Chapter 284 - Give Them Experience If They Lack It, Eliminate Their Weaknesses If They Have Any

Several skirmishes had brought a strange change to the mood on the battlefield. 'Are they going to fight us or not?'

That was what Black Blade and the Cultist army wanted to ask. They had expected fierce fighting, only to be left thoroughly deflated. More than a dozen engagements had gone that way. But as for launching an attack themselves... "The Lord of the Demonic Realm has spoken: trust not the bandits." Black Blade seemed likely to pull something underhanded behind their backs. Things were no different in Viscount Tarnin's army. "Don't attack first. We hold for now." "Oh, are they attacking again today? Don't they ever get tired of it?" Tarnin answered Lycanos as he stuffed pieces of jerky between slices of bread. The bastard never stopped stuffing his face, not for a moment. The earlier tension was gone. Border Guard's standing army kept doing such bizarre things that their nerves had naturally relaxed. Lycanos, of course, was different. 'They're up to something.' He could not say exactly what, but instincts honed over years on battlefields told him their opponent's maneuvers were no ordinary tricks. It felt ominous. Very, very, terribly ominous. The pig of a viscount was babbling beside him again. Something about simply attacking and wiping them out, since their own forces far outnumbered the enemy. That sort of nonsense, apparently. "Shut your mouth a moment." Lycanos was not fool enough to ignore his instincts. The viscount squawked something in response, but he ignored it. "Defensive positions." He still had to stick to the same strategy. There was no choice. He could trust neither the Cultist bastards nor the Aspen bastards. Let them stab him in the back? 'It would disgrace the name of Black Blade.' The organization he belonged to would become the greatest bandit group on the continent. Such a group could not walk into an obvious trap. And so, with the clouds clearing unnoticed and bright sunlight falling upon a winter day, another day of battle dawned.

* * *

"The pain that kills me lies ahead!"

"Kill the pain!" Bell thought the chants were getting stranger by the day, but unwittingly contributed to the strangeness himself. "Pain to die for!" They had become even more bizarre, but the chants were not all that had changed. The soldiers moved differently now. He no longer needed to give instructions that were half profanity. It was only natural. These men had already been trained. They had been tormented and beaten senseless by none other than the Lunatic Company. Anyone who had not even received training was excluded from the formations altogether. That, too, had been Krais's idea. 'We're already short of troops.' Bell had thought it a refreshingly original load of bullshit. He had wanted to say that real battlefields did not work that way. Of course, in the end, he had not managed a word. ["Do it."]

Encrid stood behind the idea, and Graham had approved it. ["Here's the point. If they lack experience, let them gain it. If they have weaknesses, eliminate them. That's what this is for."] Mixing inadequately trained soldiers into the ranks weakened the entire force. Gather only those hardened by training, then hammer them. Like iron that needed hammering to grow stronger, beat them with the hammer of actual combat. Men like Bell were the living realization of the theory born in Krais's head. Soldier after soldier had emerged from training that was hell itself, then been tempered beneath the hammer of actual combat. "The flower of the battlefield is!"

"The infantry!"

"The flower of pain is!"

"Goddamn pleasure!" Corrupted chants, fervor, cheers. Something boiling within burned in their chests. "Kill them all!" Bell shouted. Hadn't they been told that if the previous battles were one step, this battle should be two? Rather than merely testing the waters, they were boldly initiating the fight. Bell was at the forefront. He could see the eyes of an approaching Black Blade mercenary. Gleaming with killing intent beneath an iron helmet pulled low, they glared at him. The man swung a great sword overhead. A blow laden with weight and strength descended toward Bell's head. He did not react. As things stood, he was perfectly placed to die. Instead of blocking, Bell planted his left foot, twisted his waist back, and tensed both arms. His muscles bulged under the strain. He concentrated, poured in more strength, and drove his spear forward. It was a strike he had spent days devising: a stab launched with a twist of his entire body. Was this bastard insane? Bewildered, the mercenary nevertheless followed through with his sword. The man was practically asking for them both to die. He only had to cut him first. The mercenary planned to strike, then evade the spear once its thrust lost strength. But his descending sword could not fulfill its purpose. Two soldiers had slipped up beside Bell and covered his head with thick round shields. CLANG! The blade struck the shields. And a blow that ordinary gambesons, leather, or mail could not stop slammed into the mercenary's torso. THUNK! The well-sharpened spearhead punched through gambeson and leather to bore a hole in his belly. The shaft jutted from his middle like a splendid ornament. "Fu...uck, you crazy bastard." Blood welled from the enemy soldier's mouth as he spoke. Dropping his sword, he clutched the shaft piercing his body, staggered, and fell backward. The spearhead through him scraped along the ground as his body toppled sideways. He died slumped at an angle. "It's called strategy, you stupid fucking monkey," Bell said, releasing his spear. Pulling it out would take more effort. He fell back and took a fresh spear. They worked in teams of three. One punched holes in the enemy with stabbing attacks, while the other two blocked and held firm. ["Each team will consist of one spearman and two soldiers who know how to use shields."] It was an improvised tactic for units smaller than squads. Being improvised was no reason they could not execute it. Most of the training they had sweated blood through, driving their bodies like golems, had been aimed at improving their individual physical abilities. Nor was the tactic complicated. In its first large-scale battle against Viscount Tarnin's army, Border Guard's standing army, having spent the past ten-odd days adapting, firmly drove the enemy back. "Fucking cut them down! Smash through their shields! Use your maces!"

