Chapter 2 - Life Flashing Before His Eyes

Through the eyeholes of his leather helmet, Encrid thought he saw a black dot flying toward him. He raised the shield strapped to the back of his left hand.

THUNK.

The impact was heavy. He had tried to knock the blow aside, but only half succeeded, leaving his forearm aching. He brought his blade down on the helmet of the man who had thrust the spear at him.

THWACK.

The man reflexively ducked his head, and the blade fell on his shoulder instead. A heavy thud rang from the shoulder guard, and the impact stung Encrid's grip.

“Urgh. I'll kill you.”

The enemy soldier muttered, choked up on his spear, and swung it. A well-trained move. Without a second thought, Encrid planted the sole of his foot in the man's belly and kicked him away.

“Oof.”

The man lost his balance and fell. This was close-quarters fighting, all but a free-for-all. Once the leading ranks of both armies tangled together, friend and foe inevitably became mixed. Which meant that falling was as good as dying.

Encrid looked away from the man he had knocked down, tightened his grip on the shield handle, and searched for allies. Lose your head and go wild, and you died. Acting like a berserker just because the battle had become a melee would not make you one. It would make you a corpse.

That was how Encrid had survived so many years with such meager talent. He knew his limits.

'Don't push ahead.'

He blocked a blade that came flying from somewhere. It struck the edge of his shield, buckling the iron rim. The oiled wooden shield warped. A few more blows at best, and it would be useless.

'Keep attacks short and simple.'

After blocking, Encrid tightened his sword hand and swung.

THUNK.

A heavy impact jolted his grip. One unlucky enemy soldier took the blow to his head and toppled sideways. An ally's spear plunged into the fallen man's chest. His thick gambeson of layered cotton and linen could not withstand the force, caving inward under repeated strikes. The man thrashed, desperate to live.

THUD! THUD! THUD!

The allied soldier repeated the same motion without pause. Whether the man tried to block or not, he kept his distance and drove his spear in hard.

THUNK.

At last, the spear pierced the armor and buried itself in the unlucky enemy's torso.

“Ghk.”

The man coughed up a gush of blood. Trembling, he clutched the shaft of the spear impaling his belly.

“Fuck, let go! Let go, you son of a bitch!”

The enemy held on to the shaft to the bitter end. The allied soldier abandoned his weapon and picked up the man's spear instead. Having seen that much, Encrid backed away, drawing breath in short, measured bursts.

“Hah, hah, hah.”

He took in his own position, those of his allies and enemies, and mapped them out in his head.

'Push ahead and you die.'

With his skill, plunging into the enemy would only make him fertilizer scattered across the battlefield. Just like the soldier who had died moments ago with a hole several times larger than his navel punched through him.

The man had charged out ahead of the line in a frenzy, but his skill had been nothing special. Perhaps killing a few less skilled, less fortunate men in earlier battles had made him cocky. Or perhaps he had simply been unlucky. He had run into Encrid's blade even though the swing had not been aimed at him.

There had been no rain for days, leaving the ground hard as stone. Blood spattered it, but that did nothing to ease the dryness. It had been far too long since it rained. His throat felt as though it were burning, and the smell of blood rose from deep inside it.

Encrid swallowed dryly and searched for his squad members. Looking, of course, did not mean he could find them. Instead...

“Raaaaah!”

Someone shouted. Two paces away, he saw a soldier from his own platoon raise his spear and stab.

'What are you doing?'

The stab itself was good, but the man stumbled all on his own, catching his right foot on his left and falling flat. He hit the ground with a thud and lost his weapon.

'Are you praying for someone to kill you?'

With only his head poking up, the fallen man looked as though he were praying facedown. Encrid cut off the thought and moved. He stepped forward, raised his shield, held his breath, and braced his muscles.

THUNK. CRACK.

The enemy blade slammed into his shield. The heavy impact traveled through his forearm and spread through his entire body. He barely stopped the blade before the oiled wooden shield split apart.

Encrid flung the broken shield forward and swung his sword from side to side with every ounce of strength he had. Once from right to left, then another broad sweep from left to right.

WHOOSH, WHOOSH.

CLANG!

His left-to-right swing caught the enemy's weapon. Sparks flew as blade met blade, and he saw the weapon fly from the man's grip. That was what he had been aiming for.

Encrid trusted the strength he had built up over the years more than his paltry swordsmanship. When it came to training, he had done more than most first-rate mercenaries. That strength had created an opening. Even so, he did not rush in. Just as danger always held opportunity, opportunity held danger.

“Raaah!”

The disarmed enemy hesitated, then raised his arms and charged. He seemed to think he was a bear.

