Rakuin no Monshou - Book 7: Chapter 7: The Guardians of the West

Part 1

It’s was roughly an hour before Nabarl was to give the order to fire.

To the northwest of Apta lay the Belgana Summits, which, along with the River Yunos, formed the border. Incidentally, ‘Summits’ was the name used on the western side, while in Mephius, they were called the ‘Belgana Mountains’. Because a part of the mountain summits looked completely flat when seen from Helio, people in the west referred to that section as the ‘Belgana Summit’ and often cited it when making a comparison to something flat, until it gradually became to be the name used for the mountains as a whole.

The noise of rattling armour was clanging within those Belgana mountains. The surroundings were dark but the soldiers, their guns and swords at the ready, had had the way thoroughly identified by the platoon sent beforehand. They chatted together as they went down the mountain.

Originally, there had been a fortress that Helio had built to keep an eye on the east, but said fortress had been burned down during the battles surrounding that same Helio. Since, on top of that, all of Tauran had then been plunged into war, the Belganas had truly become completely deserted.

It’s just as His Majesty said.

The armour-clad warrior in the front repeatedly nodded in admiration. He was Darren, vice-commander of the Blue Zenith Division and a former mercenary captain.

So his exalted gaze penetrates as far as the west?

It was said that spies frequently stole in and collected information, besides the absence of any signs of life in the Belganas, what confirmed that even more was the fact that they had provided a scrupulous survey of the terrain. It was as if, without stirring from Mephius, the Emperor was able to see through every move the west makes.

“A terrifying personage.”

“What’s that, vice-commander?”

“Nothing. I was just saying that if we’re not careful, we might get our asses bitten by mountain wolves.”

Darren had not gotten used to being called ‘vice-commander’ and felt happy every time he heard it. His heart felt light in a way that was separate from the elation he felt before a battle.

Anyway, just as the Emperor had said, there were very few soldiers in Taúlia. Even if they simply applied brute force, there was no doubt that it would fall within two or three days. But regardless of that, their commander-in-chief, Nabarl, had planned for a more certain and complete victory.

He had devised a strategy that would allow them to seize Taúlia extremely quickly by attacking from the front, and accomplish that without borrowing help from Rogue and Odyne, the two generals who had opposed the Emperor. Even without having been threatened by Odyne, Nabarl had felt from the start that – speed will be crucial to this battle.

Nabarl had started by entrusting Darren with five hundred soldiers and had them leave from Apta. To prevent the enemy from suspecting this manoeuvre, Nabarl himself had then led four hundred across the Yunos and had deliberately let them be sighted. During that time, Darren’s troops had headed north and, using an air carrier that had been concealed in the forest beforehand, they had crossed the river at low altitude in a position from where the Taúlians could not see them.

After the carrier had finished ferrying all of the soldiers across the river, it had returned to Apta. The Blue Zenith Division had from the start been provided with little in the way of ships. Therefore, they had not been aiming to make direct use of it during the attack and had instead let it be seen making its way back to Apta, all for the purpose of flaunting the Mephian side’s movements.

Concealed within the Belganas, Darren’s unit would start descending from the mountains at a time that they had pre-arranged with the General.

While Nabarl’s main force was drawing the attention of the enemy forces, Darren’s detached unit would launch a direct assault on Taúlia.

When the enemy forces saw the flames rising from the city, they would have no choice but to pull back. Nabarl’s troops would then press forward and whittle them away to join with Darren’s unit in the direct attack on Taúlia – such was the plan.

It’s a stratagem that further widens the difference in manpower between the enemy and us – Darren was in high spirits.

There was no possibility of defeat.

When Darren descended the path, a platoon, which had been sent on ahead and was already at the foot of the mountain, could be found making its preparations. There were also men sitting on the roots of the sparsely growing trees, busy assembling dismantled cannons. While he walked around among them, clapping the soldiers on the shoulder, his heart was beating with excitement.

The first to reach Taúlia will be me, Darren.

He had served Nabarl Metti’s family for a long while and had stood on the battlefield innumerable times during the ten-year war with Garbera, but he had not earned any distinguished military accomplishments. Darren was currently thirty-nine. Now that this amazing opportunity had come around, he did not plan on letting it slip by, even if he had to seize it with his teeth.

