Chapter 207 - Unease and the Vanguard

What did his opponents have to offer? One soldier was devoted to stabs. Another was skilled at gripping the middle of his spear shaft and swinging it like a club. Another had little strength behind his swings, yet had a keen eye for openings.

That was an inborn instinct. The realm of talent, one might say. But Encrid thought the man lacked training. His endurance was poor, and his strength poorer still. His reactions were decent, but that was all.

Each soldier charged with something he had learned and honed, carrying it, raising it, swinging it. Even with the same training, each developed differently. They all carried spears, yet none used them quite the same way.

Encrid took it all in. A wavering spear tip, wavering eyes. A habit of stepping forward with the left foot. A man who feigned a stumble, perhaps having learned a rough version of the Valen Mercenary Sword Technique.

Many of the soldiers also showed signs of tireless training. It struck him anew: if anything was more frightening than overwhelming talent...

GRIND.

It was an enemy who charged through the loss of his fingers, teeth clenched. His courage, his nerve, his resolve were on another level. Fierce spirit shone in those bloodshot eyes.

Encrid never went through the motions. He never treated an opponent lightly. Concealing his skill was one thing; putting his heart into every swing was another.

As he shifted his stance at the approaching spearhead, his opponent dropped the spear and lunged. The man meant to tackle him with brute force. Recalling the battlefield where he had gained the heart of the beast, Encrid bent his knees and caught the man across his back. Then he heaved him clean over it. The soldier sailed through the air, landed shoulder-first, and rolled across the ground.

'The heart of the beast.'

A man with a stout heart was fiercer than a man with great talent. Encrid reminded himself just how important the heart of the beast was to him. Not that he had ever forgotten. How could he, when he practiced everything he had learned every day? When, trapped in 'today,' he went over everything he possessed, one thing at a time, again and again?

He kept watching the soldiers' movements.

'Pivot on the left foot, twist, and strike.'

One soldier used a movement similar to a one-handed sword stab, but released his spear as he extended it, making the attack something like a javelin throw. It was an unexpected, inventive strike. Still, it posed no threat. They were operating on different timescales to begin with.

He had the heart of the beast, Concentrate on a Single Point, and his dodging sense, all supported by a body forged through the Isolation Technique. The move was surprising, but he could evade it. His body had reacted the instant he saw it.

His Review was complete. All that remained was to absorb their techniques and efforts into his own body. From here, it would take time.

He looked back as he withdrew, but no great plume of black smoke rose overhead. He had set fires, but they had been swiftly extinguished. He hadn't dealt the supply base any great damage. Still, they would remember being hit despite their preparations. And however little damage there was, having their supply base catch fire was a blow in itself.

Getting away was easy.

"Grr."

Esther padded beside him, lighter on her feet than ever. Lately, the panther rarely settled into his arms except to sleep. When he glanced at her as they ran, she looked up at him. Her eyes were large and clear. Actually, they seemed larger than before.

"Rrrow."

The panther seemed to be asking what he was staring at. Had she been human, she would have been every bit as bad-tempered as Rem.

"Nothing."

Encrid let it pass without fuss, just as he would with Rem.

"There he is!"

The shout came from behind as he pushed through the undergrowth. It was the soldiers pursuing him. Encrid listened and gauged their approximate distance. It was the way of seeing through sound that Jaxon had taught him.

Using his keen senses to calculate his pursuers' positions and distance, he decided shaking them off would be no trouble. He had room to spare. And with that came thoughts about what he had noticed while watching the enemy soldiers and learning their habits.

One of them—a squad leader—had kept his wits about him amid the chaos.

["Bring a net!"]

He had shouted that, trying to catch both Encrid and Esther. He spoke while backing away to put distance between them. Killing him wouldn't have been difficult if Encrid had set his mind to it, but he saw no need. As he watched...

["Fire!"]