"Archers! Are you just going to watch?" By tacit agreement, the fighting had been infantry against infantry. The enemy brought in archers first. "Fuck that. Kill them." Vengeance's missile troops, who had been waiting for precisely this, moved. A platoon of fleet-footed, keen-eyed soldiers swiftly nocked their arrows, then released their furiously taut bowstrings. THRUM-THRUM-THRUM! Fifty longbows alone. A rain of arrows poured into the enemy's flank. "Fall back! I said fall back!" Bell broke off fighting to shout. Border Guard's standing army swiftly withdrew. Anyone watching could only have marveled. There was no enormous difference in the two armies' numbers. The standing army barely exceeded a thousand, while Viscount Tarnin's army had grown to more than twenty-five hundred. Troops kept pouring in from somewhere to join them. Of course, neither army had committed its full strength. Each had deployed an appropriate number: roughly two hundred and fifty from Border Guard's standing army, and nearly four hundred from the viscount's forces. The disparity in numbers was real, and Viscount Tarnin's army had quite a few renowned mercenaries scattered through its ranks. Its soldiers also fought prepared to die, with executioners standing behind them, swords drawn and bristling with killing intent. Even so, the outcome was clear. "A trained army defeats individuals," Krais murmured atop the hill. Pin, who was guarding him, replied, "What the hell are you talking about?" It was not something she could understand. "I'm just saying that's how it is." "They should've let me go with the Captain. Guard duty, of all things," Pin grumbled. At that same moment, Encrid was attending to his own task.

* * *

"Here we are." At Jaxon's words as he trudged along, Encrid spoke. "Ragna?"

"Why are you calling me?" Good, they had all made it. If Ragna was here, everyone was. Teresa, her face hidden by a helmet, caught his eye. Would she be all right? He had told her she could sit this out, but she had refused. ["I am Teresa the Wanderer. I merely follow the path my sword and shield must take."] With Jaxon guiding them, the Lunatic Company had traveled without even bothering to hide. There was no need. A large-scale pitched battle had drawn everyone's attention. They killed every scout they met along the way. With no eyes left to see, there would be no tongues left to tell. While Black Blade and the standing army fought their bloody battle, Encrid's company reached the Cultists' encampment. "Thought I'd die of boredom," Rem said. His eyes gleamed. He looked as though he had some condition that made thorns sprout in his mouth unless he took someone's head off every three days. "Let's go," Encrid said, approaching the crudely assembled palisade. As he drew near, he heard a growl. A rank animal stink struck his nose. He turned his gaze and saw yellow eyes: a wolf demonic beast, planted on all fours with its fangs bared. GRRRRR! The moment they met, it kicked off the ground and lunged. The wolf became a streak, fangs bared straight ahead. It had appeared on their left, where Dunbachel stood. The instant the wolf demonic beast sprang, metal rang against metal. In midair, the beast met a thin silver line. Naturally, it was Dunbachel's work. The scimitar drawn from her waist traced a half-moon. The silver blade slanted through the beast from its right shoulder to beneath its left leg. Blood and entrails gushed onto the ground as its bisected corpse sprawled there, twitching. Blood splattered in every direction. "Kill them cleanly, would you?" Rem commented on the sight. Dunbachel flicked her scimitar through the air, scattering blood onto the ground as she replied. "That's clean enough."