Encrid feinted with his sword, then all but threw it to the ground and ducked, catching the charging man and tossing him over his back. Armor, helmet, assorted gear, and the weight of a grown man bore down on him. Heavy. The instant he took that weight on his back, his lower back and thighs screamed. Ignoring them, he straightened with all his strength and heaved himself upright.

“Gah!”

The enemy flipped over behind him. There was no need to look back at the man who landed with a thud. Encrid stood one step inside the line his allies had formed, and on this side, he usually encountered only three kinds of enemy.

First, the unlucky ones who had been shoved along until they ended up at the front.

Second, idiots swollen with overconfidence after a few days of fighting.

Third, the real fighters who led the battle because they trusted their skill.

The man he had just thrown belonged to the first group. He had charged in desperation and landed among his enemies. He was already as good as dead.

Encrid picked up his fallen sword. The ally who had tripped over his own feet while charging was clambering upright. Something had struck his helmet and split half of it clean open. Blood ran from his head, too.

'One hell of a lucky bastard.'

Besides, Encrid himself had just saved him from another brush with death. Lucky in more ways than one. And someone he knew.

“Bell, did getting your skull cracked knock your brains out?” Encrid asked.

Bell, the soldier with the half-split helmet, wiped the blood running over his eyes and answered.

“Urgh. Fuck. Goddamn it, barely made it out alive.”

“Then cover my back.”

It was hard for an ordinary soldier to read the course of a battle from the middle of it. A Squad Leader—a ten-man commander—was usually less a battlefield commander than someone who relayed orders to his ten-man squad.

But Encrid read the battle. More precisely, he felt it.

'This isn't good.'

He had lived amid the blood and blades of battle for countless years. Those days had not given him a talent for swordsmanship, but they had at least taught him to make a rough reading of a battle's flow. To be honest, it was pure instinct. Even so, that instinct had saved him more than once.

'I think we're fucked.'

“Urgh. All right.”

Bell wiped the blood from his head as he answered, retrieved his weapon, and moved neither quickly nor slowly. Spear in hand, he took two steps, watching his surroundings.

THWACK.

A flash shot through his skull, right through the split in his helmet. An arrow had flown in and lodged in his head. The impact knocked an eyeball from its socket, sending it against Encrid's leather armor.

'Ah.'

Bell died without so much as a brief groan, his mouth hanging open. Encrid turned his gaze.

Somewhere in the distant sky—or rather, in midair, in a patch of space he could not quite pinpoint—he saw a flash of light and a dot. The instant he saw it, he knew it would bury itself in his head.

Encrid closed his eyes. How many people could remain detached in the face of death? He was no exception.

As his eyes shut, his past sprang up, like the dream he had had yesterday, ready to pass before him in what people called a flash of one's life. Time seemed to slow. The noise of battle faded, and even his breathing felt slower.

THUMP, THUNK!

The sensation vanished. So did the memories flashing before his eyes. The noise of battle returned, and he felt himself breathing normally again.

“Offering a prayer of thanks for getting killed?”

It was his subordinate, one of his ten-man squad. The man had shoved him aside, and the arrow had struck the ground.

“Rem,” Encrid said, calling his name.

“That bastard Hawk's Eyeball, or Feather, or whatever they call him, is here for this battle. Watch out for arrows.”

“You think being careful will keep one from hitting me?”

“I'll go fuck him up. Sit tight.”

This bastard really had his own fresh brand of crazy. Encrid nodded at the thought.

“You're not giving up on life or anything, are you? You even skipped training today to take a nap,” Rem said.

“What's it to you?”

“I'd feel awkward if I'd saved you when you actually wanted to croak.”

“Goddamn it, who wants to die?”

Making a living by the sword was not the same as attempting suicide.

“I'm only saying it because you fight just fine most of the time, then shut your eyes right when it matters.”

“You think I close them because I want to?”

Hadn't he asked something much like that a moment ago?

Rem held an axe in his right hand and a broken spear in his left. He could equip himself that way because he handled any weapon well, whether a sword, axe, or bludgeon. He raised his axe hand and scratched vigorously at his head with his thumb. It did not look particularly satisfying. He was scratching his helmet.

“Fuck, this helmet smells like shit.”

“Agreed.”

“I keep telling you, concentrate harder when you think you're going to die,” Rem said.

He said that often. Encrid knew what he meant. Rem was always saying that in the instant when you thought you would die, when your life flashed before your eyes, you could concentrate to a superhuman degree. Use that in a fight.

Goddamn it, as if he could do that. That was talent: keeping your eyes open in the instant between life and death, looking your opponent in the face, and doing what you had to do.

“Concentrate, my ass,” Encrid said.