“Tomorrow, we’ll be drinking in Taúlia. And I’m not the kind of officer to nag and criticise… I’m sure you get what I’m saying.”

He deliberately gave a vulgar smile to fan their morale. He would let them plunder Taúlia and its women before the Mephian main force arrived behind them.

The preparations were set and he led the five hundred soldiers as they started their march along the downward-sloping path.

Kill.

Plunder.

Rape.

A silent fervour was blowing among the soldiers and, at the centre, a brilliant future was dazzlingly unfolding within Darren’s mind.

Then right before him, something blinked white and red.

As though to prove that it had not been his imagination, the rattle of continuous gunfire sounded in Darren’s ears.

The enemy’s formation was, as expected, thrown into turmoil. It looked like they were anxious to hurry back towards Taúlia, from which the flames were rising.

“Advance!”

When Nabarl fired off the order, dragoons riding Tengo dragons rushed out in the lead. Cavalrymen and pikemen followed behind. They galloped along the ridge. Nabarl himself kicked his horse’s flank, intent on flying further and further forward.

The group in the lead steadily drew up behind the disorganised enemy line. In no time at all, they were in a position to be able to tear into them.

At that moment, gunshots rang out.

Taúlian riflemen lying hidden on either side of the path had opened fire. It was an ambush which had no doubt been prepared beforehand. If the Mephian forces had approached as one group it would have been an effective move but, at that moment, their forces were divided in two. Nabarl’s main force and the detached unit led by César.

No more than a few dozen soldiers were shot. Nabarl raised his hand and the cannon, which he had ordered installed earlier on higher ground, spewed fire. The cannonballs flew above the heads of the Mephian soldiers, then exploded with a roar.

The gunshots stopped.

Before the smoke from the impact had even cleared, Nabarl gave the signal to advance again. The horses pressed forward, César’s unit from the front while Nabarl’s troops descended the slope along a different route, a little further to the south.

At that, the Mephian riflemen who were following behind plugged the gap between the two units by dropping on one knee and lining up in rows. This time, it was their guns which fired simultaneously. Unable to counterattack and no longer able to retreat, the Taúlian riflemen lying in ambush on either side of the road were in utter chaos when they were run through by the spears of César’s unit.

Nabarl’s strategy had triumphed.

He had speculated that if Taúlia judged that things had developed into a full-war, they would try to draw the enemy to their own position. Since the Taúlian side very obviously had the geographic advantage, they would no doubt pretend to pull back and lay riflemen in ambush along their path of retreat. And of course, those soldiers would serve as cover in a situation in which they really did have to pull back – such as when flames were rising from Taúlia.

Therefore, when pretending to advance, Nabarl had temporarily split his unit in two. When the enemy opened fire, revealing the positions of the ambushing troops, he would give the order to the cannon at the rear to commence bombardment.

The scheme had worked perfectly.

Nabarl had never commanded a large army, but he had taken part in many campaigns. In terms of experience, he far exceeded Zaat Quark, the general who had originally commanded the ‘Blue Archery Division’ as one of the twelve generals.

There was no longer any doubt that victory would be theirs. Sitting on horseback, Nabarl’s face relaxed. He, who had only just been made part of the twelve generals, would accomplish the feat of seizing Taúlia, and without borrowing any help from Rogue or Odyne.

He arrived at the bottom of the slope and onto the level path, joining up with César’s unit just a little behind and to the left of them. Nabarl could see the fleeing enemy soldiers, their backs lit up by a hazy line of fire. The dragoons who were galloping in the lead of César’s troops already had their spears raised.

“Don’t be in such a hurry to achieve your feats,” Nabarl called out with a smile, raising his hand which was encased in a gauntlet. “As long as we enter the gates of Taúlia, everyone from the Metti group will be Mephian heroes and…”

His shout was drowned out in a strong wind.

He wondered whether something had come flying from the front when whatever-it-was suddenly made an abrupt turn just before slamming into the dragon-mounted warriors, moving so quickly that it almost left an afterimage.

Nabarl saw an airship.

Startled because of it, the dragon-mounted warriors bucked and fell. The dragons and horses following behind were also struck by that gust of wind and, for a moment, their advance faltered. Nabarl’s unit, which was galloping at their flank, seemed about to overtake them.