The man pulled a remarkable trick. Encrid had been expecting a net, but arrows came flying instead. At the command to fire, the soldiers surrounding him instantly drew back. It was a rehearsed maneuver. Above all, their faithful obedience to that squad leader showed their trust in him.

The call for a net had been a feint; arrows were what they had actually prepared. Of course, it hadn't caught him. Instead, having room to spare had left his mind filling with all sorts of thoughts.

He recalled a snowy day, back when they were still called the troublemaker squad, as they set out to deal with the Gilfin Guild.

["Give the order. Those who can do it will."]

Ragna had said that.

In the enemy squad leader's actions, Encrid had glimpsed ways of thinking, individual tactics, and squad combat, and realized they weren't his area of expertise. He did know, however, that they needed something different.

The current battle was no different. Defending the walls alone wasn't an answer. Attacks on the supply lines at this level wouldn't come close to doing the job. This was little more than pissing on frozen feet for warmth.

Then what should he do?

'Lean on Krais.'

That would produce an answer. Hadn't he learned that on that winter day? If he couldn't do something, he could have someone who could do it instead. Still, leading even a single unit took no small amount of work.

'I could never stand being a battalion commander.'

An idle thought. For now, he only needed to return. There was no time to learn strategy and tactics immediately. But he couldn't keep fighting like this forever while holding the title of company commander.

'I can learn one thing at a time.'

He needed to know something before he could give orders, didn't he? At the very least, he needed to understand what others intended when they spoke if he was to command properly. A knight was someone who walked ahead of others, but could also be a commander responsible for troops.

And even aside from that...

'If my men all died under my command...'

Especially if it happened because he had neglected to learn, Encrid could never allow it.

* * *

"They got you again?"

Olf didn't blindly lose his temper. His eyes remained clear, too. Whatever anyone might say, he was no dullard.

'Something doesn't sit right.'

The damage wasn't significant. They had more than one supply route, and the enemy had merely struck the supply base with the ovens. Merely struck it, quite literally. It wasn't a crippling blow. This alone wouldn't destabilize the entire battlefield. It was the fact that they kept getting hit that grated on him.

"What about that bastard?"

At Olf's question, Greg answered with sweat dripping from his forehead.

"He got away."

Greg, the assault commander. Quite apart from his personal prowess, he specialized in pursuing retreating enemies. Even if it came to a fight, he wouldn't easily lose to anyone. In fact, long before tales of that Encrid fellow had spread, Greg had earned renown as a warrior who had wiped out two colonies single-handedly.

With reputations commonly divided into village-, city-, and continent-level, he was naturally considered at least city-level. Among Olf's subordinates, were there even two better than Greg, at the most?

"He got away?"

And this was Greg, whose specialties were charging, running, and striking the enemy down. Yet his opponent had escaped.

'Marcus, you crazy bastard. What are you playing at?'

Olf asked the question inwardly. Whatever his opponent intended, there was definitely something going on. Unease accumulated in his chest. But this wasn't the time to get angry.

"It's nothing but a clumsy trick. Besides, we haven't even properly shown them the troops I've brought. Keep tightening the noose and pressing them, and there's nothing they can do!"

The actual commander of Viscount Vantra's army spoke. As far as Olf could see, the mere mention of Encrid's name seemed to offend him. Confidence and arrogance mingled on his comparatively youthful face. His expression said it all: he was better; he only needed to step in.

'An inferiority complex?'

Surely not. This man commanded a viscount's army. Rumor even had it that he was a noble's bastard. By contrast, his opponent was a soldier off the streets who had puffed himself up. Whatever the case, Olf's unease remained.

Olf hadn't simply marched here with troops and nothing else. Naturally, he had prepared a few trump cards. For instance, there was something concealed behind the claim that the noble's private troops, who had joined with their insignia removed, were only for show.

With hidden assets at hand, keeping the battlefield as it was wouldn't be a bad choice. Maintaining the status quo could itself favor his army.

