Epilogue
Faced with the sight of their hero, the Dólgþrasir, falling over onto the ground, covered in bloody wounds, the Lightning Clan soldiers began screaming.
“Lord Steinþórr has been killed?! Aaaaauugh!”
“It can’t be! How could he be killed?!”
“Wh-what the hell are those weapons?! Are they using witchcraft?!”
“Th-there’s no way we can win against them!”
“Run! Run for your lives!!”
The morale of the Lighting Clan army was built around the faith the men had in Steinþórr and his superhuman strength and skills.
That absolute symbol of strength had seemingly been killed with ease. In the blink of an eye, terror spread like wildfire through the ranks.
They scattered like ants, running for their lives in all directions.
The Flame Clan patriarch watched this and scoffed. “Abandoning their fallen patriarch, are they? What a display of... hm?”
He stopped short, for among the fleeing men, there was one who ran towards the front lines, and upon reaching the fallen Steinþórr, proceeded to pick him up.
The Flame Clan patriarch smiled. “Heh. So, there was one loyal man among them, eh? Admirable. However, I am not about to hand over my prize to him.”
He turned and called out to one of his pages, “Bring me a tanegashima.”
“Yes, sir!” The attendant stepped forward, holding a tube-like object made of black iron.
“Prepare a round.”
“Yes, sir!” The page used a torch to light a small piece of rope attached to the rear end of the tube.
Next, he poured a black powder and a bullet into the tube, and used a rod to pack them in tightly.
After a few more minor steps, the process was complete, and the page held out the device to his patriarch.
“My lord, it is ready.”
“Good. Now then, let us make sure the tiger does not make his final journey alone.” The Flame Clan patriarch held the iron tube up in front of him, parallel with the ground, and pulled the trigger attached to its underside.
There was a loud Bang! and a puff of smoke.
The matchlock arquebus: One of the early examples of a handheld long gun, and the forerunner to the musket. In Japan, it was often called a tanegashima, due to the fact that the model widely produced in Japan was based on prototypes designed on the island of Tanegashima.
Said to have been invented in Europe in the 15th century, it was technology that was three thousand years ahead of the weaponry of Yggdrasil. It was something that should never have existed here.
The bullets it fired carried enough power to punch through the iron and steel of plate mail armor.
The Flame Clan patriarch’s shot struck true. One shot was all it took for the man holding Steinþórr to crumple to the ground.
But, rather than try to escape, the man held himself on the ground with his back facing the enemy, covering Steinþórr from any more fire.
He was placing his master before himself.
“Oh, bravo!” the Flame Clan patriarch shouted. “Now, that is how a proper soldier should behave. Now then, we at least owe those two defeated heroes a parting prayer. Ran, come with me.”
Handing off his gun to his page, he gestured for his second-in-command to follow him.
“Yes, sir,” said Ran.
The two of them walked forward across the battlefield.
When they reached Steinþórr’s body, the Flame Clan patriarch placed his hands together.
“Your name was Steinþórr, was it not? Your battle was a splendid sight to behold. You may depart to your Valhalla with pride in your heart.”
“...I’m taking you with me, bastard.” A low voice echoed up from the Flame Clan patriarch’s feet, as if echoing up from the depths of hell, and Steinþórr’s hands grasped hold of his legs.
Steinþórr slowly began to pull his body upward.
After being hit with so many lead bullets, it was a shock that he was even still breathing, much less capable of movement.
“My lord?! You filthy monster, stay away from him!” Ran shouted.
“No. Stand back.” The Flame Clan patriarch held up a hand to stop Ran from drawing his sword.
Steinþórr’s seeming refusal to die was surprising, but it did not seem to unsettle the patriarch. In fact, he burst out into laughter.
“Gah hah hah hah! So you still draw breath! What incredible tenacity. There is no one in this world who could equal your strength and valor. Nor anyone in ages past... nor in the future to come.”
As he spoke, he drew the sword from the scabbard at his waist.
It was the blade he had received as a gift from the Steel Clan, the masterwork personally forged by the genius craftsman Ingrid.
The Flame Clan patriarch raised the blade above his head, pointing upwards. “I would think it a waste to let anyone else have the honor of killing you. And so I shall take your life myself. Know that you die by the hand of the Demon King, Oda Nobunaga, descendant of the Taira.”
As he gave his name, Nobunaga turned the blade so that it was facing downwards, then brought it down on Steinþórr in a vertical thrust aimed at his heart.
Steinþórr was too weak from his wounds. He no longer had the strength to move out of the way.
The blade found its mark. It pierced through Steinþórr’s body in a fluid motion.
“Gagh!” Steinþórr grunted in pain. As his strength left him, he wheezed, struggling to speak.
“No... not in a... place like this... Suoh-Yuuto... I still haven’t... settled things with...”
Those were the final words of the man known as Dólgþrasir, the Battle-Hungry Tiger.
Nobunaga crouched down and, carefully and respectfully, pulled Steinþórr’s fingers off of his legs, one by one. He then reached out and passed his hand over Steinþórr’s face, closing the dead man’s eyes.
He clapped his hands together once and held them, offering a silent prayer.
After a long moment, Nobunaga turned to his second-in-command Ran and said, “Give him an honorable burial.”
He then pulled his blade from Steinþórr’s body, flung off the blood, and looked out into the distance, across the flat wasteland.
Towards the northern horizon.
Nobunaga smiled. “Keh heh heh... I see. ‘Suoh-Yuuto.’ To think that name would be what crossed the lips of such a great warrior in his final breaths... I look forward to meeting him all the more, now.”
To Be Continued
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