Shinwa Densetsu no Eiyuu no Isekaitan - Volume 2 - Chapter 3

Chapter 3: A Storm in the South

The Golden Hall rose high over Azbakal, the capital city of the Duchy of Lichtein. In normal times, it stood proud as a symbol of the duke’s authority. Now, it was anything but. Nobles dashed about its halls in a panic or stood in dark corners whispering their disapproval of the ducal family.

Not one month past, Duke Lichtein had lost both his first and third sons to a disastrous incursion into the Grantzian Empire. What was more, a zlosta had appeared in the south, cobbled together a rebel army of freedmen and sellswords with a former slave girl as their figurehead, and sent them to rampage as they pleased under the pretext of freeing their fellow slaves. Frustrated by his court’s lack of initiative in quelling the rebellion, Duke Lichtein himself had ridden forth with two thousand camel riders, one thousand infantry, and one thousand slaves. That had been four days ago. Now, the nobles of the land gathered anxiously in the throne room of the masterless Golden Hall. The time was drawing nigh for news to arrive from the battlefield.

At last, a messenger stumbled through the doors. “I bring word from the field!” he cried. “His Highness and the ducal army have fallen to the rebels!”

A wave of cries and groans passed through the chamber. The nobles had never seriously considered the possibility of defeat.

One man stepped out from the throng and approached the messenger. He shook his head in disbelief, his face drawn. “Surely you lie. This cannot be!”

His incredulity was understandable. The rebel army making trouble in the south numbered fewer than two thousand, while the duke’s forces had comprised his most elite troops. Although the ducal army’s defeat several weeks past had taken a heavy toll on morale, the duke’s personal leadership should have compensated for that well enough. His high nobles were all veteran warriors; with them at his side, the army should have run like clockwork.

“How did this tragedy come to pass?” the nobleman asked.

“The slaves turned against their masters and slew the high nobles to a man,” the messenger replied. “His Highness fought valiantly, but he perished on the field!”

“The slaves... Curse their treacherous bones!”

The nobleman stumbled away from the messenger, fell to his knees, and pressed his forehead to the floor. He began to shudder with sobs. Several in the crowd swooned. Some nobles began to mutter that the nation was finished, while others privately began plotting to flee across the border. Yet where all believed that the fall of the duchy was certain, one man stepped forward to quell their despair.

“Calm yourselves. Now is not the time for weeping and wailing. Now is the time to plan for the future. We cannot suffer this rebel army to run roughshod over our lands.”

The nobles’ eyes converged on the figure who had entered the chamber. The young man hesitated for a moment beneath their disdainful glares but resumed his progress along the red carpet. With his wan features and willowy frame, he looked as though he might collapse at any moment. This was Duke Lichtein’s second son, Karl Oruk Lichtein, the sickly child of the ducal family whom all had hoped would never succeed his father. He held the rank of count.

As he reached the center of the throng, Karl gestured back toward the doors with a pasty arm.

“Our savior has returned in our hour of need.”

Another man strode in with a haughty swagger: Marquis Rankeel, sentinel of the northwestern border. He glowered at the nobles as they shrank away. Now approaching his thirty-fourth year, the man had made himself a national hero two years prior by repelling thirty thousand troops from the neighboring Republic of Steissen. For all his talent, however, his disdainful demeanor had won him no love from those in power, and he had found himself assigned to guard the border, far away from the capital.

“I lament His Highness’s passing as sorely as the rest of you,” Rankeel declared, “but this is no time to mourn. Count Karl Lichtein, it must fall to you to become our new duke.”

Angry whispers arose from the crowd. How dare this man appear uninvited and presume to decide the future of the duchy?

“Who do you think you are to dictate who rules us?! Lord Karl is too frail to lead a nation—”

“And his predecessor was more qualified? Bah. I have no wish to speak ill of the dead, but the duke cared more for his own pockets than his people. When his judgment was required, he looked to his high nobles before the law. His first son was a headstrong fool who let his enemies run rings around him, and his third was remarkable only for his mediocrity.”

A nobleman stepped forward to accost Rankeel, his face flushed red with anger. “Show some respect, you reprobate!”

The marquis barked with laughter. “I speak only the truth. Unlike the rest of you, who still pretend that you do not rejoice at his death!”

“What is this accusation?!”

“You know very well what I accuse you of. Or would you prefer that I said it aloud?”

Most of the high nobles, the source of the duchy’s decline, had ridden forth with the duke and perished by his side. Now that they were gone, the men and women in this room could take their place.

If I permit them, Rankeel thought. Which I will not.

The time had come to set his nation to rights. Even if the duke had survived the battle, the country would still have been destined to perish in internecine strife. This reckoning had been a long time coming, as much as the nobility had fought to suppress it. The birth of the rebel army had been, in a sense, inevitable.

But to think the rebels would upend things so quickly...

The duke’s first and third sons had ridden to their doom in pursuit of glory, and now the duke himself had perished in battle. Rankeel would have personally thanked every rebel soldier for their service if he could.

“Still, there is hope,” Rankeel continued. “The man still leaves us his most talented son—Karl Oruk Lichtein, a man who cares for the people, esteems the military, and loves those who serve him.”

“Yet it is as he says,” Karl admitted. “I am frail of body and know not when I may die. Can I truly be the one to steer the duchy?” The strength of his will shone through his words.

Smiling, Rankeel gave a resolute nod. “I am no doctor, but I can say this: no man knows when his end will come. Indeed, it seems to me that in these times, it is the healthy who die young.”

Karl laughed despite the gibe—the duke, a man of robust health, and his firstborn son had died, while his sickly second son yet lived. “As you say, then. It would be an honor to serve as duke, at least until my life is spent. Yet I only worry, will the people accept me as their ruler?”

“Once you break the rebel army that slew your father, they will welcome you with open arms.”

“Then once I have vanquished these rebels, I will take my place as duke.”

“He’s a strong will, this one,” murmured Rankeel. With a nod of approval, he turned to regard the rest of the nobles. “It seems Lord Karl’s heart is set. Will the rest of you follow?”

“If Lord Karl has made his decision, we will obey,” a nobleman piped up. “But how do you propose to vanquish an army that has defeated our best men?”

Rankeel scoffed to himself. They could no longer even think for themselves, these nobles. How deep the rot had burrowed.

How I’d love to cut them down where they stand, but they still have their uses. First, I’ll squeeze them for every last drop of their ill-gotten wealth.

He gave a theatrical shrug. “Where is it written that we must face them in open combat?”

“What do you propose, Marquis?” Karl asked.

“Wait a while, and you shall see,” was Rankeel’s only reply.

In short order, another man burst into the throne room. “I bear urgent news!” he cried. “The Fourth Legion is gathering at Berg Fortress! It appears they are preparing to invade!”

This was what Marquis Rankeel had been waiting for. In that moment, he knew that his victory was assured. This was a man whose formidable strategic mind even other nations believed was wasted on his homeland. Though the late duke had feared his talents too much to make use of them, here he had a second chance to put them to the proof. He could not help but grin.

The nobles, however, were of a different mind. They saw no opportunity, only the conquering lion of Soleil bearing down on them. A ripple of disquiet ran through the throne room. As the air filled with fear, Marquis Rankeel moved to restore order.

