Editing Rakuin no Monshou:Volume12 Chapter7 (section)

=== Part 3 ===

When Orba pulled his sword from Zafar’s corpse, fresh blood stained the ground at his feet.
For a moment, there was silence all around.

For the soldiers of Dairan, who had been engulfed in a sudden massacre and then in this nightmarish experience, the skill displayed by Gil Mephius in killing this assailant was almost just as uncanny.

“He was a sorcerer,” Orba deliberately stated what did not need to be said.

Although he had only just regained consciousness himself, he could understand the soldiers’ state of mind. Facing that mysterious power, what use could swords, spears, or bullets possibly be? Even years of training would surely be useless when confronting the flames and lightning manipulated through sorcery. Such was the fear and turmoil that they were going through.

When he had been facing Garda in the west, Orba himself had gone through exactly the same experience.

“No doubt an assassin sent by Allion. They were probably aiming for Lord Kayness, but changed their target because I was in their way. But, see!” he trod on Zafar’s remains, his attitude that of one who would allow no shred of dignity to an enemy assassin who avoided fighting with a sword. “By my sword, he is now a corpse stretched out at my feet. There is nothing that my steel cannot exterminate. And we will make those fools from Allion realise that!”

He lifted his sword high.

The first to roar in response was Pashir. The Mephian soldiers followed, bellowing in turn. And at the sound of their raised battle cries, there was not a single soldier from Dairan who did not raise their own in response.

Everyone there bellowed their war cries and raised their weapons or their fists in the air.

Whatever else might be true, they had won.

Whatever else might be true, the sword had prevailed.

A foreign young warrior had done it, so they could do it to.

Turning his back to the men’s weighty roars, Orba leaped onto a horse that had freshly been brought to him. He once again got the troops urgently reorganised, during which time, Hou Ran was taken to safety inside the mansion, and the Baian was returned to a cage by a different dragon handler. Before long, the preparations were complete.

“Well then, I’m off,” he addressed Kayness Plutos from horseback then, as though it was the most natural thing in the world, he took the reins and galloped off in the direction of Dairan’s north gate. The thundering sound of hooves struck the ground as the other riders followed behind him. Infantrymen armed with guns and spears followed behind them.

Kayness saw the army corps off while hugging to either side of him his two granddaughters, who still showed lingering traces of fear. For the current head of the Plutos House, defender of the northern border, it was of course the first time that he had spoken with, or even seen, Mephians.

''A warrior indeed'' – such was his impression of Mephius’ Crown Prince Gil. Although his valour was every bit as great as that of any Dairan soldier, Kayness felt that it was different from that of the warriors of his own homeland. The atmosphere that surrounded the prince was somehow heavy.

''His eyes hold shadows'' – Kayness concluded, looking back on it. He realised that he had that in common with Lord Eric, even though the latter was the very model of a Dairan warrior. It seemed to be an atmosphere that accompanied a young man’s resolve to shoulder the burden of an entire country.

Or perhaps it was because they were young that they did not yet know how to hide it.

Kayness was perplexed about how to talk about that to Eric if he returned safely. Although he could brag about having so far guided Eric on the path of a Dairan warrior as his elder, the road that Eric would follow from now on was unknown territory for Kayness, so if he butted in with the air of knowing what he was talking about, he might end up imparting hollow wisdom.

''Still being too hasty…'' for some reason, Kayness felt like smiling wryly at himself.



To the north, Orba’s troops were approaching the river that Kaseria’s men had crossed, sending up sheets of spray as they did so, about ten minutes earlier. The Dairan soldiers held up torches and indicated where to cross the shallows on horseback.

They started to ford the river, with Orba and Pashir looking as though they were competing to be in the lead.

“Pashir, back off,” Orba yelled as sprays of water splashed his face. “Didn’t I already tell you this before? When you stick to me like this, it’s like you’re being a nanny.”

“It’s not certain that there won’t be another attack. If it happens, I’ll be there to shield you.”

''That wasn’t actually one of Allion’s flunkies'' – Orba inwardly believed, but he himself had no way of actually proving it. There were still great many points that were puzzling.

Why was it that someone claiming to be Garda’s subordinate had been aiming at him and wanting to investigate his real identity? And to start with, was Garda still alive? And if he was, then what was his goal?