“Act sharp!”

Several riders fired but the airship was already above the Taúlian soldiers and was rapidly getting away. Even in the dark, they could make out that the passenger had long, shimmering hair.

It can’t be.

Nabarl thought for an instant, but –

No, impossible. A little girl trampling into a man’s battlefield?

A sinister emotion filled his chest. When he caught that princess in Taúlia, he would bind her hands, press a slave brand into her flesh, and send her back to Garbera. No matter what kind of blow she tried to throw at him, Nabarl’s victory would remain unshaken.

César’s unit had faltered for a moment, but they once more got into formation and lined their horses up next to those with Nabarl.

The backs of the enemy soldiers were once again close at hand.

This time –

Nabarl was about to grasp his spear in his hand.

When the wind blew again.

A strong wind from the north. Or no, rather than a wind, it was better to call it a pressure. Nabarl sensed bloodlust and hostility so fierce they were almost stabbing him in the face and which quickly transformed into an armed group brandishing lights in the dark.

“What!”

Their blades drawn, the group of riders immediately attacked by charging at César’s flank.

The wind swallowed their allies’ panic and surprise and the surroundings were immediately filled with ferocious roars and the solemn echo of steel.

“T-This is…” Nabarl unconsciously groaned on horseback.

A two-stage ambush? He wondered for a second. However, the numerically weak Taúlia usually lined its soldiers up along the border to keep an eye on Mephius, so it should have felt the need to flaunt its full numbers at a time like this. Moreover, with the city being attacked, they should have been rushing back to it rather than carrying out an ambush.

It was unthinkable that the enemy, who should have been stunned by the attack from behind on what was effectively their headquarters, should be displaying such well-coordinated actions. Yet the ones currently in the height of chaos and confusion were Nabarl’s forces.

The wind blew furiously and scattered the spearhead of César’s unit as though it had been made of sand.

“Bastards!”

Nabarl came to a prompt decision. As soon as he caught sight of César, also on horseback, he yelled –

“Stop them here. Hold fast to the end. We’ll chase the enemy.”

The currently-fleeing Taúlian troops probably intended to turn back and catch them in a pincer movement. In which case, Nabarl’s forces would be annihilated. They intended to crush every one of them. His face pale, César nodded.

Sparks went flying at his side. Among the ambushing troops, one slimly-built and conspicuously fast soldier was cleaving through César’s unit. The fires that had spread out in the wake of the bombardment cast an iron glow on the enemy soldier’s face.

He was wearing a mask.

César spurred his own horse forward to intercept the enemy forces.

“Hold, hold! Cover General Nabarl’s assault! And as for you – die!”

With a backwards glance at his vice-captain who was brandishing his spear overhead, Nabarl urged his own men on. “Go, go!” He once more propelled his horse forward.

Part 2

Mephius’ movements are slow.

The reason why Orba had felt that way during the council of war was because of the difference between the information that the messenger had brought and the Mephian side’s actual movements.

The messenger had confirmed that they had seen troops leave by Apta’s north gate with their own eyes. Going north no doubt meant that they had chosen a route that circumvented the River Yunos. Yet now, several hours later, the enemy had directly crossed the Yunos.

A detached force.

Looking at the map that was spread open on the table, Orba had a hunch.

“Here,” Orba pointed to a spot in the Belgana Summits. “Helio should have a fortress. But I burnt it down. Is there any defence line there currently?”

“Ridiculous,” realising what Orba was going to say, a crease appeared between Bouwen’s brows. “The Belganas are a natural stronghold for Taúlia. Soldiers can’t move around them without knowing the terrain, especially at night.”

“What if Mephius has investigated that terrain? You should take into account that while we were fighting Garda, the Belganas were as good as deserted.”

Guhl – Orba cursed inwardly. It was as though Garda’s rampage had been setting the scene for Guhl’s invasion of the west.

“The soldiers at the border are meant to lure us. The troops which left Apta first are definitely intending to attack Taúlia via a different route.”

The various commanders looked towards Orba then Bouwen in turn. Bouwen’s mouth was pursed shut as he looked down at the map.