“Do not despair!” he cried. “I have a plan!”

He was well practiced at manipulating hearts and minds. If any seasoned nobles had been present, they may have raised their voices against him, but they had all perished with their duke. All that remained were those too hesitant to commit to any course of action. They were terrified of losing their station and, moreover, their lives. While they had earlier looked down their noses at Rankeel, now they had no choice but to follow him.

“Lord Karl, why face the rebel army ourselves when the Fourth Legion may do it for us?”

“So you mean to set one against the other?”

“Precisely. It will be no difficult task. Our longtime spies in the empire inform us that it is Von Loeing’s Shadow that leads the Fourth Legion. Now that the man himself is disgraced, they have sent a dullard to take his place. I shall have this general dancing in the palm of my hand.”

Rankeel rifled through his pockets and produced a piece of paper—a map of Lichtein, which he unfurled on the red carpet.

“First, I would ask you to summon your soldiers from their forts and town garrisons. We must have an army or all will be for naught.”

As one, the nobles surged out of the throne room, desperate to recall their forces from their lands. They had learned from the high nobles how to ingratiate themselves with power. Those who moved quickly in times of crisis would reap the greatest rewards, while laggards would settle for less. Frantic to win Karl’s favor, they pushed and shoved amongst themselves to be first through the doors. Those with no soldiers to hand, or those who hesitated to commit them to the new duke, would hurl their wealth at the matter instead. In the space of moments, the chamber was empty but for two men and their guards.

“Now that those fools are gone, we must discuss our plans for victory.” Marquis Rankeel’s eyes shone with a piercing gleam. “What I say must not leave this chamber. Is that understood?”

Karl nodded.

“First,” the marquis continued, “I mean to lead the Fourth Legion into combat with the rebel army.”

Karl frowned. “Will they be so easily led?”

“They will if we pave the way. We will lessen our forts’ defenses and create a path of least resistance, luring them deep into our lands. Von Loeing’s Shadow is starved for recognition. He will gladly take the bait.”

Rankeel spoke with unwavering confidence, but Karl did not seem reassured.

“I am not convinced things will go so smoothly. Will a general of the empire not be astute enough to see through our intentions?”

“There are no limits to human greed. With a delicious morsel dangling before their eyes, anyone will bite. We must simply make him believe that his success is his own doing. A rampaging lion is a menace, but a baited lion is easily controlled.”

Karl nodded in understanding.

“And then,” Rankeel continued, “once their battle is done, we will fall upon the exhausted victor.”

“I see. We play them against one another, and in the end, we profit.”

“Up to that point, I have little doubt that my plan will succeed. Victory in the final battle, however, will come down to our soldiers...although there is one more factor that may upset the balance.”

“And what is that?”

“I’ve heard tell that the Republic of Steissen and the Grand Duchy of Draal have reached a peace accord. One motivated in part by the fall of Faerzen, I don’t doubt, but mostly brought on by the death of Steissen’s head of state.”

“I see. A problem indeed,” Karl said.

“The republic is struggling to hold itself together. I fear that some may take advantage of the turmoil to turn their eyes on us.”

Lichtein’s two successive defeats had greatly depleted their armed forces. Outside of critical locations, their defenses were spread dangerously thin.

“The rebel army, the empire, and now Steissen...” Karl mused. “For all that the world derides us as a slave nation, it seems unable to leave us alone.”

The Duchy of Lichtein was a dry and inhospitable land, but many had lusted to conquer it since time immemorial. The reason was simple: the myriad pristine oases dotting the Zigur Desert. While their human occupants rendered them unwelcoming to spirits, without those occupants, they would make the perfect environment for spirits to gather. In other words, any nation that could seize the oases would obtain a ready supply of spirit stones. Yet one could not simply stroll in and take them. With the Grantzian Empire’s investment in Lichtein’s slave trade, any would-be conqueror of Lichtein could be certain of swift and sure reprisal from the greatest power on the continent—or at least, they would have been until the previous month, when relations between Lichtein and the empire had soured. Now the duchy was vulnerable.

“All the more reason we must bring this conflict to a swift end,” Rankeel replied.

As time passed, settlements would fall prey to bandits and monsters. Discontent would fester among the people. If it reached a boiling point, they would find themselves contending with a second or even a third rebel army. At that stage, it would be a trial simply to keep the nation together. Ravaged by outsiders as it crumbled from within, the Duchy of Lichtein would soon vanish from the map. The only way to avoid that fate was to end this war before it could come to pass.

“And you are capable of this?”

“I am, my lord. I ask only that you entrust this matter to me.”

Karl thought for a moment, then answered. “Very well.”

Though Rankeel’s confident tone was enough to comfort Karl, the marquis himself was privately less assured. I have a trying task ahead of me, he thought.

The duchy could muster five thousand men at best. That was fewer than half of the Fourth Legion’s numbers. It was fewer even than the rebel army could boast, now that the latter’s conquests had swelled its ranks.

“Yet come what may, victory shall be mine.”

He fought now for his motherland. He would see it endure, no matter the cost.

With resolve stirring in his breast, Marquis Rankeel began to scheme.

＊

The twenty-third day of the seventh month of Imperial Year 1023

The hour was early, long before the morning mist had cleared. A clamor rose into the air, the clattering of armor and the whinnying of countless horses. Before the main gate of Berg Fortress, cavalry and infantry lined up in staggering numbers. Every soldier radiated eagerness. Their faces bore fierce expressions born of a mix of elation and anticipation.

The force numbered ten thousand, fully half of the twenty-thousand-strong Fourth Legion charged with protecting the south. Commanding the two thousand who made up the left flank was Celia Estrella Elizabeth von Grantz, sixth princess of the empire and wielder of Lævateinn.

“Is General von Kilo a capable general? I haven’t heard much about him.”

The princess spoke to the doughty old soldier by her side, Tris von Tarmier.

“I’m not surprised, Your Highness. His accomplishments don’t exactly ring all the way to the capital. He’s had the misfortune of spending every battle overshadowed by a greater man, never to enjoy his own moment in the sun.”

“Do you mean High General von Loeing?”

“Aye, so I do. On account of von Loeing taking all the glory, von Kilo’s never had the chance to win any real recognition of his own. He’s climbed his way up the ranks over the years, winning small accolades here and there, but even now they call him Von Loeing’s Shadow.”

“How unfortunate... Still, he must be a capable commander, if he’s had to work for everything he has.”

Tris gave a nonplussed grunt. “Well, I wonder about that.”

“What do you mean?” Liz asked.

“I hear, Your Highness, that a life spent overshadowed by talent has left him resentful of those who have it.”

“So he values hard work over natural ability?”

“Put charitably, aye. Or, less charitably, you might say he likes to be the cleverest one in the room.”

“That hasn’t caused any problems so far. Why should we worry now?”

“A general who shuns talent narrows his options. That’s what happens when you never listen to anyone cleverer than yourself. You get predictable.” Tris leveled a concerned gaze at Liz. “Besides, Your Highness, I fear you’re forgetting something.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re exactly the sort of prodigy the man despises. That’s what’s worrying this old head of mine the most.”

