Chapter 4 - Heart of the Beast

“All troops, assemble! Fourth Platoon, fall in!”

The platoon commander's shout rang out in front of the barracks. A day that had filled his heart with satisfaction was drawing to a close. It was already late afternoon, and the sun had begun sinking westward. “Simply put, this isn't something you learn with your body. Practicing for a hundred days won't do you any good. But if training got you this far, it's hard to say you've got no talent, isn't it?”

Rem sounded uncharacteristically serious as they answered the platoon commander's summons. “You think?”

Encrid left it at that. Even if he described exactly what had happened to him, it would be hard to believe. And being believed would pose its own problems.

What if word got out?

If this truly was a god's blessing, he might be fine. But one wrong step, and he'd find himself having a little talk with an Inquisitor. Could a talk with those Inquisitors possibly end well?

Not a chance.

At best, he'd be burned at the stake. At worst, a whole feast of torture awaited him. Nobody wanted nails driven into their body or their fingernails and toenails pulled out. Encrid certainly didn't. During his mercenary days, he'd seen plenty of people unjustly persecuted as heretics. He'd even given some of them a little help in secret.

Had anyone found out, they would have sneered that he'd picked quite a way to kill himself. It was that dangerous. He'd done it anyway. Helping them was the right thing to do. If he couldn't do even that much, he would have had no reason to live by the sword. “What's with that smug look? It's really getting on my nerves. Find a gold bar somewhere? Planning to desert today? Don't you know keeping a windfall like that to yourself gives you indigestion?” A gold bar...

He had found something better than that. “Shut up and let's go.”

The order to assemble had come. Time to move. Encrid roughly wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. Putting his helmet on like this would leave it stinking, but he couldn't exactly ask to stop by the stream and wash first.

That bastard Rem, standing beside him, hadn't even broken a sweat. What sort of training made a man like that? Encrid belonged to Fourth Platoon. He headed for its position. 'Will it work?'

Mastering it in a day was impossible. Still, he'd gotten the hang of it to some extent.

Being stabbed to death had helped. “We will!” the platoon commander shouted.

“Win!” The platoon commander was an unremarkable, easygoing man. Nothing special, but he followed his superiors' orders well. The gates of battle were about to open again. As the sun sank in the west, dusk began to settle. His heart trembled.

Why?

Encrid asked himself. The answer came quickly.

Fear. He'd been stabbed to death three times already. That pain, that dizzying sensation... He doubted he'd ever get used to it, no matter how often he experienced it.

He stroked his neck. It stung despite being uninjured, as though he'd swallowed a blade. “What? Worried you won't keep your head on your shoulders?” Rem whispered beside him. “Take this seriously. We're going into battle.”

Encrid set off at the cry of “All troops, advance!” Rem matched his stride. “Tension makes your body stiff. Isn't avoiding that why you learned that trick from me?”

He was right. Which made him all the more irritating. The heart of the beast.

Rem had said few could learn it, even when taught.

Encrid subdued his pounding heart, steadying his breathing in time with his steps. “That's it. That's how you do it. Try not to fucking die today. See you afterward, Captain Big Dreams.”

Listening to Rem, Encrid decided that if he died again today, tomorrow he wouldn't mention having dreamed of becoming a knight. The battlefield again.

The start of hand-to-hand combat.

The same day unfolded. For Encrid, this was his fourth today. He considered trying to keep his shield from splitting, then abandoned the idea. What was a shield for in the first place?

Struggling to preserve something he carried to block enemy swords, spears, and axes would be ridiculous. 'Instead of that...'

He'd let his mind wander too long. Something suddenly hurtled toward his face.

Before he could even hiss through his teeth, he leaned back and thrust his shield out. His body tensed involuntarily. CLANG!

The incoming spearhead struck the shield's edge. He'd barely blocked it.

His left shoulder ached. A spear, with considerable force behind it. The enemy pulled his spear back and thrust again.

Normally, Encrid's body would have stayed rigid. He would have blocked stiffly again, stumbling from one close call to the next.

But his mind settled. And with that, he could see the spearhead. It was at least twice as slow as the stab that had killed him.

No reason he couldn't dodge it.

He watched the spear's tip to the very end, then merely tilted his head aside. WHIZZ.

The spearhead skimmed past his helmet. It was practically an acrobatic feat, one he'd never attempted in his life. The heart of the beast was not easily stirred.

