Chapter 286

No sooner had the words left his mouth than a pointed spearhead fell from above.

It was a vertical thrust. Rem kicked off the ground. As he whipped his body to the side, the spear followed as if it had eyes.

It changed direction midair of its own accord.

‘A Bestowed Weapon?’

Without time to voice the doubt, Rem swung his axes.

With the axe in his right hand he smashed the shaft; with the left he turned the axe to present the flat and caught the spearhead.

Thud, crack!

Half success, half failure.

He blocked the spearhead, but in doing so a cracked rib snapped.

Still, he had broken the shaft, so one could call it half a success.

‘I was wrong.’

It wasn’t a Bestowed Weapon. A Bestowed Weapon was like a relic handed down from the western lands.

Of course, it was completely different from what this continent called a relic.

There was no way a Bestowed Weapon would break this easily.

He had guessed it was a Bestowed Weapon and struck deliberately. With that blow he meant to sever the ‘link.’

Because a Bestowed Weapon necessarily required a link to its master.

“Stubborn, aren’t you.”

He left off the words about “enduring it.”

A Westerner appeared in Rem’s eyes.

“What are you?” Rem asked. It was absurd. From that exchange alone, he could feel it.

‘Strong.’

Power, speed, even the craft aimed at the opponent—

Every part of it was excellent.

Not the level of some clumsy mercenary.

“We’re on a battlefield where it’s kill or be killed. What’s there to ask?”

The man answered, tapping his shoulder with a signature throwing spear.

His attitude oozed composure.

His appearance was peculiar: a leather cuirass covering his chest; leather guards from shins to thighs; more guards wrapping from the backs of the hands up to the shoulders.

He had covered his whole body in leather.

His hair was salt-and-pepper, but half his face was deeply lined while the other half was smooth as a child’s.

An unnatural mug by anyone’s measure.

The spear he’d been tapping on his shoulder left his hand. Instead of dropping to the ground, it stopped at the height of his knee and floated in the air.

‘What kind of trick is that.’

What was that supposed to be.

‘A technique?’

It wasn’t a spell or a charm. No, it reeked of sorcery, but the spear itself carried no sorcerous force.

Which meant it wasn’t a Bestowed Weapon, yet it hovered in the air by itself.

Showing weakness would do him no good, so Rem lifted his left arm, subtly guarding his side.

Pain followed, but if he couldn’t stand at least this much, he’d have died long ago.

“Let’s make this easy.”

“Where? Home? Why? You got something for me?”

Rem ran his mouth by habit, hunting for an opening. Each time he was about to hurl an axe, the opponent shifted the position of his feet.

More than anything that floating spear was an eyesore. It drifted within a fixed radius of the man’s body, and it wouldn’t be strange if it shot in at any moment.

‘Where did this thing jump out from all of a sudden.’

A short while ago, three wolf-beasts had cracked his ribs.

It looked like an easy finish, but it had been a savage fight.

The Cult’s so-called Wolf Bishop had exploded in anger at losing his beasts, for one.

But the beasts weren’t the problem.

“I’ll rip your tongue out.”

Whung.

No sooner did he finish speaking than a throwing spear came screaming in.

Not from in front of his right knee, but from the left hand he had slipped around behind his back.

Rem traced the spear’s path in his head and swung an axe.

It was the axe-work Encrid often said looked like a bolt of light.

Bang!

A thunderous boom and one spear caromed away, and Rem felt a tingling shock set his hand trembling.

Then the spear floating in the air also shot in.

Not a Bestowed Weapon, and used like that?

There was no getting an answer just now. Rem swung his axes again and again.

Tat-tat-tat-tang!

Spearhead met axe-edge, striking red sparks into the air. Cinders spat and heat rose.

If he’d felt the cold before, it was gone; sweat began to run over his body.

The warmth of the heating stone tucked in his breast became an irritation.

Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tang!

In the meantime the spear withdrew and stabbed, withdrew and stabbed.

Though he knocked it away again and again, it returned each time to fly at him.

When Rem had blocked the spearhead about eighty times, he stamped his left foot and smashed a stone embedded in the ground.

With a pop the shattered fragments spat forward.

A thick chunk of stone came between them.

Thock!

The spearhead punched through the stone and halted. That bought a breath of time to limit its movement; then, with the axe in his right hand, he slammed the remaining spearhead aside and twisted its line.

Finally he threw the axe in his left hand.

The left-hand axe reached the enemy’s forehead in an instant.

