Even If The Light Is Lost (5)

“Damn it!”

“You blasted monkeys! Can’t you do it properly?!”

The Naga sorcerers fumed as they watched the Messengers fight half-heartedly. Because the Messengers were openly shirking, only the Nagas were taking losses.

“We’re doing our best too, so what do you want?”

“Get out there and block them!”

“Why us, when we’ve got undead?”

Even corpses under necromancy eventually rotted and collapsed with time. If you removed the entrails and embalmed them, they lasted a little longer, but even those mummies would get soaked walking in rain, flies would lay eggs, and they would rot in short order—so in armies with necromancers, the front line was taken by undead.

It was the necromancers’ principle to use the undead—who would rot away soon enough anyway—as much as possible as sword fodder and arrow fodder.

However…

“That’s not working, is it!”

A Naga sorcerer shifted undead up onto the rooftops. But the moment they were set atop the roof, something came down in a shower.

Bodies of undead cut clean in two. Azadine was scything down the undead with a sweep of his halberd. With undead tumbling like autumn leaves, no living fighter wanted to climb up there.

“They’re your clansmen—so you deal with them!”

The Nagas demanded the Messengers handle the aftermath. But the younger Messengers had absolutely no intention of stepping to the fore.

‘That halberd Azadine’s got is terrifyingly sharp, isn’t it?’

‘Azadine is one thing—but Arael is over there too.’

‘Anyone among us confident we can stop Arael?’

‘Are you crazy? I crossed blades with her once before—wasn’t even a contest.’

‘Why would we stick our necks out before Arael for the sake of man-eating monsters?’

All the Messengers had been thrashed by Arael at least once and knew her prowess well.

And then—

“My, my. You all seem quite displeased with our youngsters.”

A chilly voice sounded from behind the Messengers.

“Gasp?”

“L-Lord Sion?!”

Sion Ethar, a man who had become an Elder of the Ethar bloodline at a young age, appeared behind the clansmen who were bickering with the Nagas.

With masked attendants in tow, he regarded the clansmen who had been shirking.

“Ah, well, this is…”

“Good job.”

“Sir?”

“They’ll be off their guard now, won’t they? A commendable move.”

With the Nagas watching, Sion Ethar did not condemn the shirking but, on the contrary, praised it. But praise in words or not, those listening felt a chill run down their spines.

“We’ll shadow them as we are, then launch an encirclement at the cleared ground ahead. Move.”

“Yes, sir!”

Sion Ethar gathered Aragasa youths and personally began the pursuit of Azadine and Arael.

“Uh-oh.”

Azadine’s steps halted.

A cleared ground spread before them. Around a broad open space made by demolishing buildings near the royal citadel’s waterways, a fortress had been built—and to approach that fortress, they would have to cross the cleared ground.

“An open field. Dangerous.”

Up to now they had skipped from building to building, running rings around their foes, but they had reached the limit of what they could traverse.

The cleared ground—demolished by Vthuma’s forces to block Nagas approaching via the waterways—barred Azadine’s party. What’s more, a considerable number of troops had already been stationed in the fortress overlooking the clearing.

Unlike the other Aragasa who had been shirking, these soldiers’ discipline was strict. Because an Elder stood among them.

“You’re here, are you?! Traitor Arael!”

“Elder Altuah.”

Arael recognized the Elder manning the fortress. A stern-looking middle-aged woman with a monocle stood atop the works.

“Yes, Arael! I doted on you so very much, and this is how you betray me—”

—Thwok!—

At that instant, a throwing dagger buried itself in Elder Altuah’s head.

From over a hundred paces—not an arrow, but a dagger—had flown and struck home? With no warning at all, the onlookers’ blood ran cold at the attack.

More shocking still, Altuah did not die even with a dagger stuck between her brows.

“Ghhk! Y-you wretch!”

Altuah yanked the dagger from her own head and glared at Arael.

“What are you doing?!”

“Doting on you.”

“What?”

“Right now, I’m stronger than you, Altuah. You’re a dried-up old vampire with nothing cute about you—but I’ll dote on you a bit in my own way. That is the right of the strong!”

So saying, Arael raised a hand to her lips and whispered something into her palm. From the spot struck by the dagger, a black miasma began to ooze. It was the language of the Nether.

“Urk—grrkk… kyAAAAH!”

Altuah screamed. From her wound, clots of dark, blood-red flesh began to pour forth.

The clots became eyes, and eyeballs blossomed like flowers all over Altuah’s body, destroying her flesh.

“Augh!”

Altuah’s body collapsed. The leg bones that should have borne her weight turned into eyeballs; unable to support her mass, she crashed to the ground. Even then, eyeballs continued to sprout, and Altuah turned into a gigantic slurry.

“Ugh.”

The Messengers posted at the fortress were horrified by Arael’s terrifying power as she annihilated an Elder.

“Well. A little cuter now. Ptooi.”