“General Bouwen,” Orba’s tone urged to make a decision, “you should leave some soldiers with someone trustworthy and have them stage an ambush in the Belganas. Someone from the area will know where a large number of soldiers are most likely to be able to pass. We’ll aim our guns and cannons at where the enemy will assemble.”

Orba pressed his finger against the map and moved from one point to another.

“We’ll send some soldiers to the border and deliberately let the enemy believe that their strategy has worked. Once the Belganas have been cleaned out, the unit there will hurry to the border. Just before they arrive, the fire –”

“Fire?”

“We’ll light a large bonfire in the outskirts of Taúlia. To make it look like the assault unit has really fired its cannons at the city. But it’s the enemy who’ll be lured in.”

Bouwen’s eyes shifted from the map to Orba.

Not to belabour the point, but they had very little time. He looked each of the commanders in the face as though to quell any murmurs of dissatisfaction before they arose, then…

“Right, we’ll do that,” he decided. Then continued, “Orba, I’ll leave soldiers with you.”

“With me?”

“With that said, we can only add about a hundred other troops to your own mercenary unit. Will that work?”

“It’ll need greater numbers than that to lure the enemies at the border.”

“No, you’ll head for the Belganas. I’ll go to the border.”

“General!”

The commanders were understandably shaken. It was probably an even fifty-fifty as to whether the border or the Belganas was the most dangerous but – if Orba’s analysis was correct – failure in the Belganas was the one most directly tied to the possible fall of Taúlia. And that vital task was being left to Orba – a foreigner and a mere mercenary.

“Show me the skill of the swordsman who reaped Garda’s head.”

When Bouwen smiled wryly after giving that order, Orba seemed to remember what his position was.

“Aye,” he finally stood to attention.

Orba’s unit set up an ambush in the Belgana Summits and when Darren’s troops came into sight, he ordered the hundred riflemen lent him by Bouwen to open fire. Simultaneously, he had the cannons aim fire at the enemy’s rear.

A rain of bullets at the front, a series of explosions at the back. On top of that, several trees caught fire and fell. How could Darren’s group not waver and try to flee?

“Attack.”

Orba was the first to rush towards the collapsing enemy group.

Swords swung down, spears were thrust out. Throwing himself into that storm, he attacked, sharp and fast, while the flames from the burning trees bathed the enemy soldiers in its light.

Orba’s longsword gleamed as it raised the howl of death. He cut down one, then flew to the left and cleaved the top of another’s head through their helmet, guarded against an enemy hammer then decapitated its owner.

The enemy – in other words, Mephians. But Orba did not think of that. Mephius was no longer a part of him, it was a name that was synonymous with Emperor Guhl’s spectre.

The mercenaries also fought boldly, their rough voices resounding. They were the unit which had been acclaimed throughout the west for defeating Garda; that in itself gave them confidence. It went without saying for Shique or Gilliam, but even the Helian soldier Kurún, who had turned pale during the battle at the Coldrin Hills, was now so warrior-like that he was barely recognisable.

Once they had annihilated Darren’s unit, their armour wet with blood, they immediately jumped on horseback. Their horses travelled along the outer walls of the city-state and once they had reached the end of those walls and the Gajira plains lay before them, they gave the signal for fire to rise within Taúlia.

The heaps of grass and straw piled up in the outskirts of the city were set alight.

However, because there had been so little time to prepare, they had not been able to gather sufficient quantities of kindling. Bouwen had consulted with Toún Bazgan, the general who had long shouldered the responsibility for defending Taúlia, and had decided on a bold course of action. The townspeople in one area of the city would be evacuated and they would fire their own cannons at the buildings there.

Smoke and flames erupted.

Nabarl took it that Taúlia had successfully been captured. When the soldiers led by Bouwen started to retreat according to plan, he was lured into chasing after them, as expected.

When Nabarl’s troops moved forward, Orba’s unit, which was on standby to one side of the ridge, started to charge towards their flank.

Up until there, everything was according to prediction.

However…

He divided his troops.

Through the mask, Orba’s eyes remained calm and cool to the end. It was clear from the way he had fired a canon to mow down their riflemen that the opponent was skilled in warfare. Since the riflemen were not able to stall them, Orba’s unit would be late reaching the enemy, which would soon be in striking distance of Bouwen’s rear. If that happened, they would lose the timing for Bouwen’s troops to do an about-face and the coming mêlée would devolve into chaos.