"We'll watch a few days longer. Give it two days and see how they respond. After that, we'll attack the walls again."

Time was on his side. That was Olf's judgment. This was a moment for cool heads, not anger.

The night passed, and the fourth morning of battle dawned. For breakfast, Olf ate well-baked bread, fresh cabbage, jerky, and dried fruit, washing it down with water mixed with wine.

All the fighting so far amounted to a small unit coming out to poke at them. Had his army suffered any serious losses? No. He dispelled his unease with that cool assessment, gave his face a cursory wash, and put on his armor. Just then...

"General!"

A messenger rushed into the command tent. Every commander assembled there after breakfast turned to look at him.

"What is it?"

Greg was on edge after losing the big man the previous day, and his tone was naturally harsh.

"The enemy is coming out."

"...?"

Blink, blink. For a moment, everyone simply blinked.

"Coming out where?"

Second Battalion Commander Zimmer asked.

"They've come out of the city."

"Why?"

It was so absurd that the thought in his chest escaped his throat unbidden.

"... Sir?"

How would the messenger know? And didn't Zimmer know that?

"What are they doing out there?"

Even the abrasive Greg blinked in apparent bewilderment, his voice considerably milder.

"They're forming battle lines."

The messenger reported what he had seen and heard. A river of silence swept through the command staff. A soundless clamor seemed to shake the tent.

Why come out? Had they all gone mad? Forming battle lines? They wanted a head-on battle? Why bother, when they had walls? This side held the advantage even with those walls in place. Why come out to die? What were they counting on?

"Nice."

The man who had been standing motionless as a scarecrow—the nominal commander of the troops without insignia—offered his opinion.

"They must want to put up a fight rather than stay penned in."

Viscount Vantra's commander spoke as well. It was difficult to imagine any other reason.

But the unease Olf had forcibly banished began spreading through his chest like a wine stain across a carpet. Was he supposed to retreat now, though? He would be a laughingstock for the rest of his life. If a bard were around, he might even be dubbed the Coward General.

Sometimes, on a battlefield, one had to step forward even with no prospect of victory. Right now, anyone could see that his side held the advantage. Yet he should retreat? This was no time to pull out over an uneasy feeling.

"We'll commit all our cavalry. Block their front in an oblique formation. If they're offering a head-on fight, shouldn't we oblige them?"

Olf spoke forcefully. Whatever the enemy was after, they had abandoned the advantage of their fortifications. He need only smash their troops. Then this unease would disappear as well.

'Have they requested reinforcements somewhere?'

No, that couldn't be it. He had encircled the city as soon as he advanced, and even if someone had slipped out to ask for aid, who would send troops? Count Molsen? The man had sent troops stripped of insignia to help carve up Border Guard himself.

'The central government?'

That wouldn't happen either. The odds of Naurilia's central army intervening were lower than those of a passing crow pecking out a knight's eyes.

"Let's go."

At the General's words, all the commanders rose.

"Let me take the vanguard."

Greg stepped forward.

"Of course."

Greg, the assault commander: a warrior whose skill would not easily yield to anyone.

"I've strengthened the defenses along our supply routes. Even if this is a diversion, we won't fall for it again."

Second Battalion Commander Zimmer added his assurance. A meticulous commander who made no mistakes. Olf nodded, satisfied.

Last was the third battalion commander, who led the cavalry and scouts. His name was Letley. Though his personal prowess fell short of Greg's, his skill at maneuvering troops through gaps in enemy formations surpassed Olf's own.

"Letley?"

"Yes, we're ready."

And that wasn't all.

"My side is ready as well. Has been for some time, in fact. I'll slit that braggart's throat and put an end to the man behind those flimsy rumors."

There was also the cavalry Viscount Vantra's army had secretly prepared. More than fifty of them.

Now, then, who had the advantage in this fight? Olf posed the question to Marcus, the enemy commander far away and out of sight.