8 (9)

In a field not far from where Louis was advancing, untamed grasses grew high to the waist, and within those thickets a massive number of troops had taken position.

Makeshift tents sprouted like mushrooms, and amid them exhausted soldiers clumsily filled their starving bellies.

On one side, men crippled by injury swarmed priests and doctors like a cloud of bees, and the doctor’s station had become a war of its own.

Everywhere, soldiers screamed like infants crying for milk—men so badly wounded that if left alone even briefly, they would soon die.

They were far, far too short on hands.

Most would either fester and die while waiting or bleed out; unless the gods intervened, death was all but certain.

Just as the doctor finished with one man, another approached, hesitant and trembling.

Cold sweat streamed from him; his face had gone white, as if the slightest touch would make him shriek.

The doctor peeled back the rag caked with congealed blood and grimaced.

“Damn it. You’ll have to lose the hand.”

“…Please—there’s no other way?”

“Not unless a High Priest is here.”

“Your choice—yes or no. There are plenty waiting behind you. One more thing: leave it as is and you won’t live long.”

Tears fell, and the man said he would do it.

The doctor gave a curt nod, then barked at his servant:

“Bring the saw!”

The young assistant, taut with discipline, answered at once and sprinted off.

In less than thirty seconds he returned with a surgical amputation saw, still dripping red for want of proper cleaning.

At the sight of the teeth, the soldier’s face twisted in horror.

The doctor shoved his own rum into the man’s mouth.

“Drink, damn you. Spit it out and today will be your day in hell.”

They set the man in position.

A few screams tore the air—then silence, as he passed out.

Gaion was making his rounds, checking on the men where the work and the screaming never stopped.

Those with any strength left saluted him, but he barely acknowledged them.

The veteran’s face was corpse-pale, his cheeks hollow from hunger, his lids bruised black from sleepless nights.

He looked ten years older—little more than a walking dead man.

A seasoned commander who had once advised Remitri and long served as Fred’s strategist, Gaion had been recognized early for his judgment.

Flexible and farsighted in his youth, he had never doubted Fred would become great.

When convinced, he staked everything with obsessive resolve; that fierce devotion had earned Fred’s absolute trust.

Age had only made him more upright, winning his subordinates’ respect; for honest counsel, he was no less wise than Jodan.

Anyone who knew him could read his heart now.

Anok felt the same—but for Gaion, it was like losing a son.

Despair, and the knowledge that hope lay ahead no more; the restless urges that seize men in such times clawed at him.

Watching a young soldier, insensate and cauterized, trundle past on a cart, Gaion caught himself wishing he could collapse and sleep for days.

For an old campaigner, this hour weighed too heavily.

Days earlier, in the frantic retreat, he had chosen to turn—not back to the city, though the chance existed—but toward Louis.

Every reason argued that returning to the city would have been wise; even he did not know why he chose otherwise.

It had been foolish.

They had lost more men forcing the march, and no one knew who they might meet on this road.

They might collide—or not—with someone.

Louis or Pierre—he couldn’t tell.

Only instinct had carried them this far.

A few chiliarchs voiced doubts, but when Gaion held his peace, no one pressed him.

His clean life and sound tactical calls had earned their trust.

Gaion had seen Louis several times but had never once felt in him Fred’s measure of promise; Jodan’s relayed will therefore stirred a reflex of disbelief.

To his keen mind, passing all wealth and forces to Pierre would have been proper.

Yet the will declared that, if either brother lived, all strength should go to Louis.

Gaion, who had managed other cities, had scarcely seen Louis these last five or six years.

He cared little for politics and had paid scant attention to what news did reach him.

‘What changed? Lord Fred was not a man to say such things lightly.’

Since Jodan had fainted after sending the letter—coming to only once before collapsing again—he could not be asked.

Anok, half-mad, was in no state to confer with either.

They had enough grain to move for now—but at this rate, would it last until they arrived?

As Gaion patrolled, several soldiers suddenly stumbled backward in fright.

Not one—three.

Gaion tensed, then relaxed at the sight of a familiar silhouette.