The only reason that they narrowly avoided that was –

That airship.

Just as the enemy had been catching up to them, a ship had come flying from the direction Bouwen’s troops were running in. Orba could only see it from a distance, but its movements had been extremely dynamic. If the alignment of the ether jet emission had been off by even a fraction, the airship would instantly have come crashing down. The nerve and skill required were equal to those needed for riding a wild horse with neither saddle nor bridle.

Taúlians are valiant.

Orba once again spurred his horse into the hell-like storm. Each time his sword hummed, blood spurted on either side of him.

He could see that further away, the enemy was still pursuing Bouwen’s troops.

The enemy was of course desperate. Perhaps they considered that, since flames were rising from the direction of Taúlia, their strategy had still been successful.

Here.

Swinging his sword before him, Orba had decided on a path to forcibly break through the enemy. The enemy of either side and their ranks devolved into even greater chaos.

In that time, he lunged at an enemy soldier. By sheer coincidence, it was César, the vice-captain of Nabarl’s unit. César staggered at the blow to his armour before a sword pierced right through the middle of his forehead. His helmet split and with blood gushing from his head, César fell from his horse. Orba was about to trample over his body.

Then just before he did so.

The gleam of steel before him turned into a flash.

Beneath the still shadowy sky, the darkness itself seemed to have absorbed killing intent before leaping out. Orba twisted his body and was just able to repel the attacking sword.

This guy.

Chills shivered up his spine. If his movements had been a fraction slower, Orba’s head would unquestionably have been separated from his body.

Die.

He felt chills,yet at the same time, he felt as though the fires of hell were burning in his chest and burning hot blood was coursring to every part of his limbs.

Strong.

With lightning speed, the sword lunged out again and he parried it a second, then a third time. As he did so, he shifted the position of his feet and managed to find one in which both his feet were firmly on the ground.

The enemy soldier’s bulky body loomed closer, a mass of killing intent. Orba took a firm step on the solid ground and repelled his opponent’s thrust, then the next second counter-attacked by swinging his sword down diagonally.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

Sparks flew three times.

Orba’s counterattack, the enemy’s blow, and then another strike from Orba – each was parried in mid-air by the other’s sword.

On the third time their swords clashed and locked together, they found themselves face-to-face, the swords between them.

At that moment, Orba gasped in surprise.

The enemy wore no helmet… And it was dawn. In the pale light that makes the world look as though it had sunk underwater, he was able to see his opponent’s face up close.

“Pashir!”

The name spontaneously burst from his lips.

Hearing his shout, the strength with which his opponent was pressing down on his sword lightened. Both of them leapt backwards at almost exactly the same time and, their stances at the ready, stared fixedly at the other.

He –

Was certainly Pashir. It was not just his appearance, Orba remembered this strong numbness in his arms, just as with their previous fight. Apart from Garbera’s general Ryucown, Orba knew no other master swordsman this strong.

Perhaps Pashir also remembered his swordsmanship as he glared sharply at Orba’s mask – a mask in a different shape from the one he had worn in Mephius.

“It can’t be,” he moved his mouth, “you’re – Orba?”

“Yeah.”

Even as he was answering, Orba was thinking – shit!

This is what it meant to fight Mephius. He might have to turn his sword against former acquaintances. Perhaps among those here were Gowen or every one of the Imperial Guards who had been under Orba’s command. If Orba attached a name to every opponent here, he would no longer be able to wield his sword against them.

All around them, the clash of weapons and the wail of death cries rose and fell. As though they were in a different world, only between their two swords had silence fallen.

It was then that the shadow of a spear lunged for Orba’s side. Orba was actually rather glad of the sudden attack. Because it meant that he had no leeway to ponder about whether his assailant was someone he knew or not. Orba shifted his weight to the back of his feet and bent his body, striking in a side sweep at the enemy’s blind spot.

There was no time for Pashir to stop either. Smashing a soldier in the temple and leaping over the body as it pitched forward, he once again closed the distance with Orba.

Their swords collided once more.

“Why are you here?” Pashir almost growled. “You can’t really be a spy for Taúlia?”

Tsk.

