Chapter 49 - Madness and Fervor, Ambition and Desire

"We won."

"Fuck, we wooon!"

"You goddamn Aspen bastards!" Victory brought cheers. Cheers brought fervor. Fervor brought madness. Feeding into one another, that burning energy swept across the entire battlefield. When were the greatest gains made on a battlefield? When chasing down a fleeing enemy. Naurilia sank its teeth into Aspen's tail and tore viciously. "Raaaah!"

The joy of victory swept through the allied ranks before anyone mourned the dead. It was only natural that there were glimpses of madness. Just days ago, they had nearly been annihilated. The terror of death the fog had brought was still etched deep in their hearts. They had taken the field bearing that fear—and won an overwhelming victory. "Long live the Scarlet Cloak Knight Order!"

"Long live Naurilia!" The squire had not given his name. Instead of the nameless squire's, it was the knight order's name that rose to glory.

"Long live the Scarlet Cloak Knight Order!" Those cheers, that fervor, that madness. At their center stood the man receiving all that acclaim at the front of the battlefield. FLAP.

His emblematic scarlet cloak streaming behind him, the squire raised a hand to acknowledge the cheers.

"Raaah!" Some soldiers, drunk on the fervor of victory, shed tears of joy. Everyone cheered, swept up in the madness. Watching them, Encrid murmured quietly.

"Me too." No one heard him, but those words held his lifelong dream. The madness and fervor spread to him, setting his heart racing too. The battle was over. It was their last night on the battlefield. Quite a few had died, yet Encrid felt elated. He remembered something a swordsmanship instructor in a big city had told him—a man missing three fingers. ["A man who lives by the sword without any talent? He's one of two things. Either he enjoys the battlefield, or he enjoys killing. Ah, make that three. Some men drift through life without a thought in their heads."] 'I think I'm the kind who enjoys the battlefield.'

He envied those cheers. He wanted to stand before them, too. He wanted more than simply swinging a sword; he wanted to tear through a battlefield. His love of the sword alone had not driven him to hone his martial skills. Encrid considered what he had done in this battle. All he had done was struggle desperately to survive. In the end, he had earned merit by tearing the flag and destroying the spell's medium, but...

'That was just a desperate struggle to survive, too.' The sudden surge of elation brought with it the ambition and desire he had hidden behind his dream and forgotten for lack of talent.

'A knight.'

He would become one. He would see it through. In that moment, he vowed it once again. "They're so damn loud."

Rem, who drifted through battlefields without a thought in his head, dug at his ear as he spoke. He did not seem to enjoy either battlefields or killing. There was no sign of elation. Beside him, Ragna yawned.

"Haaah. Isn't it over now? Can't we march back tonight?"

Sure, as if they'd march back tonight. This bastard must be the thoughtless sort, too. Jaxon was wiping his blade with a piece of leather. Already tending his sword. He never said anything or showed it, but did he enjoy one of those things, too? Encrid couldn't tell. The man kept himself so well hidden. "Damn, that battle was over just like that. Think it'd sell if I turned it into a story or a song?"

"You can compose songs as well, brother?"

"No. I'd get a bard to do it."

"Composing a song about something you haven't seen yourself is fraud."

"Fraud? That's a serious accusation. It's nothing like that, Audin." It was a conversation between Big-eyes, who wondered whether even a battlefield could be sold, and their inscrutable, devout squad member. Encrid had heard that on the day he tore the spell's medium, the devout man's entire body had been drenched red, as though he had bathed in blood. In other words, he had fought ferociously. Quiet and serene as he seemed, he possessed tremendous fighting strength. Encrid had no idea why he took to the battlefield. One thought led to another, and Encrid imagined his squad members in his place.

'If it had been Rem.'

He would not have stopped at punching a hole through the flag and tearing it. Nor would Ragna, Jaxon, or their devout squad member. Every one of them would have fought better than he had. 'Next time, I'll do more.'

