Chapter 32 - Dreams, Reproach, Responsibility

"The flagpoles?"

"They're safe." The Principality of Aspen's company commander was far from pleased with the operation underway. But what could a mere field commander do about orders from above? If they told him to do the dirty work, he did it. And that was what he had been doing when a small problem arose. A few Naurilian rats had slipped into camp and set a tent on fire. More than half his troops had been lying in ambush in the tall-grass fields, yet the intruders had gotten through. Like it or not, the operation had already begun. Getting bested here was a matter of pride. Failure was even less acceptable. "You should have seen to security more thoroughly."

The owner of the flagpoles spoke, making a vein stand out on the company commander's forehead. It galled him to hear this bastard run his mouth when one stroke of his sword across that neck would kill him outright. But what could he do? There had indeed been a hole in his unit's defenses. "I'll see to it." FLAP! With that, the company commander slapped the tent flap aside and stepped outside. He could not make sense of the situation. 'How is this possible?'

The enemy discovering this place? Fine, say they could manage that. But what came next? Fewer than ten men had slipped past the troops deployed throughout the tall-grass fields and attacked the flagpoles at his main camp? The company commander trusted his unit. Of course he did. They usually called him the Demon Company Commander, a nickname earned through his brutal training regimen. His philosophy was that men had to cough up blood in training if they were to avoid coughing up blood and dying on the battlefield. These were troops he had trained himself. 'And they got through all that?'

A soldier might lose a battle, but never fail to keep watch. The company commander sincerely believed that. Yet was he to blame his own men's vigilance? He could not simply lash out at them. Whoever had planned and executed this was no ordinary man. He had the nerve to enter enemy territory with a handful of men, the skill to survive a clash with one of the commander's platoon commanders, and the ability to finish flawlessly by setting the fire and escaping. Granted, the platoon commander had been forced to let him go because the fire was spreading behind him. 'Luck is a skill, too.'

Having spent long years on battlefields, the Aspen company commander knew the importance of luck. He spoke to his waiting adjutant. "Summon every officer except the platoon commanders out on duty."

"Yes, sir." His company belonged to a battalion, but possessed separate operational authority. In other words, it was an independent company. Such companies generally had nicknames. This unit was called the Gray Hounds. In the Principality of Aspen, gray hounds were gray-furred dogs renowned for their tenacity. Once one set its sights on another, it would not rest until it had its way, whether in love or in a fight. That was why the Gray Hounds were also known as the Persistent Lovers. Now the unit's commander had set his sights on an enemy scouting squad leader whose name he did not even know.

'I'll hunt him down and kill him.'

The Gray Hound had chosen his target. The company commander engraved that resolve on his heart again and again. He would catch the bastard and make him pay. Clouds began gathering overhead, perhaps the work of the shaman inside the tent. It looked as though rain would fall soon. Most of the intermittent rain of late had been that shaman's doing. And the shaman was the key to this tactic. He still disliked it, but there was no denying the operation's efficiency. Had it been nonsense, the commander of the independent company known as the Gray Hounds, or the Persistent Lovers, would never have taken part, even if they beat him to death. A battlefield with victory guaranteed. Quite apart from his burning desire for revenge, he could not help finding it dreadfully dull.

* * *

"You happened to discover an enemy ambush, then happened to enter their main camp, and happened to set it on fire before coming back?" It did sound strange put that way. Rather than nod, Encrid added an explanation.

"Yes. I acted on what I thought were appropriate decisions at each moment, and that happened to be the result." The scout platoon commander blinked. What was this fellow saying? A man nearly his own age who had lucked into becoming a squad leader. A talentless fool who swung his sword every chance he got. That was the troublemaker squad leader's reputation. But hearing what he had done now, well... And that was only Encrid's account. The surviving squad members' stories were even more astonishing. ["You really can't trust rumors. I'd like to stay by his side and learn more, if possible."] This was Andrew, whose arrogance had worried him before their departure. He had wondered whether sending the brat out like that might lead to trouble. Yet Andrew said it was only right that command of the scouts had been forcibly taken from him. No, he wanted to learn more. Was this really the Andrew he knew? ["In terms of ability alone, I'd say he's beyond an intermediate-grade soldier."]

Next was Mac, Andrew's nursemaid. The scout platoon commander knew how capable Mac was. His faith in the man was half the reason he had entrusted the scouts to Andrew. And Encrid had earned that very man's recognition. For his skill, no less. ["He knows a great deal. We did as he said, and this is how it turned out."]

Last was Henri, the plains hunter. The squad members' assessments were unanimous. They had simply trusted him and followed. Surely they had not all agreed to tell the same lie. So it had actually happened. Encrid had seized command of the scouts, and with only ten men, evaded the enemy troops lying in ambush in the tall-grass fields, set their camp on fire, and returned alive. 'How is this possible?'

It hardly seemed possible, but the man had already set the fire and learned the enemy's movements. What could he say? Trying to piece together everything he had heard only bewildered him further. They had stayed still amid the enemy, who had simply passed them by. They had crossed enemy territory in the dark without anyone spotting them. "Well, uh, you must have been extraordinarily lucky."

In the end, that was all the scout platoon commander could say. Encrid thought it a fitting description. He could hardly explain that he had memorized the enemy's movements and the layout of their camp because today repeated whenever he died. "Yes. Luck was on my side."