As usual, it looked about to split his skull and stop—but the axe froze in midair.

Vrrrr, the blade and haft shivered.

“So that’s what you’ve been using.”

Now that he’d guessed roughly right, Rem spoke.

The opponent cocked his head and said, “A half-taught one, are you?”

With white hair and skin too smooth for it, Rem knew who he faced.

In truth, he had sensed it long ago.

“You’re the lunatic who chases agelessness—the madman who doesn’t grow old, right?”

“Knowing doesn’t win you mercy.”

He said it with a gentle smile. The smile was eerie by itself. Given that face, of course it was.

Stories Rem had heard back among his people flashed up, but he set them aside.

“A half-trained bastard who never learned the full way… and that left side—how many went? Two ribs? Three?”

The man asked.

Two ribs had gone from pushing too hard on already cracked bones.

He’d braced with muscle and held on, so it was only this bad; a little worse, and the broken bone could have pierced a lung or gut and sent him to the grave.

He couldn’t argue with being called half-trained, either.

It was true.

Rem had taken part of the techniques learned in his tribe and reestablished them in his own way.

But he’d abandoned the rest—the things he should truly have learned and received.

So he was half-trained.

“A man who never properly learned the arts. No transmitted spirit dwelling in you, either.”

Veeeee.

As he spoke, the man drew a small metal pellet from his breast.

A blue beast’s shape glimmered about his left forearm.

‘Ah, sorcery.’

And a spirit-invocation at that.

With that left arm he’d be layering a beast’s power atop his native strength.

The simple stone in his hand felt like a monstrous threat.

Rem hesitated only a moment. Possession, sorcery, whatever—his ribs were gone, his left ankle had taken some strain blocking two spearheads, but he shoved that aside as well.

‘Do I go in and kill him?’

If he staked his life and charged, he could do it.

But did he need to?

He might look like a brute who knew no retreat, but Rem lived the world to his own convenience.

So—

“Hey.”

He opened his mouth and spoke. The ageless madman—the bastard from the west who had wiped out a tribe and stolen all their secret teachings—answered.

“Why?”

“Let’s meet again.”

“…What?”

Rem pulled two fist-sized orbs wrapped in paper from his breast.

Pop!

The instant he saw them, the man hurled a throwing spear.

Separate from the spear that flew, the orbs Rem produced burst with a puff.

Gray smoke billowed up at once, blanketing sight.

Whung!

The spear punched through the smoke, then with a boom and a crack told them only that it had shattered a tree.

“You little—”

The ageless savage pricked up his ears. He was a skilled hunter, but his opponent was no slouch either.

A hunter by nature is as good at hiding as he is at chasing.

That didn’t mean giving up would be anything but laughable.

The ageless madman closed and opened his eyes.

A blue light soon flowed in them.

Sorcery.

As the sorcery wrought by his power activated, the madman’s eyes pierced obstacles.

“Run, then.”

The madman moved his body, pursuing the trace his eyes had found.

His stride was in no way slower than Rem’s.

—

“Out for a stroll?”

It was a question barely more than a mutter. Encrid spoke, and the entire company nodded as if in agreement.

“He’ll show on time.”

Encrid wasn’t refraining from worry about Rem because he lacked the leisure to do so.

It was Rem.

The mad barbarian, the reason they’d earned the nickname Madman Company.

“He might have gone back where he came from.”

Jaxson said something useless. It sounded like wishful thinking.

Those two had a strangely affectionate rapport.

Once he was gone, look how worried he sounded.

“Right, nothing to worry about.”

Encrid said it while tending his sword.

“…Me? Worrying?”

Jaxson let killing intent leak.

Say one wrong word here and he really might skewer someone.

“Hoho, looks like our barbarian brother stopped somewhere for a nap.”

Audin smoothed it over.

Worry? There was none.

Encrid thought of Rem.

‘He’ll be back when it’s time.’

That’s how he was.

He’d have his fun and come on his own.

Once he returned to the front and listened, Krys’s plan had been a roaring success.

Sinar had taken the heads of four commanders, and the cultists had lost part of their supplies.

“Rem? Guess he’s catching a breeze somewhere.”

So said Krys, despite always muttering about bad omens and feeling uneasy.

Encrid still figured he should just do his job.

And he did.

He watched and grasped the situation they were heading into.

“The enemy?”

“As intended.”

Back to Graham’s command tent.

If the two armies clashed head-on, who would win?

“Who else—Azpen.”