Liz laughed. “Me? Don’t be silly. If I was that talented, I wouldn’t have to train so hard.” She waved her hands in front of her face to deny it, but there was no concealing her grin.

Tris breathed a deep sigh and gestured to the Spiritblade on Liz’s hip. “What is that, Your Highness?”

“Why, Lævateinn, of course. Isn’t she lovely?”

“That’s not the question, Your Highness. How many Spiritblades are there in the world?”

“Five. Well, counting the lost one. Four, really.”

“Aye, that’s my point. Four Spiritblades in all of Aletia, and you wear one of them on your belt.”

Liz’s eyes widened in confusion. “But...it just chose me. Owning it doesn’t make me some kind of prodigy.”

“Doesn’t it? It chose you for a reason, Your Highness. You’ve some kind of talent, to be sure, even if you yourself aren’t aware of it yet. That’ll be more than enough to earn the general’s displeasure.”

“He’s the commander of an army, not a child. I’m sure he wouldn’t be so petty.”

“Aye, I hope not, but still, watch yourself around him. There’s no harm in being cautious.”

“All right.” Liz made note of the warning.

I remember Hiro saying something similar.

Her thoughts turned to the black-haired boy with the eyepatch obscuring his face. He had been gone for ten days now, but two days before his departure, she had gone to visit him in Berg Fortress’s study. He had been cooped up there, so immersed in his books that he hadn’t even come down for breakfast.

“Liz,” he asked the moment she entered the room, “what do you need to wage war?”

The sudden question knocked her off-balance. “Um...troops, supplies, and...erm...oh, that’s right! Reliable intelligence!”

“All good answers, but they only apply once the war has begun. First of all, you need a cause or you can’t even start. Remember that.” He turned to her with a wry smile. “But we can talk about that later. First, let’s discuss gathering intelligence...”

Before she knew it, his face had lost all of its usual youthfulness. That expression again... she thought.

This boy wore several faces. His usual one was as meek and timid as anyone else his age, but on the battlefield it changed into a cold, unreadable mask. His final face was this one, the self-assured expression he wore when he was devising some stratagem. She wondered which was the real Hiro, and hoped it was the first.

“...so it’s best to have your agents lie low for years or even decades before you anticipate needing them. That way, you’ll have a wealth of information to reference when you start making plans for war.”

Hiro snapped his book shut.

“So, you’ve proclaimed a suitable cause and gained the support of the people. You’ve trained your soldiers well and their morale is high. You have ample supplies and reliable intelligence on your enemy. All that’s left is to declare war.” He paused. “But even with all those things, you can still lose if you fail to act appropriately on your information.”

“Isn’t that what our advisors are for?” Liz asked.

“The best commanders let their advisors contradict them. That’s an admirable quality, I think. It shows that you know your limits. Don’t forget, though, not everyone is like that. Some commanders surround themselves with lesser advisors and shun anyone more talented.”

It was a timeless truth that many commanders wore a title too grand for them. Many such officers grew to resent those with the ability that they lacked. The result was that budding talent, unless it happened to be blessed with a wise superior, was all too often pruned before it could flourish. Liz, fortunate enough to be born to the royal bloodline and chosen by Lævateinn despite her sex, was the epitome of the natural ability such people despised.

“As a major general, sometimes you’ll be in charge yourself, but you’ll also often be assigned to advise other commanders. If that happens, remember: no matter how wrong they are, never contradict them publicly. Wound someone’s ego and they’ll find all kinds of ways to make your life difficult.”

“If they’re about to make a mistake, wouldn’t it be worse not to point it out?”

“That’s why you make plans in advance. So you can respond to any eventuality. Reach out to the other officers. Make sure that you know them and they know you.”

“Why would they care what I have to say?”

“You’re the sixth princess of the empire. Use it. Well, you’re also Lævateinn’s chosen, so they might not welcome your letters quite so warmly, but... Well.” Hiro spread his hands wide. His black eyes sparkled. “If Lævateinn’s chosen gives an order, the soldiers will listen, no matter what. That will be useful when the time comes.”

“When what time comes?” Liz asked, but Hiro only smiled.

“Now,” he said. “About causes...”

He had kept talking until the sun went down, Liz remembered. She felt a headache coming on just thinking about it and shook her head to clear it.

“Tris,” she said, her gaze aimed straight ahead.

“Yes, Your Highness?”

“I want you to find out the names of every squadron, platoon, battalion, and brigade commander.”

Tris’s brow knotted in puzzlement. She should already have known the names of all the officers under her command. He thought to himself for a moment, then his eyes widened. He looked back at Liz. “You can’t mean for the entire army?”

“Of course. I want to be prepared in case General von Kilo starts leading us astray.” With any luck, it would prove a wasted effort, but anything could happen on a battlefield. “Can I trust you with that, Tris?”

“I’ll see it done immediately, Your Highness.” Tris bowed his head, then turned his horse about and vanished into the sea of soldiers.

Liz watched him go. As her fingers settled around the hilt of her Spiritblade, several drums resounded as one from the heart of the army, sending a boom rolling through the ranks. A host of standards rose from the main force. Liz raised a hand, signaling to her own standard-bearer. Her banners unfurled with the rest: a lily on a crimson field and, beside it, the lion on gold of the Grantzian royal family.

With that, the Fourth Legion began its march into the Duchy of Lichtein.

＊

The twenty-sixth day of the seventh month of Imperial Year 1023, three days after Liz’s departure with the Fourth Legion

“Welcome back. I’ve been waiting for you.”

Hiro returned to Linkus to find Margrave Kiork awaiting him in front of his mansion, sporting an amiable smile. Beside him was Hiro’s swiftdrake, looking none too happy to have been woken at the crack of dawn.

“This early?”

Hiro’s surprise was well justified. The sun had only risen within the hour. In the first place, he hadn’t even told Kiork when he expected to return. He began to worry about how long the man had been waiting, but Kiork dismissed his concerns with a shake of his head.

“It’s the least honor I could show a member of the royal family. I did send someone to receive you at the station, but you must have missed one another.”

“I appreciate it.” Hiro looked down, humbled.

Kiork only smiled, with the tiniest hint of awkwardness. He reached into his pocket and produced a letter—the very same one that Hiro had sent via one of House Kelheit’s messengers.

“I have done as you requested. I only wonder if this will suffice.”

“No, it’s more than enough. Thank you again.”

“Please don’t bow so. You are a prince now. You ought to be demanding my gratitude for the honor of doing your bidding.”

“I couldn’t possibly...” The very idea made Hiro cringe.

Kiork nodded in understanding, then gave Hiro a clap on the shoulder. And you mustn’t change, the gesture seemed to say. Hiro flinched away slightly, a little put off by the man’s unusual forwardness.

Kiork withdrew, rubbing the back of his head apologetically. “My apologies. I’ll admit, a night without sleep has me strangely giddy. Mostly, though, I’m just delighted that your claim was accepted. Perhaps I was overly familiar. I suppose I ought to treat royalty with more respect, or I might find myself a head shorter one of these days.”

So he hadn’t slept after all. Hiro felt a little guilty. There was no reason to take offense at a simple pat on the shoulder. He would not have accepted the gesture from Stovell, but Kiork was a good man, and besides, his tiredness was likely Hiro’s fault.

