the backs of any mercenary within reach. Men in nothing but light clothing went down like cut wheat.
"Don't scatter — to the center! Find the Marquis!"
Johan stayed alert, but no organized counterattack came. The soldiers were scattering in every direction like startled rabbits.
No one on the enemy side imagined that this charge was being made by a dozen-odd men. They assumed it was the full assault of the force that had hounded them for days.
"My lord! There it is!"
The Marquis's command tent was easy to pick out even in the dark — the largest, and thick with torches.
When they reached it and still no counterattack came, Johan almost felt deflated. The Marquis had clearly already fled. In his place, another man rode out to meet them.
"I am Senephus of the Lesedige family! Name yourself!"
"Johan of the Yeats family. Where is the Marquis?"
"As if I would tell you! Don't underestimate me because I stand alone — I could take on all of you, hundreds to one!"
Johan gripped his weapon tightly.
He had no intention, in this desperate moment, of interrogating his way to a path. The man probably didn't know the Marquis's exact route anyway.
More to the point — does he have no idea how few of us there are?
Setting aside the main body behind them, they were barely a dozen.
It was only fortunate that the enemy didn't know. If he had, there was no telling what disaster might have followed.
"I've heard how you cut through the mercenaries. Let's see if you can show that skill against a true knight!"
Senephus charged. In the darkness, the faintly gleaming point of his lance drove for Johan's vitals.
THUD!
With a heavy, bone-deep sound, Senephus was thrown from his saddle. Johan didn't even glance back as he shouted.
"The Marquis has fled! Ride back to the main body and order the full assault. We will chase the Marquis ourselves!"
"Yes, my lord!"
While the cavalry behind them crushed the remaining enemies, Johan and the knights galloped on.
"Karamaf. I'm counting on you!"
-Krrr!
Karamaf ran through the darkness as though the road were lit before him, without a moment's hesitation. Johan pressed after his mount, glaring ahead.
The enemy had a head start, but the gap was not large. And they could not possibly move faster than him. When a nobleman traveled, he dragged servants and slaves along in his wake...
Johan's pursuit reached the enemy's ears as well. Sounds spreading through the night carried farther than one would expect.
"Did you not hear hoofbeats just now?"
"What are you talking about? Tired, are you?"
"No, just now—"
"!"
The other knights heard it too. The distant cry of horses.
The pursuit force is coming!
"H-how already?! Did a mercenary betray us?"
"What else could explain them arriving so fast—!"
"Then we stand and fight!"
"The odds are far too steep! We must throw them off. You — escort the Marquis and escape! The rest of us scatter and lead them astray!"
Marquis Crucho did not deliberate long. Having already committed himself to flight, there was no turning back here.
"I salute the loyalty you have shown me. We shall meet again in Rebuten!"
"No, my lord!"
The Marquis departed at once. The knights split into groups and began peeling off one by one, each changing direction in turn. The servants and slaves stayed where they were. They had no horses to ride, after all.
Word that the knights had scattered soon reached Johan's party as well.
Servants and slaves surrendering while shaking like leaves, and hoofbeats dispersing in every direction.
Karamaf snorted and tilted his head in confusion.
"...Damn it all. After coming this far, do we leave it to luck?"
"God will look after us, my lord."
They hadn't a shred of such faith, but the knights were already thoroughly drunk on victory.
A dozen men had smashed an entire camp and chased the Marquis to his heels — how could any of this be possible without God's care?
"Fine. Let's go! If God is watching over us, then we can catch the Marquis!"
Of course, no such providence existed.
Along the direction Johan pursued, what they found was five knights. No matter how he looked, there was no one resembling the Marquis.
"Tch."
The men at Johan's side showed their disappointment too. Knights did carry ransom, but only the cheap, common sort.
Never imagining his opponents were entertaining such venal thoughts, the Marquis's knights steeled themselves with grim resolve.
"I am Marco of the Algato family. Name yourself!"
Johan lazily raised his weapon. Whoever this was, he intended to knock him flat. They had the numbers besides.
"My lord!"
"What? Do you want him for yourself?"
"That man is the Marquis's son!"
At the knight's words, Johan frowned in puzzlement.
"Wasn't it the Algato family?"
"He's a bastard."
It was not uncommon for a great noble's illegitimate son to be sent off into another family. Even the dregs of nobility were treated as noble, which made it the best possible outcome for a bastard.
"Is he doted upon, like Stephan?"
"Not at all."
"I see."
Johan sounded almost disappointed. Well, fair enough — if he had been cherished, no father would have dragged him onto a battlefield and used him so.
As Johan and the knight murmured to each other, Marco bristled and shouted.
"Name yourself!"
"Johan of the Yeats family."
Even as he spoke, Johan charged. The Marquis seemed lost, so he meant to take as many of these knights as he could.