Arael drew an obsidian blade and slit her own tongue to counter the backlash of invoking the Nether’s language, then spat bloody saliva.

“…Hah—”

Everyone who saw it recoiled. And that wasn’t the end.

“Rise—Watching Shadows!”

When Arael cast the spell, eyes formed within the clearing’s shadows.

From the shadows of scrap heaps, the shadows cast by corpses not yet cleared, and the shadows of the watercourse, eyes opened—then slowly took substance and moved.

The Messengers stirred uneasily.

Their objective was to block Arael’s incursion and capture her party here. But Arael was far stronger than expected. If a fight broke out now, clan casualties would be inevitable…

Then Arael shouted:

“Listen well! If we fight among ourselves here, at least a hundred will die! There’s no need for that, is there?!”

“What are you saying, traitor Arael?!”

“I challenge the leader. Hathir must prove himself as leader!”

Dueling for a Messenger’s rank was common among the Aragasa. They valued hierarchy, but valued ability even more.

But no one had ever dueled for the place of the leader.

“Foolish talk! The leader’s seat isn’t decided by dueling skill alone! It’s—”

“It’s what?”

When Arael asked, the Messengers were struck speechless.

Because of bloodline. To say so felt unconvincing even to themselves, making any answer sound feeble.

“It should be decided by how much one can contribute to our clan’s future.”

“In that case, all the more reason to duel, isn’t it? If we fight among ourselves and so many clansmen die, the clan’s future will only darken.”

Just then, an arrow flew toward Arael.

Astonishingly, it did not come from the fortress at the far side facing Arael’s party across the clearing—but from behind them.

“No chance!”

Indim of the Moon knocked aside the arrow streaking toward Arael’s back—but it exploded midair and drove him stumbling backward.

It was an arrow of tremendous force.

“Kh… Sion?!”

“My, my… such bluster.”

The archer was Sion Ethar—with his subordinates.

They had appeared bringing Naga and undead troops with them, and in an instant Azadine’s party was surrounded by a host numbering in the thousands.

“Arael. You cannot become leader—because the Elders’ Council does not want you as leader.”

“Ridiculous. And who wanted you Elders in your seats? You were born into a nice house by chance and took the post—”

“Without the great deeds and benefactions of our ancestors, where would we be now? Ah, of course, from your perspective as the daughter of the traitor Acre, I understand you’d like to ignore your parents’ merits and faults and be judged solely on your own ability. And so you threaten the lives of clansmen and run riot, do you not?”

Sion Ethar reminded all present that Arael was the daughter of the traitor Acre. At that moment, Mediam stepped forward.

“No matter how great the parents, you can’t say all their children are great too.”

“…Mediam?”

Sion was put in a bind by Mediam’s intervention.

Whatever Arael said, she was the traitor’s daughter; he could bulldoze through by insisting she was arguing in a way that served her own interests.

But when Mediam—of the Ethar bloodline, one of the Five Families—stepped up, the story changed. What could seem more sincere than taking a stance with more cost than benefit to oneself?

“Isn’t this mess because the Five Families blindly backed the current leader Hathir? We wanted the clan to prosper—not to become vassals of the Nether’s apostles. The Elders and the leader twisted our will and pushed ahead on their own, so we’re protesting by challenging for the leader’s office—what’s wrong with that? Ordinary Messengers have to prove their qualifications by dueling; why is there no proof required for the leader, who is more than that?”

A murmur rose among the clansmen.

“Who is she?”

“A daughter of the Ethar bloodline.”

“…Hmm.”

All were too afraid to voice it aloud, but the Messengers sympathized with Mediam’s words.

Those outside the Five Families harbored resentment toward them—and now a scion of a Five Family had voiced it cleanly.

Had someone else said it, it could have been dismissed as envy from the have-nots. But when a successor of a Five Family herself said it…

“Mediam. Come back. If you do so now, I can smooth this over without trouble.”

“Brother Sion—do you really think there’s a future in this?”

“What are you talking about? Haven’t we already succeeded? We who were oppressed are now to be masters of this world.”

“I wanted the world as it was before all this. Not a world where the Nether’s apostles wander and Nagas butcher humans! This is like saying you want the jewels in a shop window, so you set the shop on fire and bring back the ashes.”

As those listening found themselves agreeing with Mediam, Sion Ethar realized he had only harmed himself by opening his mouth.

“So you truly mean to side with the rebels?”

“The rebels aren’t us—it’s your Elders’ Council.”

Azadine stepped in front of Mediam, choked up on his halberd, and batted something aside.

What had flown toward Mediam was a small, slender needle. Sion had attempted a sneak attack on her.

“Can’t even persuade a single clan girl and resort to dirty tricks?”

“…Azadine. I didn’t want it to come to this, but—you really leave me no choice.”

Sion gestured, as if reluctantly.

As the Naga sorcerers sent the undead forward, an attack began from the rear at the same time.