Before silence could set in, Hiro decided to change the topic.

“Has Liz left yet?” he asked.

“She has. I received word from her the day before yesterday. I don’t doubt that they are advancing through Lichtein as we speak.”

“In that case, I should be going.”

Hiro made to mount the swiftdrake, but Kiork hurriedly motioned him to wait.

“Surely you can’t mean to leave without breakfast?”

“I do. There’s something I need to investigate.”

More specifically, he wanted to look into one of the points mentioned in the emperor’s letter: the appearance of a zlosta. Centuries of interbreeding with the other peoples had thinned the blood of the zlosta that remained on Soleil, but Hiro doubted the emperor would have written for anything less than a pureblood. He had fought the fiendkin before, a thousand years ago. Firsthand experience had taught him just how powerful they could be.

Liz can probably deal with a lesser zlosta herself, but one with a manastone...that could be bad.

Within all zlosta dwelled a mysterious power known as mana. Some possessed only a trickle, but others harbored tremendous reservoirs. One could tell the difference by the presence or absence of crystals on their bodies. These crystals, formed from excess mana that solidified externally, possessed similar properties to spirit stones and so were known as manastones. If Liz found herself pitted against one of those, the situation could turn very dangerous very fast.

Kiork could not possibly have guessed Hiro’s thoughts, but he offered a wry smile anyway. “At least buy yourself some food and water in town. You can eat on the road—”

He began to rifle through his pockets, but Hiro cut him short.

“I’ll be fine. I have provisions in here,” he said, twisting around to show the hempen bag on his back.

“I see,” Kiork said. “Very well, then, I won’t keep you. I await news of your success.”

“I’ll be back soon,” Hiro assured him.

He said farewell to Kiork, mounted the swiftdrake, and gave a tug on the reins. The reptilian creature reared and began to run with long, powerful strokes. Before long, the margrave’s mansion was out of sight. There was only the strong headwind pressing against his face, sending his black garb fluttering behind him.

＊

After crossing the border, the Fourth Legion had advanced through Lichtein with astonishing speed. Faced with only light resistance, they had begun capturing forts before half a day was done. They were currently pausing to rest their troops and horses a mere twelve sel from the capital city of Azbakal. Two more forts had fallen to their advance since that morning. In the main encampment, a strategy meeting was taking place to determine their next move.

The commander’s tent was simple, little more than a table surrounded by four canvas walls. General von Kilo sat at the head with Liz to his right. The air weighed heavy with tension as an advisor raised a hand.

“May I proceed to the next item?”

“As you please,” the general grunted.

With permission granted, the advisor stood, holding a report from the reconnaissance division.

“An army of rebels has appeared in southern Lichtein. It is currently advancing north, toward our position. If nothing is done, conflict will become unavoidable. How should we proceed, sir?”

General von Kilo snorted in distaste. He turned a lazy gaze to the map laid out on the table and to the pawns atop it. “How many are they?” he asked.

“We estimate four thousand, sir, but they are growing. After routing the ducal forces, they have begun swelling their ranks with sellswords and freedmen. By the time they encounter us, their numbers will likely exceed six thousand.”

“Hmm. And what is the duchy up to?”

“Our informants report that they are gathering all the forces they can muster in the capital. That corroborates the intelligence we have received from our agents. By all accounts, they appear to be readying for a siege.”

“Like a tortoise retreating into its shell,” von Kilo scoffed. “I’d thought they’d have more courage. Still, the game is up.” He gestured vaguely toward the map. “First, we break this rebel army, then we add its numbers to our own. Only the sellswords, of course. The slaves we behead. Then we sack the capital and return home in triumph.”

No objections were forthcoming. The general nodded to himself in satisfaction. Only then did he notice that Liz was staring at the map with an expression of concern.

“Do you find some fault with my plan, Your Highness?”

“We’ve been keeping up a forced march all the way from the border,” she said. “The troops are exhausted.”

Sparsely defended as they were, the forts in their way had fallen without much of a fight. The Fourth Legion had swept south with astonishing speed, spurred on by their victories. Everything was going smoothly—surprisingly so. Morale was high. Still, sparse resistance was not no resistance. The battles had taken their toll, and they had more yet to come. Whether they intended to rout the rebels or take the capital next, the soldiers first needed respite. The consequences of fighting on days of pent-up exhaustion did not bear thinking about.

“If we don’t have time to rest,” Liz continued, “we should stick to our original plans. Veer north and take the oasis city of Brueno, then use it to negotiate.”

“Your Highness, you appear to be laboring under a misapprehension.”

The note of condescension in General von Kilo’s voice did not escape Liz’s notice, but she forced herself to listen.

“You cannot judge the soldiers of the Fourth Legion by the standards of other men. They have trained extensively to cultivate their endurance for this very scenario. A mere forced march will not tire them.”

“They’re still only human,” Liz protested. “They can’t keep fighting forever.”

“They will only have to fight twice more: once to break the rebels, and once to take the capital. Then we will win fully half of Lichtein, not some paltry northern territory.”

“His Majesty doesn’t want you to destroy the duchy.”

“A nation does not fall merely because its capital does. We will leave them the south. The slave ships will need somewhere to dock.”

“Then the Fourth Legion will be stuck here indefinitely. We’ll end up spread too thin across our southern border. What if Steissen decides to take advantage of that? And in the meantime, the rest of Lichtein will be desperate to retake the capital. If order breaks down in the south, it’ll be a bloodbath.”

“Then we will simply crush the duchy once and for all and be done with it.” General von Kilo’s mouth curled into a grin as he turned to Liz. “You appear to be tired, Your Highness. It has you spouting all manner of cowardly nonsense. This meeting is done. You may return to your command...or, if you wish, to the rear, where you may await further orders.”

Liz clenched her fists and bit her tongue, but she could not keep her anger from showing on her face. Kigui, General von Kilo’s vice-commander, shot her a disapproving glance.

“You are not a princess here, Your Highness, merely an advisor. Your lack of self-control is unbecoming. I would ask you to refrain from any outbursts that might embarrass His Majesty.”

“Leave her, Kigui,” von Kilo interjected. “Her Highness is young in years and inexperienced in military matters. She cannot be expected to be familiar with military etiquette. She will learn in time.” He turned the question to the room. “Is that not so?”

The rest of his advisors nodded as one.

“Fear not, Your Highness, I will ensure you have the chance to prove yourself.” With a slight smile, the general returned his eyes to the map. Evidently, their conversation was over.

“I’ll take you up on your offer, then,” Liz said. “Please excuse me.”

Arguing the point would only worsen her standing. The rest of the advisors cared only for telling von Kilo what he wanted to hear. She stood up and stalked out of the tent.

Tris approached her on horseback, leading her horse by the reins. “Is the meeting over, Your Highness?” he asked.

Liz scowled. “General von Kilo can’t see past the end of his nose.” She mounted up and turned her horse toward her own encampment.

“So his mind won’t be changed?”

“Apparently not. He means to defeat the rebels, then take Azbakal.”

“Well, he’s making no secret of his ambition. Strange. I had him pinned for a more cautious man.”