The one who’d been watching would sweep the whole area.

Therefore, they couldn’t pull the troops sent to Green Pearl.

In fact, that side was asking for reinforcements.

That meant Azpen’s garrison sat in an aggressive position.

If they took offense, they’d charge.

So there was only one way.

Krys had to shatter the Black Blade and the cultists with minimal loss.

‘No need to kill them all.’

Break their morale and make them withdraw. All they had to do was buy time. Preserve friendly strength as much as possible.

This was the best way to that end.

Hit both before they could both charge. Then force them, inevitably, into a general engagement.

One battle.

Win that battle and drive the enemy back, make them collapse.

They had to make them collapse and withdraw on their own. Those were the conditions.

“One: we break the enemy’s prepared blade. The captain has to do this.”

Krys had spent days thinking what he would do if he were the Black Blade’s commander and the cult’s leader.

This was the answer he reached.

They were conscious of the Madman Company. Even if they didn’t know the exact strength, they’d have prepared at least one trump card.

Meet that unprepared, and the damage would be great.

‘Force them into a set-piece battle.’

With their supplies wrecked and their commanders gone, both units would huddle up.

And they’d know this wasn’t a fight to drag out.

With Encrid’s presence on top of that—

‘It will more than draw them in.’

“Two: Viscount Tarnin has to die.”

Cut off the pretext.

“Three: the moment the battle ends, we sprint to Green Pearl.”

Which meant they had to finish before Azpen moved.

“If it goes wrong, we all leave our bones here.”

Graham said it.

Krys himself would never leave his bones here no matter what, but he nodded roughly.

Either way, many would have to fight with death in the bargain.

As Krys intended, the cultists who had lost part of their supplies, instead of requisitioning nearby villages, linked up with the Black Blade main force.

The Black Blade and the cultists massed and began to advance across the wide plain.

The Border Guards standing army left the walls to meet them.

To hunker down defensively would be like turning his back to Azpen and begging them to smash it.

They had to go out.

A cutting wind blew dust between the two forces.

Under a dim sky, on dry frozen ground, the armies faced each other.

“We need to win.”

The Madman Company bunched near center stage.

Krys came out with them. If the battle went to ruin he’d have to bolt anyway, so he needed to be near Encrid.

Encrid guessed his thinking but let it be.

He figured it was a reasonable rule of action.

‘We need to win, huh.’

Encrid turned Krys’s words over. If they needed to win, he didn’t think it had to be him specifically.

In the end, they just had to show a winning fight.

A few thoughts flickered past, but he didn’t say anything to Krys.

From here on, it was the time of those who gripped swords.

He was just about to step forward.

Clopclopclop! Clopclopclop!

The enemy. Someone rode out and threw something near the center between the two forces.

Just shy of bowshot range.

“What now?”

Benzense narrowed his eyes and muttered.

“Fetch it.”

He gave the order at once.

One of the scouts rode hard and brought it back.

It soon came to Encrid’s hand.

A familiar weapon. Ragna looked at the axe they’d retrieved and said,

“A barbarian’s keepsake.”

“Mm. We’ll make a grave and bury him. We’ll put this in with it.”

Ragna and Jaxson each put in a word.

At times like this they were in sync again.

A few soldiers recognized the axe, and among them some realized Rem was absent.

A portion of the ranks stirred.

“What? Did Captain Rem die?”

“No, he said he torched the cultists’ camp a few days ago…”

“He didn’t return after that.”

“Would anything be more urgent than this?”

Letting the talk pass in one ear, Encrid examined the axe.

Its edge was chewed to bits, and it bore many ugly gouges.

It wore the marks of a rough fight.

“Guess he’s out having some fun.”

Encrid said it.

“Could just count him as dead.”

This time Dunbakel muttered. They were a sincere bunch.

Their tones all bled heartfelt feeling.

Encrid let the chatter in one ear and out the other and watched the enemy.

On one side wolf-beasts massed; on the other stood ranks of men.

The allied forces of the Black Blade Bandits and the cultists.

Among them, Viscount Tarnin, conspicuously wearing chainmail, rode out and shouted,

“I shall personally hew the necks of the rebels and lay them at the king’s feet! Strike down those who dared to plot rebellion!”

As he spoke he lifted his sword high.

He had a good set of lungs. Quite a big voice. Maybe he was using a magic device, for it spread wide.

But nobody moved.

“That idiot.”

Krys cursed the hog who had no value beyond his pretext.