Chapter 101 - Just Because Luck Isn't on Your Side (3)

Persuading them to try the third method—entering Cross Guard disguised as a trading company at dawn two days from now—was hardly difficult. "I've got a bad feeling." It was the same reason he had given for suggesting they scale the wall. Torres backed him, and Pin nodded indifferently. "Well, then we'll have to spend another night here." Here was the camp with the sleeping burrows. At the news, the soldier in charge of cooking smiled. "Shall I bring that out for dinner, then?" The forward scouts led by Ranger Pin spent an average of half a year in the field on each mission. Of course, if something happened, they sometimes returned after a month or two. This time, however, they had already been here for eight months. Staying so long, they had found all manner of things to do. Among them was salting meat from the animals they caught to make ham. "How about a drink, then?"

Pin eagerly took up the suggestion. In some ways, this unit had to stay more alert than men on a battlefield. Were their nerves dull, or simply tough? 'No, perhaps they're more vigilant the rest of the time so they can have days like this.' They took care even with the smoke from their makeshift dining area. They frequently took turns patrolling a wide circle around the perimeter, and two sharp-eyed scouts always kept watch facing outward. Watching them reminded him of something he had once heard. ["Stay rigid, and you're easily broken. You must know how to bend when necessary."] Which instructor had told him that?

'It wasn't an instructor.' It had been a holy warrior of a religious order, making a pilgrimage through provincial cities. The man had said he had no time to teach him, so they should settle for a short, decisive spar. With his booming laugh and the way he stroked his beard, he could easily have passed for a bandit rather than a priest. Yet he was a respected clergyman and an excellent warrior. ["Bending doesn't mean going soft. With a firm core, you won't break easily. Want it put simply? Stop screaming so much."] Hadn't he said it sounded as though Encrid screamed every time he swung his sword? Was that why he suddenly wondered how his sword would look to the man now? SHING. He followed the impulse. "... All I suggested was a drink. What's he doing now?" Pin muttered as she accepted a bottle from the scout who had fetched their hidden liquor. Encrid rose, drew his sword, and swung. This had nothing to do with his repeating today, nor was it something he had learned recently. These swings began with nothing more than a question. The holy warrior who had faced him back then said that every swing of his sword was a scream. That it looked as though he were desperately fighting against breaking. ["Learn to use your muscles fluidly, and your sword will spring out all the better."] Over the laughing holy warrior's face, the faces of his squad members appeared. Hundreds of spars. What had Rem been like during them? His muscles had been elasticity itself. An underlying ease supported his absolute control of his axe. Was that because he believed he couldn't lose? 'No.' An arm and axe bending like a whip, Rem's face, supple muscles. Together, they offered an answer. 'He used only as much strength as he needed, when he needed it.' And Ragna? His gestures seemed listless, yet they were interwoven with swordsmanship of an absurdly high level. Jaxon and Audin were no different. Despite his stiff manner, Jaxon was always at ease. Audin twisted Encrid's arms this way and that, teasing him as he offered advice. What about himself, then?

'My shoulders.' No, he fought with his entire body tensed. Even when connecting point to point. He always had to give everything he had. He had believed anything less than his best was meaningless. This was precisely what it meant to carry tension in his shoulders. Encrid swung through the air.

WHOOSH.

Compared with his usual swings, it was almost pitifully weak. 'That's just taking the strength out of it.' Relaxing his body didn't mean robbing his swordsmanship of its power. A method, a path, signposts began dimly coming into view. Understanding did not mean he could do it immediately. He knew that. He knew it all too well. Encrid understood the limits of his talent down to his bones. All he had realized was that he needed to relax his shoulders. Yet that realization alone sent his heart pounding. Joy and exhilaration filled him. It was the thrill of seeing a path, of simply knowing he could walk it properly. For Encrid, the sword was life, and life was the sword. It was his companion on the journey toward his dream. Amid that exhilaration, a question arose.

'Is desperate struggle the only answer?' For the sake of tomorrow, he had always vowed not to waste today. He had steeled himself countless times. Enduring, enduring again, struggling desperately—none of that was difficult for him, so that was how he had lived. 'But it doesn't have to be that way.'