“So did I,” Liz sighed. “How are our preparations going?”

“I’d say three in five would take your corner.”

“I see. I’ll get to writing more letters.”

As Liz arrived back at her camp, she turned her eyes to the sky. The wind had picked up, whipping the desert sands into a haze of dust that made it hard to see.

“Strange,” she murmured to herself. “Why’s the wind so strong?”

Sudden squalls were one thing, but this continuous gale was unnatural. She had never seen anything like it since crossing the border. As she knotted her brow in thought, she realized that Lævateinn was thrumming on her hip.

“Do you...sense something?”

“Your Highness?” Tris asked, alarmed. “Is something wrong?”

Liz ignored him. She narrowed her eyes, peering into the storm. All at once, the wind dropped. As the sand cleared, she found herself staring at ranks upon ranks of camel riders.

“Impossible!” Tris spluttered. “How did they get so close?! Are our sentries blind?!”

The old soldier stared in shock. A wave of alarm passed through the troops around them at the sight of the enemy.

Only Liz was calm. “Pull yourselves together!” she shouted, drawing Lævateinn. “Form into ranks! Sound the horn and warn the main camp! Tris, how quickly can we deploy?”

“The first cavalry are ready, Your Highness! The second will take a little longer!”

“Fine! Send the first to the fore!” Liz drove her heels into her horse’s flank, sending it surging forward.

“Your Highness!” Tris called after her, startled. “Where do you think you’re going?!”

“I’ll hold them off! You get the men ready!”

Liz wove through the ranks of cavalry and out into the desert. She brought her mount to a stop a short distance ahead of the front line. Before her, an enormous dust cloud loomed, rolling toward her like a wave. It was perhaps ninety rue distant—or two hundred and seventy meters—and closing.

As the camel riders bore down on Liz, her grip tightened around Lævateinn’s hilt. “No holding back,” she cried as they passed within thirty-seven rue. “Burn them to ashes!”

A gout of flame spewed from her Spiritblade’s tip, scorching the air with a blast of dry heat. The fire quickly spread. Within moments, it had formed a burning wall between the two armies. A cheer went up from behind Liz at the otherworldly spectacle.

“They’ll split around the fire!” She turned her horse about and made for the first cavalry’s front line. “Their formation is broken! Now’s our chance! First cavalry, with me!”

“Your Highness!” Tris approached on horseback.

“What is it?”

“The second cavalry is ready for battle!”

“Good! Tell them to flank the enemy! While you’re at it, send word to the main camp to have the reserves circle around behind! We’ll surround them and finish them off!”

“At once, Your Highness!” Tris inclined his head. “May the Twelve Divines keep you!”

“And you! First cavalry, forwa—”

Liz’s command caught in her throat as she turned back toward the field. There, an impossible sight was unfolding. The wave of sand was encroaching on her wall of flame.

“What? But how?!”

As she watched, aghast, the fiery barrier vanished into the maw of the churning sands. Out from the arcing plumes of dust surged a wave of camel riders.

The sight of the enemy brought Liz back to her senses. She raised Lævateinn high, then leveled it at the approaching troops.

“Break their momentum!” she shouted. “First cavalry, charge!”

She yanked on the reins and drove her heels into her mount’s flanks. As she darted ahead, a great cry went up from behind her—“After Her Highness!”—and one thousand horsemen moved in her wake.

Liz collided with the enemy vanguard. She ducked low to avoid a spear, then, as it skimmed over her head, laid its wielder open with a swing of her sword. The man toppled from his camel with a gurgle, blood spraying from his wound. Liz spared him only a single glance, then raised Lævateinn and launched a fireball from its blade. The orb burst, setting the field in front of her awash with flame. Screams rose from the enemy as fire consumed them. Those who failed to escape the blast toppled from their camels, covered in hideous burns and emitting a charred stench. Horseshoes crushed the dead underhoof, covering the battlefield with a mist of gore.

“Their lines are broken!” Liz cried. “Crush them now! Don’t give them a chance to regroup!”

The riderless camels began to panic, driven into a frenzy by the blast wave. As the enemy ranks dissolved into confusion, the imperial cavalry crashed into them with furious force, lances glinting as they skewered their foes. Liz joined the fray, cutting men down left and right. Her victims died with terror on their faces. The stench of death suffused the air, growing more pungent with every fresh corpse.

“Aren’t you a spirited little lady!” a voice bellowed.

An enormous figure leaped over the bodies of the enemy’s front line on camelback. He crashed into the imperial charge and began laying waste to the cavalry, cleaving through every man in his path with an enormous greatsword. The weapon was as long as he was tall, but he swung it one-handed, as easily as if it were a stick. Liz’s jaw clenched at the sight of his lilac skin.

“A zlosta?!” she hissed. “What’s a zlosta doing here?!”

The man launched himself from his mount. A cloud of bloodsoaked sand rolled over Liz as he came down before her with a thud. His greatsword roared through the air. Instinctively, she readied Lævateinn. Sparks exploded between them as their blades clashed.

“Ngh!”

Liz grunted as the impact lifted both her and her horse off the ground. The zlosta’s monstrous strength dwarfed that of an ordinary man, but she was no less superhuman. She matched it pound for pound, forcing him away.

“Yaaaaaah!”

If the zlosta had been surprised that Liz had caught his greatsword, he was astonished to find himself pushed back. His eyes turned to the crimson sword in her hand.

“You wield a Spiritblade?” he asked.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Liz forced a defiant grin, trying to hide the shock ringing through her fingers.

“Such a dainty little thing couldn’t have done that with the strength of her arm.”

“How do you know what I can do? We’ve only just met!”

The zlosta thrust his greatsword into the sand. “There’s no hiding it, girl. I wield Bebensleif, the Fiend of Creation. Only a handful of blades in all of Aletia could repel one of the Fellblades.”

One thousand years ago, the fiends had fashioned five mighty blades to match the Spiritblade Sovereigns: the five Archfiend’s Fellblades. Each harbored the soul of a fiend and, like a Spiritblade, possessed its own will. The five all sought different qualities in their wielders; legend had it that some even chose non-zlosta masters, although such favor came at the price of some manner of curse.

“Besides,” the zlosta rumbled, “you can feel it, can’t you? Your blade sings to meet its old nemesis.”

Liz looked down at Lævateinn. The crimson blade blazed brightly enough to warp the air around it. It radiated eagerness, pushing her to fight. She laid a soothing hand on it as she stared at the zlosta.

“All right, I’ll admit it. This is Lævateinn, the Flame Sovereign.”

“Ah, the first emperor’s favorite. I’m honored to meet such a storied blade. Its Graal is Might, is it not?” The man brandished his greatsword, producing a blast of wind. “Bebensleif’s is Force, as the numbness in your hands attests. But why not let our blades speak for us? After all, it is what they desire.” A savage grin spread across his face. “I am Garda Meteor, vice-commander of the Liberation Army.”

“Celia Estrella Elizabeth von Grantz,” Liz replied. She leaped down from her horse and readied Lævateinn.

Around them, the battle was turning into a slaughter. The Fourth Legion had not only numbers on their side, but positioning as well: the second cavalry was sweeping in from the flank, while the reserves were circling around to the rebel army’s rear. Garda, too, had noticed the tide turning. He glanced around briefly before returning his gaze to Liz.