If this was luck, it was no ordinary kind. The goddess of fortune had gone well beyond kissing him and into sharing his bed. Yet there really was no way to explain it except luck. There was no particular reason to keep it secret, so rumors began circulating through the scouting platoon. Encrid, leader of the troublemaker squad, was a man blessed with luck. A man to whom the goddess of fortune had entrusted her coin. Luck itself. Or a man who had used up his lifetime's luck on this scouting mission. Nothing happened on the way back to the main force. During the half-day march, a brief spell of steady drizzle was all they encountered. Rain fell from a clear sky. Uncommon, but something one saw now and then. Throughout the journey back, Encrid was absorbed in one thought.

'Was that the best I could do?'

He put the question to himself. If he had repeated "today" a few more times, might he have achieved a different result? Whatever one did, regrets remained. Encrid had learned that as a child. What mattered was the choice, and the process of making it.

'I thought it was the best option.'

But because he could repeat today, other thoughts naturally arose. Confusion and doubt over whether it really had been the best he could do. The lingering regret that there might have been another option. 'Only four.'

That was how many had returned alive with him. Five, including himself. Half the unit had died. The outcome demanded an answer from Encrid. Was this the best he could do? Had there been no other way? 'Five died.'

Those five were neither his family nor his friends. They were merely soldiers he had served alongside for a short assignment. Their presence or absence changed nothing. It was simply that, in that moment, on that today, they had been his responsibility. The dream he had cherished for so long, the conviction that had kept him on a straight path all this way, reproached him. Had that truly been the best he could do? Could he not have protected more of them?

'Just what sort of knight do you mean to become?' It was the boy Encrid who had been enchanted by the mere word "knight." The boy captivated by the bard's song of the knight who would end the war had grown into a man. With time, Encrid had learned how meager his talent was. Struggling across battlefields, he had discovered his limits, too. Even so, he had not abandoned his dream. Even if that dream had become leather worn thin and ragged. Even if it had ended up a scrap of cloth, slashed and torn by the blade of reality. He had never given up. And so he had been able to move beyond mere fascination with the word "knight." A knight was one who protected. A knight was one who stepped forward. A knight was one who demonstrated his convictions.

'What kind of knight will I become?' By repeating today, Encrid had been able to step beyond his limits. Then he ought to uphold what he had come to understand and establish through everything he had seen and heard.

'What kind of knight did I want to be?' His dream, torn again and again by reality, had become conviction and now reproached him. Encrid accepted that reproach. In doing so, he chose to let the past pass. Even if repeating today could have saved five more, there was nothing he could do now. That "today" was already over. Dwelling on it would be foolish. "There's the main force," one of the soldiers walking with them said.

"Whew. We made it."

Henri, being helped along behind them, all but murmured the words. "So, will you run straight to that flower-shop widow when you get back?"

"I'll have to wait until this battle is over, won't I?"

Henri answered Encrid with a joyful expression. His heart was full of the joy of returning alive, of surviving that harrowing ordeal. The others felt the same. The former thug felt it especially keenly. All the way back, he had turned what had happened over and over in his mind. How had he managed to survive? He had thought he would live and die a lowlife, but somehow he had ended up joining the army. Then, somehow, he had found himself serving a lord named Andrew. And now this scouting mission. It had given him much to reflect on. After much thought, the thug soldier limped over to Encrid on his injured leg. It had not been intentional, but he had not spoken a single word to him on the journey back.

'They said you're not worth calling human if you don't know gratitude.' The older man who had taken him in as a child had told him that. He had died long ago, and they would never meet again, but somewhere along the way his words had become a guiding principle. The thug might have swaggered carelessly through life, but he knew gratitude. "I'm sorry for my disrespect. If I get the chance, I'll repay you for saving my life."

Encrid stared at the soldier who had suddenly approached him, then nodded. Had he really saved the man's life? One wrong turn and the soldier would have died. His survival had been his own good fortune. Indeed, he had died many times throughout the repeated todays. The goddess of fortune had merely lingered for a moment on that today. "Do as you like."

He answered lightly and turned, only to find Andrew and Mac there this time. "I owe you."

Mac spoke first, his eyes friendlier than ever before. Andrew went further still.

"I'd really like to see you again sometime." Encrid had thought him an insufferably arrogant brat, but his attitude had changed. His eyes now held respect. Pressing his palm gently against his aching side, Encrid said,

"If we're on the same battlefield, we will. The flower of the battlefield."

"Is the infantry."

They used the infantry's rallying cry as their farewell. The scout platoon commander, who had been watching nearby, approached.

"You're all dismissed. The wounded should go to the Medical Barracks and get yourselves seen to. Good work, everyone. And, uh... Never mind." Before turning away, he had been about to speak to Encrid about his achievements and a reward, but decided against it.

'Report first.'

The man had done something hard to believe even after hearing it. He did not know whether his superiors would believe it either. It was too early for that discussion. "I'll be going, then."

As the pain in his side quickly subsided, Encrid decided he was not in any real need of treatment and set off at once. It was time to return. 'I wonder if everything's been quiet.'

He had had no time for such thoughts in the tall-grass fields. But now that he was back with the unit and heading to his barracks, he wondered whether his squad members had behaved themselves. Perhaps they had picked a fight with men from another unit. Or beaten one another bloody. Whatever it was, he felt sure something had happened. They were not called the troublemaker squad for nothing. He had not even reached the barracks yet when it came. CLANG! A tremendous crash, the sort only steel striking steel could produce, battered his ears. The hearing he had honed under Jaxon's instruction proved its worth. He located the source in an instant. It came from the main force's barracks. Encrid quickened his pace. As he approached the barracks, he saw a ring of people. At its center stood two men with axe and sword locked together. They were right in front of the troublemaker squad's barracks. The man holding the axe was Rem. The one holding the sword was Ragna.