With that thought, he brought his sword down. SWISH. The blade sounded different as it cut through the air. Hearing it, Encrid smiled faintly. That last swing. A simple downward stroke, yet it stirred a sense of nostalgia. When had it been? In the tall-grass fields, with Andrew and Henri. What people called a strike you couldn't feel in your hands. The sort of blow those called geniuses delivered countless times. Had an opponent stood before him just now, he could have cut them down without even feeling it in his hands. He had repeated it endlessly in pursuit of that same feeling, yet had never once managed another "strike you couldn't feel in your hands." 'So I can do it.' Now his own hands had produced that strike. How could he not be happy? "Something seemed different about that last swing."

"It did. You don't see a cut like that often." Pin and Torres spoke from where they sat off to one side. Both had discerning eyes. Then Pin added, "But you're sure he's all right? Why does he keep grinning to himself?"

"Don't ask me. I've only met him a handful of times myself. He's famous for being abnormal back with the main force, too." Encrid let their conversation wash past him. All he wanted was to swing his sword again and again. As he did, another thought followed. 'Struggle, yes.' But what about struggling with his shoulders relaxed? Frantically flailing wasn't the only answer within a repeating today. Screaming wasn't the only path. What mattered? Taking steps toward tomorrow. Having the will to do so. Gaining everything he could along the way. An insight. An awakening. A new lesson. As he smiled at the joy of it, "Ugh, with a face like that, he even looks good grinning to himself. Anyone else would look insane. Why does he pull it off?" Pin spoke over her drink. "What about me?" Torres butted in, with no sense of his place. He was completely ignored. A few scouts snickered and patted his shoulder. They had met only a few days ago, but had quickly welcomed him into their circle. While Encrid swung his sword vigorously, Pin, Torres, and a few scouts shared some drinks. They didn't have enough to drink much, and it wasn't strong liquor, either. It was cheap fruit wine, readily available in any city. In the patch of forest they used as a dining area, they paired it with a few slices of salted, smoked ham. "You absolutely have to open that restaurant." The words came naturally as they addressed the scout who dreamed of becoming a cook. Encrid didn't get a drop of wine. He hadn't intended to drink today anyway, but even if he had, there was none left. While he practiced and washed, the others had promptly finished it off. "What? You want to have that face and drink, too?"

Torres grumbled for no good reason. They weren't laughing and making a racket, but it was a chance to unwind a little. Of course, even now, a few remained alert, as though their antennae were raised. Pin was one of them. She had taken a drink or two, but she was responsible for everyone. After spending the day that way, they returned to the burrows for the night. Whether they had taken the underground passage they called the Tunnel or headed for the wall, not a single person should have remained here today. Once Pin left, the others were to abandon the camp and regroup closer to the main force. Their decision to disguise themselves as a trading company had changed all that, bringing a night that should never have existed. Two moons rose, bathing the surroundings in blue. Before entering his burrow, Encrid looked up at them. The large, round moon was the one always visible. The second, smaller moon appeared only at the full moon. 'Bright.' The surroundings were clearly lit. Even if he stayed awake all night, today would repeat anyway. He had already learned that while delving beneath the cobbler's shop in the city. Struggling to stay awake was pointless. He intended to get some sleep rather than needlessly exhaust himself. The night was only just beginning to deepen. Compared with the today he had lived yesterday, this would be around the time they reached the wall. AWOOOO! The cry erupted fairly close by. As the mage killed him, Encrid had roughly worked out why his Sixth Sense hadn't activated. Why it hadn't warned him of danger. 'When a spell interferes.' The mage called Rose Vines, or Rose Thorns, or whatever it was, had been above him throughout the climb. Her interference had kept him from sensing the presence overhead. He had heard nothing and felt no foreboding. Then what about now? "Fuck! Up! Alarm! Alarm!" It was the scout standing sentry, keeping watch over the camp. After the wolf's howl and the soldier's warning came another sound. THUD-THUD! THUD-THUD! THUD-THUD! Something was running. Then a monster appeared, silhouetted against the moonlight. Somewhere at the eastern edge of the continent lived a race known as Beastmen. They were a peculiar demihuman race combining human and animal traits. The monsters that had appeared now were called failed versions of those Beastmen. Failures molded by the Creator, they forever thirsted for blood and hated humans. AWOOO! Here was the source of the howl. Its ankles jutted backward as though it stood on tiptoe. Gray fur covered its entire body, and yellow animal eyes gleamed. Sharp fangs flashed within its protruding muzzle. The monster silhouetted against the moonlight was a Lycanthrope. In other words, a werewolf—a wolf-man. Naturally, since these creatures were not of the Beastman race, they could not be reasoned with, just like most monsters. The one at the front was one-eyed. A distinct scar ran across its left eye. It surveyed the surroundings with its single remaining yellow eye, then opened its jaws. KRAAA! The monster's cry burst forth. To Encrid, it sounded like an order to charge. "Stay sharp!"