''Does that mean he’s given up on devouring the west and is now reaching out for the centre of the continent?''

He could not escape from the guessing and conjecturing. Which was normal given that, for all that he come into contact with sorcery, and had actually fought it, it was hard for Orba to get a firm grasp of this hazy situation.

''I’m probably going to need more information.''

Since he did not understand their nature, he wanted to at least stock up on knowledge.

However, that was a problem for later and now that battle had already been declared, he had no intention of halting his advance. Such was his style –

''Before it starts, be cautious even to the point of irritating your own allies.''

''Once it starts, be audacious even to the point of panicking your own allies.''

– And Orba thoroughly carried it through. So he focused on driving the horses north.

Less than a few minutes after having crossed the river, they were met with the sight of soldiers stretched out on the ground.

“Prince Gil!”

Orba was hailed from underfoot at about the same moment that he pulled on the reins. At first, he did not recognise who it was. The blood he was drenched in blended into the shadows of night, so that it looked like some kind of spectre standing there with only half a face and half a body. Even so –

“Gilliam!?” Orba unintentionally cried out loud.

The familiar giant had wounds all over his face and body. He was propping up his huge frame with the handle of his axe, sandwiching it between the ground’s surface and his own flank, while holding something with both hands. Even without examining his wretched state, it was obvious that the unit had been annihilated.

Gilliam turned a glittering gaze towards Orba.

“This is to my shame. But at least I managed to get this back somehow,” he said.

Sensing that there was something strange about this mood, Orba touched what was being held up to him with shaking hands.

''Ah!'' – His eyes opened wide.

It was an iron mask.

The iron tiger mask, which had been his symbol during his time as a slave, covered the face of someone other than him as blood dripped down. It was as though the mask itself was shedding blood. It felt as though he was face-to-face with his own corpse.

“Who?”

Orba’s voice was reverberating in his own brain, so he did not realise that it had spilled over to the outside.

So when Gilliam replied: “those guys,” and pointed towards the shadows, his startled expression looked as though he had just been pulled back to his senses.

It was Lance Mazpotter’s group.

After he had killed ‘Orba’, they had been swarmed by the Mephian soldiers. They had been roughly equal in numbers, but the disorganised Mephian side, which was attacking in disarray, was essentially levelled by the coordinated movements from Allion’s side.

It was also a hard blow that Gilliam, the pivot of their fighting strength, was injured early on. Determined to take back Orba’s mask at all cost, he had challenged Lance alone.

“That’s the spirit,” Lance had accepted. His helmet smashed open Gilliam’s helmet and opened a hole in his chest armour. The former gladiator gallantly swung his battle-axe again and again, but it did not even scratch Lance.

Gilliam lost his horse, but just managed to take back the iron tiger mask, and the soldier’s head that was attached to it. By the time he realised it, more than half the unit had fallen to the ground as corpses.

With barely the time to catch his breath, Gilliam was about to give the signal for retreat when Gil Mephius’ unit had appeared from the south.

''Reinforcements have arrived'' – as soon as Lance caught sight of them, he rode to the northeast. The enemy numbers were considerable. His tactic would be to gradually move towards a position from where it would be easy to withdraw while dulling the advance of the pursuing enemies.

For Lance, this was a well-honed tactic. It was only natural, since he was always assisting Kaseria, who was quick to go wild because of blood. While Kaseria attacked the enemy position and got drunk on slaughter, Lance galloped off to disrupt the enemy forces headed their way, or else divide them in two.

Then –

“Your Highness!” shouted both Gilliam and Pashir.

Still on horseback, Orba had just acted in a way they found hard to believe. Nor was it just Gilliam and Pashir: the soldiers following under Gil were all left astounded. To the two who knew about Orba’s circumstances, however, his actions were looking increasingly erratic.

“Oi!” unintentionally forgetting the situation, Gilliam was about to go up to Orba. With blood dying half his face a darkish colour, he was impressive to behold in a way different from usual; but from horseback, Orba knocked him down with a single swing of his arm.

He threw something towards Gilliam’s chest that drew a parabola in the air. The iron mask, however, was gone from it.