Orba was finally only just recovering from his shock at meeting someone he knew. At this moment, when they needed to chase after the enemy’s main force as quickly as possible, an opponent like Pashir was too much extra trouble. Orba had won against him during Mephius’ gladiatorial tournament, but only through a desperate gamble that had ignored whatever came next. He still had things he needed to do after this and he would not be able to win uninjured in a one-on-one fight against Pashir.

Pashir’s body was emitting endless pressure.

“There’s a load of things I want to ask you.”

“Sorry but I’m running out of time.”

“What?”

Pashir had momentarily lowered his sword but in an instant, he again nimbly pressed forward. Orba had been going to strike him crossways from the flank, but Pashir prevented him from doing so with movements as agile as a beast.

No, he really is a beast.

He had the impression that he was facing a wild animal.

“What about the other Imperial Guards?”

Orba turned out to be the one asking questions. Sparks flew in all directions as the tip of one sword parried the other.

“Most were split up. But one part is being held in Apta.”

“Oh. Then what about you?”

“What?”

“Why are you… no… why is Mephius’ army here? You know that Prince Gil chose friendship with the west, right?”

“As to that, ask the Emperor. More importantly, if you’re here, does that mean the Prince is still alive? Don’t tell me this is another one of Gil’s tricks? Or no, is it that you yourself…”

“Who’s the commander-in-chief?”

Orba was gambling again. The stakes were every bit as high as during the gladiatorial tournament, but there was a huge difference in his movements. He once again leapt back and freed his sword which he languidly swung in his right hand. Pashir had intended to go after him, but now unease flitted across his face. Staring at him through the mask, Orba asked again –

“Who is it?”

“…Seems like he’s newly appointed to the twelve generals. A man called Nabarl Metti.”

“Nabarl.”

Never heard of him – he thought.

“Pashir, from here on I’m going to be blocking Nabarl. You retreat along with him.”

He handed down this pronouncement as though it were completely normal for him to do so, and gave his order as though it were perfectly natural.

Pashir was too speechless to answer. But as Orba turned on his heel, the tip of Pashir’s sword was shaking violently.

“Y-You…”

“I,” Orba spoke over his shoulder, “am currently a mercenary in Taúlia. But I’m also part of Mephius. I don’t believe there’s any contradiction there.”

“That’s ridiculous. With Mephius as it is now, that’s…”

“Mephius, as it is now, right?”

Orba’s own horse had run off somewhere, but a horse whose Taúlian rider had died with a sword through his back was trotting about nearby. He seized the bridle and lowered the soldier’s body to the ground. Pashir still had not moved by the time Orba had nimbly swung himself onto the horse’s back.

“Shique! Gilliam! You here?” He roared as he urged the horse towards the mêlée.

As former gladiators, as expected, his acquaintances were overwhelming their opponents while remaining themselves largely uninjured. Apart from anything else, the unit had lost César, its commanding officer, so there were many on the Mephian side who were deserting despite General Nabarl telling them to hold it or die trying, and who were fleeing as fast as they could.

“You two, come with me. We’re going to attack the enemy’s main force from behind. We’ll smash them in half!”

“You’re talking nonsense,” towering above friend and foe alike, Gilliam hefted his bloodstained axe onto his shoulder.

“Same as always,” Shique responded cheerfully as he shook the gore from the swords he held in each hand.

It was only when the three of them had plunged into the distance in a cloud of dust that Pashir belatedly followed after them.

Part 3

Nabarl watched as Bouwen’s rear troops broke away in one go. They had been running in an orderly manner when several dozen soldiers deliberately halted and a few dragoons riding Tengo turned back to the rear. They were evidently intending to face death and stall them.

The spirit of Taúlian warriors?

Bending forward on horseback, Nabarl shouted, “Don’t slow down. Fly forward!” even while, as a soldier, he felt a little envious of the opponents’ coordination.

They used almost no airships in warfare, their guns were almost all old-type ones and Nabarl looked down on the Tauran region’s troop formations as being decidedly old-fashioned. Yet even so, they had since long ago surpassed Mephian warriors in the more traditional hand-to-hand combat, in part no doubt because they had been struggling among themselves for so long.

And accordingly, the Taúlian soldiers made a magnificent display of their fighting prowess.