The battlefield's exhilaration gripped his heart, and in response, desire rose in his chest. The night the battle ended, command distributed food and liquor. There was salted rabbit and venison, among other meats, and strong liquor in a large oak barrel.

"Booze! It's booze!"

Rem and Ragna went wild for liquor. "I drink only wine."

Their devout squad member refused the spirits, and Jaxon never touched alcohol in the first place.

"Women are better than liquor."

He said things like that without the slightest hesitation. How did women flock to a man who talked that way? 'Looks really are everything, aren't they?'

Yet women flocked to Encrid without any effort on his part, too. He had his face to thank. Add his well-trained body, with its sharply defined muscles, and he was a veritable weapon against women's hearts. "It's cheap liquor. I'll pass."

Big-eyes had expensive tastes. As the night deepened, the battalion commander entered the tent.

"Squad 444's leader?"

Encrid rose at the call. The excitement was finally dying down, and everyone was preparing for bed. He had not touched a drop because of his injuries, which spared him the mishap of failing to recognize the battalion commander. "An injured man drinking? Some wounded wretch drinking? Booze, when you're hurt?"

Rem had nagged him.

"You should abstain. You need to recover first."

Jaxon had discouraged him, too. Ragna had silently shaken his head, while Big-eyes had snickered at Encrid. His squad members were truly out of their minds. When he followed the battalion commander's summons outside, the man waved off his salute and spoke, reeking of liquor.

"The flag was the spell's medium? And you're the one who tore it?"

It sounded as though they had found the one who broke the spell—the man who had made the decisive contribution to this battle. CRACKLE, CRACKLE.

The embers of the campfire sent sparks drifting into the air. "Yes."

Encrid answered calmly.

"You'll be rewarded when we return. Well done." The battalion commander patted his shoulder. That was quite something. This was the first time Encrid had spoken with him since becoming a squad leader. That was how remarkable his deed had been: he had changed the course of the battle. Only a handful of people knew it, though. More precisely, only command knew. They would probably take the credit for overcoming the spell in this battle. He did not resent that. His reward would be generous instead. 'I don't mind.'

Ordinarily, he ought to claim the credit for his own deed, but...

'It was a desperate struggle.'

Seeing a knight—no, merely a squire—had changed his thinking considerably. He felt he had gained far more than such a paltry achievement. "A fine-looking fellow."

After the battalion commander gave his shoulder another pat and left, Encrid was about to return to the tent when he heard light footsteps tapping the ground. "What is it?"

Turning toward the sound, he saw emerald eyes. In the darkness, they were somewhat eerie, like a ghost's. Otherworldly beauty. It was the Fairy company commander. "Your reward for tearing the flag won't be a paltry one."

Apparently that was all she had come to say, for she turned away. Just as he thought she was leaving, she looked back over her shoulder and spoke.

"No salute?" Encrid belatedly moved his left hand as if to press down on his weapon, but the Fairy company commander waved it off.

"Never mind. I'm leaving."

What was that Fairy playing at? When he returned to the tent after she left, Rem was lying on his side, his head propped on an arm.

"Don't go abandoning me now you're popular, Squad Leader."

"Are you drunk?"

"Not drunk." He was just fooling around. The night had grown late. Encrid closed his eyes and revisited what he had seen and felt while watching the squire. There would be so much to do once he healed.

* * *

After a night's sleep, the Naurilian infantry battalion set off for Border Guard. Four days of marching brought them within sight of the fortress city's walls. Long walls stretched across an elevated basin, with three great watchtowers rising high above the city. This was the final bastion holding back the Principality of Aspen: the frontier fortress, Border Guard.

* * *

The appearance of a squire from the Scarlet Cloak Knight Order could change the course of the war. The only reason the localized fighting on the Green Pearl plains had remained small in scale was an unwritten rule against deploying knight-order forces there. Under those circumstances, the Kingdom of Naurilia had played its trump card: a squire. Naurilia had broken the unwritten rule. Even if the man sent into battle was still in the process of advancing from squire to proto knight, a line had been crossed. "Those sons of bitches!"