“Well, it'd be nice if you could learn by dying a few hundred times, but you've only got one life. See you around.”

Rem snickered, then bounded away into the battle again. The man really could fight.

Encrid focused on the battle once more. Fight with an allied soldier at his shoulder. Keep doing that. He thrust his sword forward. With luck, it would skewer someone. Without it, they would dodge. And if neither happened...

THUNK.

It would amount to nothing more than a blow with the sword tip. Unable to pierce the enemy's armor, the tip shoved him back like a blunt weapon.

“Mmph.”

The man groaned and staggered backward. A passing ally's war hammer struck his skull.

CRASH.

Encrid cleared away his stray thoughts. Just blocking and dodging the blades, spearheads, and clubs coming at him and swinging his sword felt enough to burn out his nerves. Uneasy without a shield, he picked up an axe from the ground to use in its place.

Still keeping allies around him, he blocked, struck, and stabbed. Whenever an opening appeared, he displayed the clumsy sword work he had learned over the years. Left foot forward, shift his weight, keep the sword tip straight and the strength in his arm. A stab.

With the right tension in his muscles, concentration, and the sense to spot an opening, it might work.

TING, TING-TING-TING-TING!

Encrid's stab was only half successful.

'Tch.'

He had aimed for the gap between helmet and breastplate, but his opponent moved, throwing his aim off. He left a long cut across the man's neck, but it could hardly be called a mortal wound. The bleeding man's eyes turned on Encrid. They were full of venom. Without a word, he ground his back teeth.

'Danger.'

His battlefield instincts spoke. As Encrid backed away, an allied soldier stepped in to fill the gap. The enemy silently ducked and struck the shin of the ally barring his path with his sword hand.

CRACK.

Bone snapped.

“Argh!”

As the soldier fell with his shin broken, the enemy drew a dagger and plunged it into his throat. The stab and withdrawal were seamless, like a scene in a play scripted to unfold exactly that way. Blood spurted over the enemy's breastplate. He shoved the dead soldier aside.

'Ah.'

His life flashed before his eyes. The boundary between life and death. Countless images flickered past the outside of a glowing lantern. Those images were Encrid's life. Like the dream he had had last night.

At the end of that life, the moment everything finished passing before him, his opponent's blade pierced Encrid's throat. The man had performed the very stab Encrid had shown him. A perfect stab. At least, it was to Encrid's eyes.

As searing pain raced from his throat through his entire body, Encrid faced the moment between life and death and understood the concentration Rem had spoken of. Only, he was too late.

'I had to die to learn it?'

Cursing Rem inwardly, Encrid closed his eyes and thought. No, his heart moved of its own accord. Longing, craving, yearning.

'I wanted to be good with a sword.'

'I wanted to become a knight.'

'I wanted to become a hero.'

Having failed to become any of those things, Encrid should have earned a modest sum, settled in a decent village, and built a home to live in. But he had not. He could not. The passion boiling in his chest would not let him. Right up to the very end, he had squandered the money he earned in blood on battlefields at training schools and the like.

'I could have done better.'

If only he had had more time. He had thought all he needed was to swing his sword more while others slept, while those so-called prodigies and gifted bastards played.

At the end of his flashing memories, a face appeared: the first and last person he had ever saved by his own strength.

[“The amulet will act upon your wish, Sir Knight.”]

The person who had given him the amulet was the head of the slash-and-burn farming village. That old woman whose words whistled through her missing front teeth.

Regret mingled with longing, filling his chest with an emotion he had never felt before. Regret.

'Would a few more swings have made a difference?'

That one word, death, settled into his body. Beyond his closed eyes, he saw a black river. And Encrid regretted taking a nap that afternoon instead of swinging his sword. If he had practiced just a little more then, perhaps that final stab would have succeeded.

A faceless boatman sat in a ferry on the black water. The boatman asked,

“Do you really think so?”

Huh?

“You're interesting.”

Hmm?

“Then let's do that.”

The mouthless boatman spoke. There was no telling where the voice came from. Where his mouth should have been, there was only darkness, as though he wore a black mask.

Encrid could not utter a word. He lost consciousness, then opened his eyes again.

CLANG, CLANG, CLANG.

The night watch was striking metal. More precisely, striking a pot with a ladle. The familiar sound that woke him in the morning.

“...”

He looked silently to his side.

“Have some shitty dream?”

Rem, the subordinate beside him, grumbled as he rose from his camp bed and shoved a foot into his boot.

“Ah, a bug.”

A bug in his boot. Encrid blinked. Events too real to call a dream flickered through his mind.

“Ptooey.”

Rem shook the bug out, spat, and crushed it underfoot. A smear of insect fluids mixed with spit remained on the floor.