They lunged forward with their spears even as their bodies were being hit, they dragged Mephian soldiers from their horses one after another; and even when their spears or their axes broke, they clung to the horses’ necks, giving their lives to slow them down. Nabarl himself killed two, then three soldiers with his spear; but when he jabbed it into that third one’s chest, his opponent tightly grasped the spear and pulled him forward by plunging it deeper into his own body. Almost falling from his horse, Nabarl let go of the spear and instead unsheathed his sword and used it to decapitate the soldier. The head which tumbled to the ground was sent flying by a horse that came galloping up from the rear.

Orba, Shique, Gilliam, and about fifty mercenaries following behind them, were bent over their horses’ necks, their swords swinging left and right.

“You don’t need to defeat them. Break through!”

With his left hand, he whipped the sweating Taúlia-bred horse, with his right, he swung his sword; and he charged. The Mephian troops were, of course, unprepared for this, and they were divided in half from the rear without being able to turn around to fight back.

“B-Bastard!”

Nabarl was about to thrust his sword at the iron-masked soldier who raced by him, but faster than he could see, it was parried and flung back.

Seeing an opportunity, now that the Mephian forces had fallen into chaos; Bouwen, riding at the front, gave the signal to “Turn around”. His troops, which had seemed to merely be fleeing at full speed, now turned their horses around one after another with a truly splendid motion. The infantrymen did not show a trace of fatigue on their faces as they too lined up their spearheads.

“Charge!”

At Bouwen Tedos’ command, the Taúlian soldiers once more started running; but this time, they were not turning their backs to the enemy nor trying to escape. Instead, they were dashing to exterminate their enemy and defend the western lands – their native country where at long last the bloodbaths of civil war had ended and the people were celebrating peace together with wine and songs.

As one was charging forward and the other turning his horse around, Orba and Bouwen caught sight of each other. Bouwen was grinning broadly, like the young warrior that he was; while Orba was indomitably galloping his horse.

Having come to this, the vigour of the Mephian troop’s pursuit had evaporated and they were forced to recognise that this time, it was their turn to be hunted.

Nabarl judged that they could no longer expect help from the rear. César would have been either captured or killed.

Either way, more and more enemies were drawing up from the rear and there was now a high chance of being caught in a pincer attack.

“Guh.”

The inside of Nabarl’s head felt pitch black. To have to give the order to “Retreat” when the capture of Taúlia was right before his eyes, when his hands had almost managed to seize glory for the Metti House, was unbearable. He felt as though if he said it, everything would be lost. Or rather, he still clung to the possibility of making Taúlia his, even now, when it was already too late.

It was a weakness of Nabarl’s that, although he had experience in warfare, he was unused to the position of commander-in-chief. On top of his lingering regrets, he was unable to bear the burden of being the sole person responsible for the defeat.

“Ah, ah, ah…”

And that was why, even as the rumble of charging horses and dragons resounded towards them, he could only gasp and flap his mouth open and shut, without being able to make a sound. However –

“Retreat, retreat!”

A mounted soldier was rushing up and shouting in a voice that carried far.

“General Nabarl, hurry! Me and César’s unit will take up for the rear guard.”

Nobody minded that it was coming from the former gladiator, Pashir. It was the same for Nabarl, who had been looking for a cue. While also shouting, “Retreat, retreat,” he forcefully turned his horse around.

While Bouwen and Orba gave chase, also on horseback, they exchanged comments.

“Shall we exterminate them?”

“No. What they’re feeling now will be enough. Once they’ve sufficiently tasted the fear of having death at their heels, we’ll let them cross the river.”

Even while he was answering, Orba did not know himself whether that was a decision made with a level head, or the sentimentality of his personal feelings.

The heat and fervour of battle were dying down.

Starting with the foot soldiers who had failed to escape in time, a great many people surrendered.

Having made sure that the enemy had galloped away, Orba and the others returned to their allies. All around them lay the corpses of horses, dragons, and people.

“Magnificent,” Bouwen continued along on horseback.

Nabarl had escaped, but Darren, who had been in command of the Belgana force, had been killed in the mêlée. Since his troops had been entrusted with capturing the city, a large number of rifles and cannons had been seized from them. There was currently a shortage of both in Taúlia.

Orba whipped the blood and human grease that clung to his sword. “You too, General.”