He shouted reflexively. How would today end? He had thought the odds were even. Either the day would remain at a standstill because he attempted nothing, or something would happen. It was the latter. Werewolves. And not just one or two. All but the one at the front scattered in every direction. Even under the bright moonlight, they were difficult to spot. Only shadows darting through the darkness remained, accompanied by the patter of feet striking the ground. Between the trees, in places sheltered from the moonlight, yellow eyes traced glowing lines. The creatures that emerged into the light circled the huddled humans. They ran fast enough to leave afterimages. "Fuck." Encrid realized something else. Foreboding. Why hadn't he felt any warning at all? Why had Pin's sentries, veterans by any standard, noticed the werewolves' approach so late? 'There must have been some interference.' In other words, a mage must have been involved here, too. The very fact that so many werewolves had come together was strange. He didn't know what the mage had done. Only the result stood plainly before his eyes. Even a rough count put them at over ten. "More than ten. This is bad."

Torres pressed his back against Encrid's as he spoke. Encrid drew his sword, too. SHING. Back-to-back with Torres, he decided to leave the thinking for later. He had resolved to struggle in moderation, but that hardly meant he could let himself be killed without a fight. 'I can't do that.' As always, he would take a step toward tomorrow. Encrid steeled himself and raised his sword upright. The monster was called a Lycanthrope. A creature with magic dwelling in its heart. It was a difficult foe, barely comparable to a flesh-eating Ghoul. Normally, taking down a single werewolf required a trained squad. Attempting the hunt with fewer people was not recommended: someone could easily be injured or killed. And when Lycanthropes formed a pack, the advice was not to attack even with a platoon. But looking at them now... "Ha. There must be more than twenty." Their numbers had grown in that brief interval. On this side were ten scouts, including himself and Torres. The werewolves numbered more than twenty. As if to prove Encrid's suspicion that a mage was involved, the pack surrounded them before attacking. Werewolves were difficult enough to face when they simply rampaged, crazed by instinct. They were also stronger on nights when both moons were up. And now they were mounting an encircling attack? How should he describe this? "We're going to die, aren't we?"

Torres's self-mocking remark was the answer. There was no way out. Encrid fought valiantly. He killed three werewolves and cut off a fourth one's arm. Amid the fighting, he also threw his whistle daggers, giving the one-eyed creature that seemed to lead them two companions. It truly was a valiant fight. That was the mark he had left in battle against a pack of Lycanthropes. Torres did much the same. Though he fell before Encrid, he took down two of them. Pin killed one and fell while fighting a second. As for the other scouts, there was no need to say more. Encrid stood with his torn arm dangling, blood dripping from him. As he pivoted to deliver one last blow, his toe caught on something. A head. The head of the scout who had wanted to become a cook. "This is a little irritating." He knew today would repeat if he died. But seeing something like this hardly felt good. "GRAAAR!" Six werewolves pounced on Encrid at once. Naturally, he couldn't survive. It was his first time dying with his entire body being torn apart by teeth. Naturally, this was agonizing, too. Time passed in pain. How long had it been? He closed his eyes and opened them. The pain was gone. Before him lay a black river, its waters rippling without a sound. A ferry bobbed on the river, with the ferryman aboard.