“Could you at least wash?”

“I’ll wash in the blood of our foes.”

The man who growled back was the giant Anok.

Hair bristled like a demon’s; his torn clothes were soaked with blood, stinking so foully that no wonder men panicked.

Rage, driven to the extreme, had sent Anok off on his own.

Not entirely a bad thing: his savage skill had kept many of them this safe.

So vicious were his blows that once the pursuers tasted them, they dared not press close again.

Watching Anok stalk by, lugging severed heads like trophies, Gaion gained one more wrinkle on his brow.

He had long awaited the succession war—but the course it took had veered far beyond anything he had imagined.

Having taken Grad, Marquis Gangpireu sat in Fred’s lion-pelted chair, receiving reports with satisfaction.

It had been perilous, a razor’s edge—but Fred’s sudden death had tilted the taut front decisively.

Thanks to it, the marquis had escaped crippling losses and still had strength to push on.

Scritch, scritch.

Beside him, Mihoff honed his dagger with a faint scowl.

Such behavior before a marquis should be forbidden, but Gangpireu trusted this young, gifted swordsman absolutely.

Otomar was gone—but more valuable still was the realization that he had underrated Mihoff simply for his age, even with so powerful a card in hand.

The marquis, ear throbbing, felt relief that things had ended thus.

Had Mihoff been but a minute later, the day would have belonged to Fred.

He had never taken Fred lightly; on the field, the man’s presence chilled the marrow.

Yet the one who crushed such a foe—Mihoff—could only loom ever larger now in the marquis’s eyes.

He preferred refitting to chasing routed men, so he ordered Mihoff to remain.

Still, he could not leave all pursuit undone; he sent his foremost chiliarchs after the fugitives.

Anok’s rampage, however, had wrecked the pursuit, and word of it reached Mihoff.

The youth looked eager to hunt that man at once—but the marquis, having lost an ear, had learned fear thoroughly.

He would not recklessly throw down his strongest card again.

For now, he refit because he feared that meeting Louis head-on might lead to mutual ruin.

‘What is it with this cursed bloodline…’

He had long felt inferior to Duke Remitri—and bitterly learned that time did not wash such feelings away.

Thus he took great joy in sending one of Remitri’s whelps to the afterlife; throbbing ear or not, he slept soundly these days.

For ten years sleep had been wretched; often he would wake in fury and beat nearby servants with his fists—an ugly habit that had not surfaced once lately.

‘Best would be to take all of Fred’s cities as they fall and make peace with Louis. He’ll have to accept it. Pierre and Louis both can negotiate coldly—Louis even more so. If we tear each other apart now, the other beasts nearby will find us unguarded.’

So he held his men in hand, preserving strength.

As he sat grandly taking reports, a courier rushed in and knelt.

“A letter from Duke Louis of Pontina.”

“…Duke?”

“Yes, my lord—the address says so.”

The marquis wetted his dry lips—So Pierre had fallen.

He took the letter.

Expecting terms, he opened it quickly, unable to hide his quiet anticipation.

He did not read more than a few lines before his face hardened.

His lips trembled.

He stroked his long beard again and again—his habit when cornered or keyed to the utmost.

Sensing entertainment, Mihoff parted his lips.

“What does it say?”

The marquis answered reflexively:

“…A declaration of war.”

He fell into thought.

Not unthinkable—but still unwelcome, and troublesome.

The old Pontina disgust rose again, twisting his gut.

He stifled the urge to retch.

‘Damn these Pontina brats… impossible to the end…’

The letter bore stark, dripping marks—blood.

A blood-written letter—a vow to annihilate his foe.

The king would not approve, perhaps—no matter.

A scarecrow king could always be bought.

What mattered was a clear eye for the future.

He had never taken Louis for such a man; Remitri’s son made him snort.

‘Foolish…’

To beg for peace from an enraged foe would be the height of stupidity.

Countermeasures were the only step.

Perhaps this was for the best; he might seize the chance to slaughter the lion’s cubs to the last.

Do that, and the nightmares—and that rising bile—might at last be gone.

The marquis rose to his feet.