A dodge with minimal movement. That alone gave him room to spare.

His newfound composure also offered a fresh perspective. Encrid saw the gap between the spearman's helmet and breastplate. Just enough of a gap to glimpse his chin.

It wasn't particularly wide, but he couldn't call it narrow, either. There was room enough for a blade. He gripped his sword and stabbed upward. No great technique was needed. SHUNK.

The blade pierced upward through the man's chin and into his throat. “Gurrk.”

The enemy soldier spewed blood and pieces of severed tongue from his mouth. A blade aimed at a gap needed no great strength. Reminded of that fact, Encrid recalled something a former swordsmanship teacher had told him. [“If you can evade an attack with the least possible movement, what comes next gets easier.”] It had been a fairly expensive school, yet they'd taught him only a handful of things. For a while, he'd thought even those few lessons were bullshit. 'Money well spent.'

One of those pieces of bullshit had become reality. Dodging and attacking with minimal movement worked. It was effective, too. He pushed the man's stomach with his foot and pulled his sword free. More blood gushed from the hole beneath the chin.

The enemy soldier collapsed backward. “You bastard!”

Another man charged from directly behind the fallen soldier. Encrid neither gasped for breath nor rushed to respond. 'Six paces.'

Gauging the distance between them, Encrid raised his sword and drew it across the shield strap secured over the back of his left hand. RRRIP.

SWISH.

RRRIP. Two strokes severed the strap. Binding a shield to his forearm with tightly wound straps was a trick he'd learned to survive. It kept him from losing his shield easily in a melee.

But he didn't need that now. The enemy soldier closed in. Encrid hurled his shield. CLANG!

Startled by the shield flying at him, the enemy spearman drew both hands back. Naturally, his spear retreated with them, and his steps slowed. The broad shield was enough to block his view, however briefly. In that moment, Encrid took two long strides to the left. A helmet protected the head, but narrowed the wearer's peripheral vision. Encrid himself had experienced enemies suddenly vanishing from sight several times.

He'd often exploited that, slipping out of an opponent's view, ducking low, then heaving them backward. He'd done it on the day of his first death, too.

This time, he'd simply put the same principle to cleaner use. He was on his opponent's right. Before rushing in, Encrid checked the soldier's hands. The left held the long spear shaft forward, the right gripped it farther back.

Right-handed. He could see things he normally wouldn't notice. Composure had given him that perspective.

These were tricks he sometimes used in small skirmishes or duels, but rarely managed in a melee. Insight gleaned from surviving as a mercenary.

A right-handed spearman struggled to swing his spear to the right. After blocking the shield, the enemy soldier frantically looked left and right. He was badly startled, understandably so. His opponent had suddenly vanished before his eyes.

His gaze soon found Encrid again. While the man was looking around in alarm, Encrid brought his sword down diagonally, from behind the man's head toward the front of his chest. CRACK!

The man's armor covered the back of his neck. Thick cloth beneath a layer of thin leather kept his head from being severed entirely.

The blade sank halfway through the back of his neck. “Kuh, kuh, ah.”

Encrid could see the soldier's eyes, still wide and round with shock. Blood gushed from his half-severed neck. Even with his neck half cut through, the spearman reflexively swung his weapon. The shaft tapped Encrid's right shoulder.

There was no force behind it. The man was already half dead, and Encrid had moved to an angle where putting any strength behind the shaft was difficult to begin with. Encrid lifted his sword to pull it free.

CRUNCH.

It must have lodged in bone; he had to use considerable force. Clots of blood clung to the freed blade and dripped from it. Glancing around the battlefield, he picked up a shield with a broken corner from the ground instead of an axe.

Now he had the breathing room to do so. 'It actually works.'

It came so easily. On the battlefield, it was hard to show even half of one's usual skill.

Naturally. How could anyone move as they normally would in the midst of all that killing? Some went even wilder, but most grew flustered. Encrid had been no different before experiencing death three times. Now, things had changed a little. 'I can do this.'

Perhaps he could face that stab after all. Nothing Encrid had done could turn the tide of battle. He was merely one soldier fighting a little better. The course of the battle remained unchanged.

For Encrid himself, however, it was an enormous change. After he'd brought down a couple of enemy soldiers that way... “Urgh!”

Bell fell again. The little breathing room Encrid had gained gave him time to catch Bell and help him up. “You all right?”