“But time is upon me,” he said. “I must finish this quickly.”

“What’s the hurry? I have all the time in the world!”

Liz leaped gracefully toward him, swinging Lævateinn. The enormous man blocked her strike with ease, but she knew that the wielder of one of the Fellblades would not be so easily surprised.

“Let me show you why they call it the Flame Sovereign!” Liz cried.

A crimson ripple spread out from the blade, sending serpents of fire to lash at Garda. Grunting in surprise, the zlosta batted Lævateinn aside, twisted around, and slammed his palm against the ground. A wall of mana-infused sand sprang up in front of him, sending the fire glancing uselessly away.

“Haaah!”

Liz drove her fist into the wall. With her full might behind it, the punch broke clean through to catch an unsuspecting Garda square in the face. The zlosta went flying. Once, twice, he bounced across the sand before he rolled to a stop.

Liz looked on, smiling beatifically. “And after all that talk about my Graal,” she called after him. “Don’t tell me you forgot?”

Garda rose slowly to his feet. His grin deepened as he wiped a trickle of blood from his mouth. “That would have knocked a lesser man out cold!” He launched himself forward, closing the distance between them in an instant. Bebensleif, light in his grip, bore down on Liz from above.

“Ngh!” Liz raised Lævateinn in time to block, but the sheer force of the impact drove her ankle-deep into the sand. “If you think that’ll stop me, you’ve got another thing coming!”

She launched a vicious right roundhouse, but Garda caught it with one hand. Not to be deterred, she leaped into the air and planted a front kick on his chest with her left leg. The ball of her foot caught him in the solar plexus, knocking the breath from his lungs. He stumbled back, clutching his abdomen, and flung her away. Her uncontrolled tumble transformed into an elegant arc as she sailed through the air until she touched down in a graceful three-point landing. Lævateinn, however, was not in her grip. It lay uselessly beneath her on the sand. She looked down in dismay at the trembling fingers of her right hand, numbed by Bebensleif’s Force.

“You’re strong as an ox, I’ll give you that,” Garda growled, “but it’ll do you no good if you can’t feel your hands.”

“An ox? How rude. I thought I was just a dainty little thing?”

“Hah! You have me dead to rights. I suppose I owed a Spiritblade’s chosen a little more respect.”

They stared each other down for a while before Garda broke eye contact and looked around. The battlefield was awash with war cries and screams. All around, the corpses of his slain comrades littered the desert sands. He frowned in distaste.

“I’d offer you a proper battle by way of apology, but it seems that will have to wait.”

“And you think I’ll just let you walk away?”

“If you know what’s good for you. You can’t even hold your sword.”

He was right. The shock was still ringing through Liz’s hands.

Garda vaulted back onto his camel. “You’ve talent, girl. I’ll give you five years before you surpass me, if you keep training.”

At that moment, a rider came up behind him. “Boss!” he cried. “We can’t hold any longer!”

“I know,” the zlosta replied. “We’ve done what we came for. Sound the retreat!”

“Get back here!” Liz shouted. She picked up Lævateinn and leveled it at Garda, but the zlosta spared her only a single glance before vanishing over the dunes. As she stared bitterly after him, Tris rode up behind her.

“Your Highness!” he cried. “Are you unharmed?!”

“I’m fine. More importantly, what are our losses?”

“We won’t know for sure until the reports come in, but light, I’d say. Lighter than they would have been if you hadn’t kept that blasted zlosta busy, that’s for certain. Should we pursue?”

“No, leave them. Let General von Kilo handle things from here. Make sure the soldiers get any rest they can. The horses too. They must be exhausted.”

“As you command, Your Highness.”

As Tris departed, Liz let out a sigh. She seemed to deflate as the breath left her body.

“I’ve still got a long way to go...”

Hiro makes it look so easy, she thought, allowing herself a rueful smile.

＊

The blazing sun had climbed from the east and was now sinking into the west, drenching the land in twilight hues as it crept below the horizon. Soon the curtain of night would fall, rendering the world to the rule of darkness.

Across the sunset desert, buffeted by dry winds, loped a dragon. It ran graceful and unyielding as a gale, its steps swift and sure across the treacherous sand. On its back rode Hiro. Though he had never been able to ride a horse, for whatever reason, the swiftdrake responded readily to his touch.

He was growing close to his destination, but his mount’s need to rest was pressing.

“I’m sure there was a village around here somewhere...”

He slowed the swiftdrake to a trot and pulled a sheet of paper—a map of the Duchy of Lichtein—from his pocket. Scanning the distance, he soon picked out a dark shadow on the horizon.

“Hold on just a little longer, okay?” he whispered to the swiftdrake. The reptilian bowed its head in what looked like assent, then resumed running.

Over time, the shadow grew larger until it resolved into a collection of earthen houses. Immediately, Hiro sensed that something was amiss; no doubt anyone would have. He dismounted from the swiftdrake and entered the village, keeping a weather eye on his surroundings as he went. An odd silence hung in the streets, and the locals regarded him with apprehension.

With a nudge of thought to the Black Camellia, Hiro conjured a hood and pulled it low over his face. He approached a nearby peasant. “Excuse me,” he said. “Is something the matter?”

The peasant looked him up and down with a wary expression. “You new in town?”

It wasn’t hard to imagine how the man would react if Hiro explained that he had crossed the border from the Grantzian Empire. Instead, he introduced himself as a recent arrival from the neighboring Republic of Steissen. Two hundred years prior, Lichtein had been part of Steissen. He didn’t know whether that had made his story more believable, but at any rate, some of the suspicion left the peasant’s face.

“You’re a long way from home, right enough,” the man said. “Well, you’ve picked an awful time for a visit.”

Presumably, he was talking about the Grantzian invasion, although he could easily have been referring to something else. Hiro decided to press him for more information.

“I’ve heard the empire’s crossed the border,” he said.

“Aye, if only that were all of it. The slaves are up in arms in the south. Word is, they beat the duke’s army in open battle. The whole nation’s not long for this world, I reckon.”

“They defeated the duke?”

“That they did. Now Lord Karl’s the only one of the ducal family left to keep the land together. He’s called every spare soldier to the capital to fight the rebels, leaving us and ours to fend for ourselves against bandits and worse. Even the monsters are swarming, and now the bloody empire’s cutting a swathe through the north. I hear they’re knocking on the gates of the capital already.”

“They’re at the capital?”

The emperor’s orders had been to annex the north of Lichtein and force the country into a peace agreement. Why had they taken it upon themselves to march on the capital?

Victory must have gone to their heads.

The Fourth Legion’s role was to take the northern oasis cities, then watch for any movement from the other nations along the empire’s southern border. The Grantzian Empire had no time for a war with Lichtein. The emperor’s focus was on the now-province of Faerzen, while the central nobles were busy circling the various rights and titles that would come with the empire’s newest acquisition. None of them would weep to hear of Lichtein’s fall, but none would rejoice in it either.

And that’s if they win. What if they lose?