"You don't know a thing." Rem snorted. GRRRRR! No sooner had he finished than more yellow eyes appeared all around. They had swept through the scouts and charged straight in, not in the dead of night but in broad daylight. The animal stench was strong enough to numb the nose. Even before that, the stink of excrement everywhere had made their noses hurt. The Cultist army had not anticipated the Lunatic Company's movements. This was a dagger thrust no one had expected, delivered at a time when anyone would think, 'Surely they wouldn't come here?' Thus, the wolf demonic beasts pouring out to meet them were not the result of foresight. They simply happened to be guarding the palisade. The Cultists' camp lay between rolling rises, surrounded by uneven terrain. It was a low, rugged stretch of hills with plenty of hiding places. Wolves emerged one after another between the rises. Yellow-eyed heads popped into view. Beasts tainted by demonic energy bared their fangs on every side. GRRR! Rem held his two axes parallel to the ground. "Watch. This is clean." Then he sprang from the ground. There was no time to say anything. His charge was half a beat faster than the wolf demonic beasts could react. He closed the distance in an instant, suddenly appearing right before the nearest beast's nose. He charged and cut. His axe-wielding arm seemed to bend around as a wolf's head shot into the air with a thud. Several more heads followed in rapid succession. Rem did what he always did. In other words, he cut, severed, and split everything within reach. "What about that is clean?" Dunbachel asked, watching him. Encrid agreed. It was not clean in the slightest. But it was destructive. "Such vigor, brother," Audin murmured. That was exactly right. The wolf demonic beasts faithfully performed their guard duty and were cut down in droves. Encrid adjusted his sword belt as he watched Cultists appear beyond the palisade. A small preparation, made to ensure he gave his best, whatever the opponent, whatever the fight. He settled his sword belt. "We're under attack!" Watching the enemy soldier shout, Encrid prepared to draw his sword. Anyone would have thought he was about to whip it free and charge. Some of the enemy soldiers saw his stance and raised their crossbows. "The Lord of the Demonic Realm watches over us!" With that fanatical cry, the Cultists loaded their crossbows and tried to aim. From his sword-drawing stance, Encrid flung both hands out to either side. The movement seemed inexplicable. Its result was not. FWEEEE! A shrill whistle tore through the air—and through the throats of four crossbowmen. Whistle daggers. "Ghk!" One clutched his throat and collapsed. The new opening in it, a gaping hole plainly visible from outside, streamed blood instead of air. All four crossbow-wielding Cultist soldiers fell, their heads hitting the ground. "Quite the deceiver," Jaxon murmured behind him. It was impossible to tell whether he was impressed or mocking. Encrid paid him no mind. Feign drawing a sword, then throw whistle daggers. An excellent tactic. Adjusting his sword belt and taking his stance had all been for this one move. A stance was preparation. Deceiving an opponent was preparation, too. AWOOOOOO! A chilling wolf howl rose from within the evil cult's camp. It was imbued with mana that momentarily froze the body. "Can we shut that barking dog up?" Rem said, drenched in the demonic beasts' black blood. He grinned, baring his front teeth. His strangely white-looking teeth, axes, and black blood combined to make him look like the very embodiment of terror. Not a single person here froze at a mere howl. Even Dunbachel only grumbled. "Just taking their heads off doesn't make it clean." "G-G-God of the Demonic Realm." One of the fanatics watched with a trembling jaw. "Huh? What was that? Can't hear a thing people who worship a fucking moron of a god say." Still holding his axe, Rem put a hand beside his ear as he spoke. Then he began rampaging with even greater delight. From the enemy's perspective, he had gone berserk. Encrid and the others did their part as well. Jaxon set fire to barracks and supplies, while Ragna cut down the enemies charging from behind Encrid as needed. Teresa and Dunbachel also dashed out to either side, smashing and splitting skulls, human and demonic beast alike. There was no need to wreak havoc for long. Once Encrid saw black smoke rising, he gave the signal. He threw a whistle dagger into the sky. FWEEEEEEEEEE! At the long whistle, the entire company fell back. Their purpose from the outset had been to strike one bewildering blow and withdraw. While the commander increased his guard to protect his own skin, they set fire to his supplies and fled. A simple but effective strategy. "Rem!" Encrid shouted as he withdrew. "Go on ahead!" That was the answer he received when he called to Rem, who was not following. Was he having too much fun? That was half the reason. The need to cover their retreat was the other half. Four demonic beasts twice the size of the others were already charging toward them. Someone had to either cut them all down or hold them off before withdrawing. "Let's go and hope he finally drops dead," Jaxon said, not meaning a word of it. "Or I could stay behind." Ragna had made an unacceptable suggestion. If he stayed behind, would he even find his way back before winter ended? Encrid was not worried about Rem. This was Rem, after all, not someone else. Getting himself out would be nothing to him. "We're going ahead," Encrid said.