“Damn it, there's a rock sticking out here.” They were on a dry plain. Rocks jutting from the ground were nothing unusual.

Except Bell had tripped over his own feet. Which meant he was an idiot. “Keep your wits about you.”

Encrid took Bell's hand and pulled him up. “You saved my life.”

Encrid didn't loosen his grip. He kept hold of Bell's hand. “... My hand.”

Bell muttered for him to let go. A helmet split in half. A blood-soaked head. He could see Bell's eyes.

The flash was an arrow, and that arrow would pierce Bell's skull. He already knew that.

But spotting an incoming arrow in the middle of a melee was difficult. Far too difficult. Encrid tried to tug the hand he held. Bell staggered off balance, but somehow braced himself and held his ground. THUNK.

His skull shattered. An arrow flew in and smashed Bell's head.

Blood spattered Encrid's breastplate. The instant he saw Bell's head burst, Encrid ducked. Something sinister whooshed over his head.

An arrow, surely.

It buried itself with a thud in the body of a dead ally behind him. “Did you pray to the goddess of luck before coming out here?”

Rem's voice reached him as soon as he dodged. He hadn't saved Bell's skull, but he'd saved his own. Of course, Rem would have saved him even if he hadn't.

The fourth time. The same situation. “Something like that.”

At his vague answer, Rem smirked. His teeth showed through his helmet.

For a fellow with fairly delicate features, his speech and behavior couldn't have been rougher. “Good. Apparently the one shooting these is Hawk's Nipple, or whatever he's called. I'm off to find him. Say ten more prayers to the goddess.” “I'll put in a prayer for you too, so you don't fucking die on the way.”

“Much obliged. And don't forget this.” Rem tapped the left side of his chest with his axe handle and headed back into the fighting.

He was going to hunt down Hawk's Eye, or Claws, or whatever it was. Encrid nodded, hoping he'd be able to ask Rem tonight whether he'd killed the archer who'd fired those arrows. Allies and enemies crowded into the space Rem had left. As the gaps between them narrowed, Encrid judged that the battle was going anything but well.

He'd experienced it three times already. His side was being pushed back. Even so, there was only one thing he could do.

Survive. Encrid felt a strange excitement envelop him. Soon he would meet that skilled soldier.

It wasn't long before it happened. That stab came for his head again.

Instead of dodging, Encrid brought his own blade against the incoming sword. CLANG-CLANG-CLANG.

Sparks scattered through the air. He met the enemy soldier's gaze.

You blocked that?

That was what the man's eyes seemed to ask. “Not bad.”

The enemy soldier extended his sword again as he spoke.

Once, twice, three times. Encrid met the first with his shield, rolled sideways for the second, and swung back at the third.

His blade traced a short arc through empty air. Then, just as the enemy soldier drew his arm back again, something struck Encrid across the lower back. THWACK!

“Ghk.”

He bit back the scream that rose unbidden. Another stab came at him. He deliberately shifted his weight forward, trying to roll as though falling headlong.

The idea was good. The timing was not. CRUNCH.

The blade smashed through the collarbone beside his neck and drove into him.

It felt like a red-hot iron searing flesh and bone. “Ghk!”

It hurt too much even to scream. He tried to grab the embedded blade, but his opponent swiftly withdrew it. The man must have taken great care sharpening his sword. Its edge was exceptionally keen.

Pulling it out brought even more terrible pain. So much pain that Encrid's vision went white. Clenching his back teeth, Encrid looked behind him. A hulking enemy soldier stood there awkwardly, a club in his hand.

That must have been what struck his lower back. “Mercy.”

The man who'd already killed him three times raised his sword vertically and drove it down.

That was the end. His eyes closed. Darkness seeped across his vision. CLANG, CLANG, CLANG.

Once again, he heard a ladle striking a pot. “Fifth time.”

Fucking hell.

He'd thought it would work. “Fifth time for what?” Rem asked from beside him. “Bug in your boot.”

Encrid got up as he spoke. He'd died again, but he'd learned something.

No, it was a lesson he'd learned long ago, pouring gold coins into sword schools.

Nothing worked on the first try. Then what should he do?

If once wasn't enough, try ten times. If ten wasn't enough, try a hundred. Normally, dying once would be the fucking end of it.

Fortunately, Encrid could do this over and over again.