The Fourth Legion was strong, but they faced no easy task. The enemy would fight all the more fiercely knowing that their homeland’s survival was on the line. If the war dragged on, it would strain the empire’s southern border, with ripple effects across the entire nation. Moreover, supplies were not free, and there was a limit to how much they could procure on-site.

Once the food runs out, there’s only one thing to do. I only hope Liz isn’t feuding with the commander over this.

As Hiro stood in silence, pondering, the peasant spoke again. “You’d best make yourself scarce, friend, afore you get caught up in our woes.”

“Why don’t you evacuate too?”

“My land’s my living. I’ve got no savings, no nothing. All that’s waiting for me on the road is a slow death from an empty belly. Besides, the duke’s men’ll be back once the war’s over.” The peasant picked up the rusted sword at his feet and shrugged. “The other nations spit on this land, call it a forsaken dust bowl or a slave nation, but to me, it’s where I was born and raised. I’ll hold out until the duke’s men return, come what may.”

The man’s voice was full of conviction, but Hiro could not help but notice that his knees were knocking. The nobles of the land could doubtless pay for passage to other nations with their ill-gotten wealth, but only a handful of commonfolk could afford to abandon the land of their birth. Hiro made to offer him some encouragement, but at that moment, one of the villagers shouted from the gate.

“We’ve got trouble! Bandits, headed our way!”

The man pointed down the road to an approaching dust cloud.

“They squeezed us dry last time and it’s not enough for them?”

“Reckon they can bleed us whenever they like, eh? Well, I say we stick the bastards!”

“Aye, we’re ready for a scrap! It’s time we took our children back!”

As alarm spread through the villagers, Hiro turned back to the man beside him. “They’ve come before?” he asked.

“Aye, they have, around the time the duke marched on the empire. Must’ve figured the eyes of the law were elsewhere. Without protection, villages like ours are ripe fruit ready for the picking. Everyone’s had women and children taken, us included. Me included.”

A wistful look came over him, but he slapped his cheeks, and then his expression became one of determination. “Women and children, into my house and bar the door!” he shouted. “Men, get your weapons! We’ll show them we’ll not be walked over!” He looked back at Hiro. “And you, make yourself scarce.”

Hiro shook his head. Lichtein might ultimately be responsible for the villagers’ misery, but there was no denying that the Grantzian invasion had played a part. The empire could not harm other nations’ citizens indiscriminately. Even if he wasn’t the direct cause of their plight, Hiro had a duty to fight in their defense.

“Could you let me take care of this?” he asked.

The peasant’s eyes widened. “Oy, what do you think you’re—?”

Hiro did not wait for the man to finish. He walked away and out of the village. Within moments, he was surrounded by bandits.

“You some sorta village spokesman, eh?”

Three men approached on camelback. Seventeen more bandits, dressed in shabby clothes, followed on foot behind them.

“Oy. I asked you a question.”

The central rider was evidently their leader. His suit of silver armor, glinting orange in the evening sun, distinguished him from the rest. The other two riders at his sides weren’t dressed in gear quite so fine, but their attire was still sturdier than the cobbled-together apparel the rest were wearing.

Hiro called out in a quavering voice, pretending to be afraid. “Can’t we make a deal, sirs? We’ve got money. We can pay.”

“No deals, brat. Anything you could offer, we’ll just take off your corpse.”

“I see. That’s a pity.” Hiro summoned Excalibur, thrust it point-down into the ground, and spread his arms wide. A gust of wind sent his overcoat aflutter, catching his hood and baring his face. “Well, then. Who wants to die first?”

The bandits burst out laughing.

“Hey, the kid’s got a mouth on him!”

“Best jape I’ve heard all year!”

“No, no, maybe it’s some kinda newfangled diploma-whatsit. Here, boy, I’ll go!” One man came forward, crying with laughter as he clutched his belly.

“You first, then.”

As far as the bandits were concerned, Hiro did not move. They heard no rush of air, never saw his silver sword shift from its place in the ground. All they saw was the man’s head vanish, a plume of blood rising in its place to paint the sky an even deeper crimson.

“Eh?”

“What in the world...?”

The bandits struggled to process what had happened, even as their comrade’s blood splattered them. The headless corpse collapsed, dyeing the desert sand crimson with sprays of blood.

Hiro stood with his arms spread wide, his pose unchanged. “Who wants to die next?” he asked coldly. His hair was as black as sable, as through wrought from darkness, and his eyes were hard and dark as obsidian. Though he stood in the arid desert, a light glinted in their depths as cold as the frost-rimed Grausam Mountains.

A particularly fainthearted bandit shrank back, a whimper slipping from his throat. He turned to run. In the blink of an eye, his head rolled from his shoulders to come to a stop on the sand. His comrades wheeled around as they heard his corpse topple.

“Who next?”

The bandits’ spines turned to ice at Hiro’s voice. They paled as one. With a wordless scream, one of the camel riders lifted his sword high. Before the blade could fall, his head, too, went flying.

“Don’t worry, I’ll leave some of you alive. Someone has to tell me where you’re keeping your captives.”

Hiro grasped Excalibur’s hilt. His mantle billowed as he spun forward. Pitch black swirled before the bandits’ eyes, the embodiment of darkness and the mark of terror. They could only watch, paralyzed, as Hiro cut one man down, then rammed his blade through the next and kicked the corpse away. A moment later, he seemed to vanish from among them. Only the silver trail of his sword remained, passing through them like a glowing thread. It was as though they were wearing no armor at all. Their bodies parted like silk around his blade.

One by one the bandits fell, their lives snuffed out with a single stroke. Their lifeblood watered the sands. As their comrades perished around him, the rest descended into panic. One could hardly blame them; they could not even see what was killing them. Some fled, some fought, and some froze with fear. Those who fled were dismembered, those who fought were beheaded, and those who froze were cut down all the same.

“What’s happening?”

The leader’s vacant expression told plainly that no other words came to mind.

“This must be a dream... Just a bad dream...” He stared blankly at the corpses that had once been his comrades.

One of his underlings ran up to him, his face pale. “We’ve gotta get out of here, boss! He’s a monst—”

The man got no further. His body collapsed to the sand as though making itself a gift to the desert. The other bandits’ screams had turned to silence, stifled in their throats by terror.

“Run, you fools!”

The bandit leader wheeled his camel about and made to flee. Hiro launched himself after the man, seized him by the collar, and flung him from his mount. As the bandit crashed to the ground on his back, Hiro drove his fist into the man’s face.

“Agh! Urgh! Nngh!”

Hiro rained down punch after punch, before finishing with a kick to the face that left the man convulsing in agony. Until then, he had been wielding Excalibur backhanded, but he spun the blade around nimbly as he stood and leveled it, perfectly horizontal, at the throat of the bandit creeping up behind him. The man dropped the sword he had been hoping to drive into Hiro’s back. Tears beaded in the corners of his eyes.

“Spare my life, I beg you!” he cried. “I’ll do no more thieving, honest I won’t!”

“All right,” Hiro said.

“F-For true?”

“If you can get away.”

“Wha—? Agh!”

For just an instant, the man’s face lit up with hope before a gleaming blade pierced through his neck. He collapsed, hacking up gouts of blood. The rest of the bandits threw away their weapons and scattered in all directions. Hiro coldly watched them run for a moment, then disappeared in a flash of silver.