“Enough with the flattery. Without your analysis, Taúlia would have been swallowed whole.”

“But this was still only the first enemy force. Mephius will have been preparing a large army to use Taúlia as a base once it fell. If they don’t get discouraged by what happened to the first force, there’ll be a second and third wave of assault.”

“Hmm.”

Despite their overwhelming victory, Bouwen’s feelings had not yet relaxed. He had been seriously injured at the Coldrins and had then fought Raswan Bazgan in single combat before those wounds had fully healed. Even now, he was not really in a fit state to fight, but his eyes that gazed around at their surroundings were brimming with energy.

However, when he looked towards the direction of Apta, the hatred and hostility that should have dwelt in his eyes receded and his expression instead turned pained. It was not the way one looked at an enemy.

Noticing it, Orba asked, “Did something happen?”

“Nothing,” Bouwen blushed a little under his helmet since another person had sensed his emotions. It showed that he was still young.

However, Bouwen Tedos soon regained his focus. For now, and until Ax returned, he would be entrusted with far more soldiers than Orba had been.

“Can I speak with you?”

As Bouwen was saying that, in the corner of his eye, Orba caught sight of something squirming into view.

From beneath a pile of corpses, a single Mephian soldier was holding a gun hidden under his own body. He had been severely wounded and was already beyond help. Aware of that himself, he suppressed the sound of his breathing and waited to the bitter end for an opportunity to kill a distinguished enemy.

Orba noticed that too. However, he deliberately turned his eyes away and allowed his horse to amble towards Bouwen and the soldiers while his hand slowly reached for the gun at his waist.

“It’s about the one who came from Apta to inform us – that messenger.”

“Ah,” Orba answered absentmindedly. “It looks like there are still people with honour left in Mephius.”

“That wasn’t a Mephian.”

He measured by eye the distance between himself and the soldier. He took a short, shallow breath.

“Then who was it?”

“The Garberan princess, Vileena Owell.”

Huh?

Orba’s breath was completely snatched away. Bouwen continued –

“The Princess did what she could to try and stop the enemy’s march, but apparently that broke down; she was on her way back to Taúlia when she met with us. But we had to hurry to immediately put the plan into practice. The Princess flew her airship alongside us but –”

At that moment, Orba pulled out his handgun. His aim was true, but he was a second too slow to pull the trigger.

Gunshots overlapped.

The Mephian soldier under the pile of corpses died from a bullet through the head, while the bullet he had fired struck Orba’s mask.

Shattered fragments of iron and blood went flying.

“Orba!”

It was unclear whether he even heard Bouwen’s cry. As though he had been flipped by some giant finger, Orba whirled in the air, then hit the ground.

“What?”

In the imperial court at Solon, Guhl Mephius sprang from his seat.

His clothes of finest silk flapped dully, as though to cast the shadow of death onto the courtiers waiting at the foot of the steps.

When news of Nabarl’s defeat had arrived, they had been in the middle of preparing the next wave of troops. Once Taúlia had fallen, it would no longer be necessary to be careful about the west noticing anything. The intention was to select three new generals and to send a military contingent to Taúlia by way of Apta.

And now, it was said that less than a day after having started its march, the Blue Zenith Division had been routed and the commander-in-chief Nabarl had barely managed to escape alive back to Apta. “Are you saying that my proud and beloved Mephian soldiers were unable to seize Taúlia even though it was empty?”

Terrified of the Emperor’s wrath, neither the messenger who had brought the news nor the surrounding nobles and military men said a word.

As though he had the eyes of a seer, Guhl Mephius turned to stare fixedly in the direction of Taúlia.

“Who is it,” almost in a whisper, the Emperor asked of no one. “Who is in Taúlia? The sorcerer Zes, said to be able to summon forth a thousand soldiers from the other world? The evil dragon Nimbus, said to give birth to a child for every hundred humans eaten?”

For a while, he shook his snow-white hair and beard then he lifted the crystal-tipped staff that he had recently started carrying and, with a thud, struck the floor near the throne.

“It no longer matters. Have the whole army prepare to march. Mephius will attack Taúlia with our full might. Send out a proclamation to the entire country. This is a war of revenge for Crown Prince Gil Mephius!”