The ruling prince of Aspen exploded with anger. His eyes reddened, and a vein bulged on his forehead.

"Send ours out, too!" An order alone could not make that happen immediately. It was winter. Waging war in winter would severely deplete both nations' strength. If full-scale war rather than localized fighting was expected, they would also need to mobilize the entire nation. Above all, Aspen's main fighting force was currently away on certain business. Aspen needed time to fight properly. At the tail end of a war, however furious one's opponent might be—even if his head blew open like an erupting volcano—he had to hold back when winter approached. Naurilia must have anticipated this when committing its forces so late in the war. Aspen, in turn, had deployed its shaman with the onset of winter in mind. But the blade they had prepared was blocked, while the other side's dagger sank deep into their forearm. It hurt. Badly enough that they might lose the use of an arm. "At least put diplomatic pressure on them. Sending a knight-order member into battle is a problem, isn't it?"

The ruling prince, renowned as a hard-liner, all but breathed fire through his nostrils, refusing to let this pass. He was not shouting, but anger seethed in his voice like boiling water. Three families formed the pillars of the Principality of Aspen: the ruling house of Aspen, the military might of Hurrier, and the administration and governance of Ekkins. Diplomacy was the Ekkins family's responsibility. Minister Ekkins was in a difficult position because of a letter from Naurilia. Its arrival at about the same time as the Scarlet Cloak Knight Order member's deployment was evidence that Naurilia had prepared a flawless excuse as well. The letter stated that a Frog general in Aspen's service had appeared in the enemy lines, and they had sent an order member to respond. The reason was plausible. All too appropriate. Why had that bastard Frog general gone there, of all places? Frogs were a species that did as they pleased. Such problems had been possible from the moment they were put into military uniforms. 'Even without the general, they'd have found another excuse.'

Ekkins was no fool. Naurilia would not have sent a knight-order member on impulse. The Frog general had given them a pretext, but even without him, they would have offered some suitable justification. In short, Aspen had taken the blow, and that was that. All of this had begun with the spell's destruction. Had The Fog of Annihilation succeeded, the localized fighting on the Green Pearl plains, which had dragged on inconclusively for so long, would have ended in a resounding victory for Aspen—unless a true knight came. Ekkins recalled the report that a single enemy soldier had ruined the spell.

'Those bastards failed to keep watch, and now they're blaming one enemy soldier?'

Did that make any sense? Everyone involved would have to answer for this. The shaman had been found dead after retreating and trying to flee. Perhaps it had been a passing bandit; the shaman and every escort had been split in half.

'Nothing goes right. Nothing.' "Hey! Are we just going to let this slide?"

The ruler shouted, forgetting his dignity. The trump card put into play that autumn at Ekkins's strong insistence had backfired. The drawn-out localized conflict had ended with defeat after defeat for Aspen.

* * *

Ten days. Encrid felt that his body had fully recovered. So as soon as he got up, he went straight to Rem. "Rem."

"What's up?"

Back from guard duty, Rem stood before him.

"Let's have a round."

"Of what?"

"Sparring."

"... Haven't you only just healed?" What did that matter? He was itching so badly to move he could barely stand it. Encrid said it all with his expression. That was a talent in its own right: conveying what was in his heart with nothing but his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth. "Let's do it. If you want it, you should have it. Another good beating."

"Come at me, you insolent barbarian."

"Oh my. Want a broken leg this time?"

Rem met Encrid's provocation with a grin. The two soon went outside. Watching them, Ragna agreed with at least one thing Rem had said: of all the madmen he had ever seen, their squad leader was the worst. How could someone with such meager talent leap up and demand a fight the moment he woke? Less than thirty minutes later, Encrid opened the door to their quarters again.

"Ragna, come out. I'll beat that laziness out of you."

Their squad leader was in high spirits. One side of his head must have bled, because dried blood clung near his temple, yet his expression was bright. "Yes, yes. Let's do it."

Ragna did not waste energy arguing. A few rounds would do. This was their everyday life.