“You keep it,” Orba pronounced, looking like emotionless Death itself atop his horse. “Wrap it in a cloak and don’t let anyone see the face. Orba was an iron tiger. That’s all. No one needs to know his real face.”

While speaking those words that contradicted his actions, Orba gave a sharp kick to his horse’s flanks.

Meanwhile, Lance Mazpotter threw a glance over his shoulder. The enemy group was pursuing them. Among them, there was one rider who was especially hot on their heels.

''Humph'' – the One-Eyed Dragon of Atall laughed contemptuously. He once more reached for the spear at his side, griped the handle in a smooth and skilful movement, then put himself at the ready.

“First Corps, turn!” he shouted, and several mounted warriors simultaneously pulled their horses around in a sharp turn.

The reason why Lance had won fame as the One-Eyed Dragon, and why his cavalry troops had been extolled as the strongest in Atall, was because of how he excelled in circular cavalry movements. Aware of its importance, he had imposed strict training in it on the horses and his men. Even now that he was with Allion, that had not changed.

They let the enemy chase after them, then, when they reached a wider road, they would ‘turn’. One small unit at a time, their cavalry would change direction and charge. The enemy troops would be thrown by having what was undoubtedly a fleeing opponent suddenly face them straight on. Whereupon, Lance’s unit would level them.

This time as well, Lance took the lead with four mounted warriors following behind him. He forcefully spurred on his horse, which, for a second only, had dropped its momentum, and the tip of his spear stood ready, cleaving through the wind raised by the enemy unit.

Yet the foremost enemy showed no signs of being shaken.

''Oh?''

It was rare to see someone so bold.

In cases like these, Lance would aim only for that one person. That was because they were the most likely to be the pivot of the fighting force, and once he had destroyed them head-on, the enemy would be thrown into even greater disarray.

They were getting closer to one another.

Both their cloaks billowed in the wind like wings, both readied their spears at the same time.

In a sense, the battlefield was the scene of Lance’s normal, everyday life. He had splendidly tamed both his fear of death and his excitement in battle. Even now, with the enemy’s bloodlust fiercely washing over him from straight on, he was still calmly measuring his breathing.

And they were at a single breath’s distance –

Judging it to be that distance, Lance tightly grasped the handle of his spear – in that moment…

''What?''

Lance’s right eye suddenly opened wide. As for the cause…

Was it because there gleamed on the enemy’s face the iron mask of one that should already have been killed?

Or was it because, as soon as the enemy lifted the tip of his spear, he threw it at him with all his might?

While the rider in the iron mask – while Orba – held the reins in his mouth to control his horse, he threw his spear and, in the same movement, drew the sword at his waist. The very action of drawing it turned into a side slash towards the enemy that was right before him.

Lance Mazpotter had bent forward to intercept the spear. That blow, however, was utterly unexpected.

It should be said that for him to still be able to deflect it with his spear, was something that only a person like him could be expected to do.

There was a clashing sound, sparks flew, and the two people passed each other by.

Not having thought for a moment that the rider would pass by Lance uninjured, it was Allion’s soldiers who were thrown into confusion, and they did not go after him. Easily breaking through the enemies, Orba halted his horse’s steps and turned to look back.

“Who are you?” Lance loudly called out to him. Atop his horse, he quickly rectified his unsteady posture, but it was unusual for him to raise his voice on the battlefield.

“Orba,” the warrior in the iron mask replied. Lance ground his teeth.

“Don’t be stupid! I already killed him.”

“Well then, you must have failed to kill me,” the response was mocking, yet in Orba’s case, it was also absolutely true.

Lead by Pashir, the Mephian troops drew near.

Once again, Lance Mazpotter came to a flawlessly correct decision. “Withdraw,” he yelled, and no sooner had he done so, than he galloped past Orba’s side and left.

Orba did not directly chase after him. He heard about where the northern fort was when Kayness had explained the situation, and guessed that the main battlefield was probably somewhere around it.

“We continue,” his raised voice was angry.

To the east, the sky was starting to grow light. He took off the iron mask which sharply reflected the light of dawn, and raised it high.

“The hero Orba sacrificed himself to give us this victory. Do not let it go for nothing. We will give chase to Kaseria Jamil’s troops!”



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