The villagers looked on, dumbfounded, as the men who had come to ransack their homes fell in the blink of an eye. Hiro returned to them, dragging the unconscious bandit leader by the scruff of the neck. He dumped the man unceremoniously in front of them.

“This is the leader of the men who attacked your village,” he said. “He’s yours to do with as you will.”

As they struggled for words, he turned away and strode to where his swiftdrake was resting under the shade of a tree.

“I made certain to leave some of the others alive. One of them will cough up the location of their hideout, I’m sure. You’ll get your women and children back.”

He might have saved their village, but after the display of inhuman power he had put on, he would no longer be welcome—or so he thought, but as he made to leave, a voice called out to him.

“Not so fast. The nights get cold here, as I’m sure you know. Have you got a roof over your head tonight?”

Hiro turned to find the peasant man he had spoken to when he first arrived.

“I’ve got friends a little farther up the road,” he replied. “I’ll spend the night there.”

“That so? Well, just hold on.” The man turned on his heel and vanished among the houses. He reappeared in short order, holding a blanket and a stack of provisions. “Here, take this. It’s not much, but it’ll help you on your way.”

“But... I don’t... That’s yours,” Hiro protested.

The peasant interrupted him with a shake of his head. “I’d pay you in coin if I had it, but we’re a poor lot. I’m afraid this is all we can spare.”

If they were that poor, food would be just as valuable as money. Even a single blanket would be hard to give up, all the more so after having been attacked by bandits. Yet the peasant man insisted, smiling all the while.

“Food’s no good to the dead. It’s only thanks to you that we’re still alive to eat. I’ve got to thank you somehow.”

The man’s eyes made it clear that he would not be dissuaded.

Hiro gave a sigh of surrender. “All right. I’ll take it, erm...” He searched for the man’s name and realized he didn’t know it.

The man seemed to guess from his expression. “Kukuri. I’m the mayor of this village.”

“I’m Hiro. I won’t forget this, Kukuri.”

“Seems to me I should be the one saying that to you.” Kukuri gave a self-effacing smile.

Hiro bowed deep to the man. He turned back to his swiftdrake, sending his overcoat billowing. It was time to bring this war to a swift and sure end, he decided. Otherwise, more villages like this one would suffer.

Just as he made to leave the village, a shout rose from behind him.

“You’ve all our thanks, friend! Next time you come around, we’ll have a feast in your honor!”

Hiro turned to see Kukuri and the rest of the villagers waving. Smiling to himself, he pulled on the reins. The swiftdrake loosed a proud roar that echoed to the heavens.

Hiro’s destination was a fort twenty-seven sel away. With a swiftdrake to carry him, the journey took less than an hour. The sharp chill of the desert night had just begun to set in when he arrived.

He could tell that the fort had once been a proud edifice, but only a shadow of its glory now remained. The Fourth Legion had burned it to the ground when they had captured it, leaving only a forlorn ruin. Still, it made an ideal place to hide—and an ideal place to converse without being overheard.

“I’ve been awaiting you, Your Highness.”

A soldier melted silently out of the darkness. He was one of Kiork’s men, the commander of the platoon Hiro had written to the margrave to send ahead.

“Is everything in place?” Hiro asked.

“It is, Your Highness. All is as you commanded. Come.”

The man set off. Hiro fell in behind him.

“Where are the rest?” Hiro asked.

“Lying low inside the fort, Your Highness.”

The commander stopped by a gatehouse and opened the door. He gestured for Hiro to follow him. Inside were fifty armored men. They stood as one and bowed as Hiro entered.

Hiro raised a hand. “At ease.” He approached the central table. “Where is the Fourth Legion currently?”

“We won’t know for certain until our scouts return, but our best guess puts them around here.” The commander pointed at the map laid out on the table. “That’s one day’s ride from here, Your Highness, half a day by swiftdrake.”

“And the rebel army?”

“Here, as of four days ago.” The man indicated a point thirty-two sel distant from the fort.

“And where is the ducal army in all this?”

“They haven’t moved from the capital, Your Highness. They’ve been calling soldiers from across the land, but it seems they’re preparing for a siege. More nobles’ flags fly over the battlements with every passing day.”

“Flags?”

“Yes, Your Highness. Is that odd?”

“A little.” Hiro picked up a pawn and placed it on the map. “This...Fort Arzabah, near Azbakal. Can you tell me anything about it?”

The soldiers’ gazes converged on the pawn.

“Nothing definite, Your Highness. I believe it has a garrison of two thousand. It’s in a strong strategic position with a good view of all sides, so our forces haven’t been able to crack it.”

Hiro stared silently at the map, imagining himself as the enemy general. One by one, he hatched plans in his head and watched them play out.

I could lure the imperials into a killing field and cut off their supply lines, but they’d turn unpredictable in their desperation. I’d need to either chase them into a fort and starve them or split them up and pick off the remnants one by one. But those would both take longer than I have.

The lack of time was key. That would severely limit the duchy’s options.

I’m short on time and short on men. Other nations are eyeing me up. I need to drive the empire back quickly and decisively enough to make my neighbors think twice. And the only way to do that with the numbers I have...is to lure the empire into fighting the rebel army, then crush the victor while they’re still in disarray.

So where would they want the battle to happen? What kind of location would they look for?

It has to be Fort Arzabah. It’s the only place that’s close enough to the battlefield to have a good view, but close enough to the capital to retreat if necessary. The flags on the walls are a distraction, nothing more.

With his thoughts crystallized, Hiro looked up.

“Who are the duchy’s most notable generals?” he asked.

“Almost all of them died in battle with the rebel army,” the commander said.

“Then who do they have left?”

“Only one, Your Highness. A man named Rankeel Caligula Gilbrist.”

“How experienced is he?”

“He first made a name for himself two years ago, Your Highness. When the Republic of Steissen marched on Lichtein with thirty thousand men, he drove them back with fewer than three thousand. They took to calling him the Rising Hawk, on account of the way he evened the odds.”

“And the duke sent him from the capital out of fear of his ability?”

“Precisely, Your Highness. It seems he spoke a little too much truth to power. The duke named him commander of the border watch and sent him to guard the nation against Steissen. A task equal to his talents, even if it was only intended to keep him away from the capital.”

So the army and the people love him, but the nobles hate him.

That presented an exploitable opening—one that could potentially crack the ducal army apart. Hiro reached for a nearby sheet of parchment and bottle of ink and began to write.

“This details my future plans.”

He handed the parchment to the commander. The man read it through and looked back at Hiro.

“Do you mean to continue on to the Fourth Legion, Your Highness?”

If Hiro started riding right then and there by swiftdrake, he could reach Liz by noon of the next day. All of these men’s instructions were contained on the parchment. He did not need to be here to see them carried out.

“Yes, immediately. Do you have any concerns?”

“None, Your Highness. We’ll see your orders done.”

“Excellent. I’ll leave them in your capable hands.”

“Of course, Your Highness. Please give our regards to Lady Celia Estrella.”

Hiro left under the gaze of the soldiers. The night was bitterly chill, but clad in the Black Camellia, he did not seem to feel the cold.