Shinwa Densetsu no Eiyuu no Isekaitan - Volume 2 - Chapter 4

Chapter 4: One-Eyed Dragon

Beneath the gaze of a scorching sun, the Fourth Legion clashed with the six thousand soldiers of the Liberation Army. The rebels had fallen into a spearhead formation, with the first cohort—the vanguard—and the second composed of freedmen. The core and the rearguard were made up of camel riders, the latter mostly sellswords. As the name implied, the army resembled the tip of a spear.

In response, the Fourth Legion had taken up a dragon-wing formation. The first cohort—two thousand and five hundred soldiers—formed a defensive bloc in the center, with a core of one thousand behind. Wings of two thousand soldiers spread to each flank; these would play the vital role of encircling the enemy. To either side of the core were the third and fourth cohorts, each with five hundred men apiece. The remaining one thousand and five hundred men waited at the rear in reserve.

“Loose arrows!” cried Kigui Makarl von Zraki, General von Kilo’s vice-commander and the commander of the first cohort. “These slaves must be starving. Let them feast on wood and steel!”

He raised a hand and signaled to the standard-bearers. One large standard thrust into the sky. A volley of arrows rose from the first cohort to rain down on the enemy. Rebel soldiers fell to the sand in droves, but their charge kept its momentum. Soon the front line was ringing with the clashing of swords. With their scavenged gear, the freedmen made poor opponents for the Fourth Legion’s well-forged steel, but they pushed the imperials back through sheer force of will.

“They’re only slaves, you wretches! Show some spine!” Kigui watched, incredulous, as the center bowed under the rebel assault. If nothing was done, the rebels would open a path for their cavalry to slam home. “Stop them, whatever it takes!” he cried, but his voice failed to reach the front lines. The camel riders were already pouring into the breach, crushing armored soldiers beneath their mounts’ hooves. The freedmen’s battle cries drew steadily closer.

Kigui reached into the pocket of his uniform and withdrew a bundle of spirit seals. He drove his heels into his horse’s flanks. “It seems I must do this myself!”

As he surged toward the fray, a camel appeared before him, bearing on its back an enormous man with lilac skin—a zlosta.

“You must be the one Her Highness spoke of!” Kigui shouted.

In that moment, Kigui should have fled—should have fallen back—but the spirit seals in his hand instilled him with a fatal confidence. He drew a red strip of paper from the bunch and hurled it, conjuring a blazing fireball.

“What parlor trick is this?” Garda snorted as he reached out and crushed the flames in his fist.

Dismay spread across Kigui’s face as he threw the rest of his stock. Icicles fell, a gale howled, lightning crashed from the heavens—but Garda stopped them all with his bare hands.

“Is that all?” the zlosta scoffed.

“Impossible...” Kigui spluttered. “What kind of monster are you?!”

Garda grinned as he closed the last few rue between them. “A fiendkin.”

Those were the last words that Kigui ever heard. Garda’s greatsword sliced through the air in a horizontal sweep. Kigui’s head sailed high, trailing blood from its severed stump. His body toppled from his horse.

Garda did not even cast a glance back at the corpse. “Break through the center!” he cried. “Take the commander’s head!”

The zlosta turned his gaze forward to find a host of Grantzian cavalry barring his way. They fell on him from all sides, their faces twisted with fury. Bebensleif danced light as a feather in his hand. A slash to his right, a thrust to his fore, a turn to his left swinging clear into a vertical slice. Five soldiers died in an instant. The cavalry reeled with shock, but their pride as the empire’s finest kept them from retreat. Garda’s camel riders surged from behind to crash into them, eager to support their leader.

“With me!” Garda cried. “To victory!” He prepared to plunge into the Fourth Legion’s forces. At that moment, a streak of crimson fire blasted into him from the side.

“Back again, little lady?” he roared. “I won’t go so easy on you this time!”

“Nor I you!” Liz shouted back. She leaped from her horse, tracing a high arc through the sky.

“You’ve courage, girl! Lucky for you, I’m not one for killing children! Turn tail now and I’ll let you go!”

Liz unleashed a barrage of slashes as she passed overhead. Garda hefted his greatsword to knock them aside. Sparks sprayed between them, fizzling out before they hit the ground.

The zlosta spun and launched himself from the back of his camel, barreling toward Liz as she touched down. He swung his enormous blade in a reaping slice. Liz caught the sword with her own—barely—but the force of the blow knocked her back, separating them once more.

“It’s not too late to run,” Garda called across the distance. “I won’t chase you. Surely you have better things to do than die here.”

Liz flashed a defiant grin. “I’m not planning on dying.”

Garda’s eyes widened at her composure. He sensed no fear or panic from her, only the dutiful resolve that smoldered in her crimson eyes.

“Know your limits, girl. You must realize I’m the stronger of us.”

“If I back down here, I’ll only end up doing the same thing when I run into the next wall, and the next after that. I won’t let myself get used to running away.” Liz brushed her crimson hair back behind her shoulders. She raised Lævateinn, ready to fight.

“That so, eh? I wondered why a Spiritblade chose someone so young, but I’m starting to see why.”

Despite her years, she was pure and noble of heart, and she refused to flinch at obstacles in her path. For her flame to be snuffed out here would be a tragic loss. Yet Garda had his own reasons for why he could not retreat.

“Then let’s finish this,” he growled.

“Yes, let’s. It’s about time I wiped that smirk off your face!”

Liz dug her toes into the sand and kicked up high. A cloud of granules blew into Garda’s eyes. Seeing her chance, she swung with a mighty blow, aiming to sever the zlosta’s head.

“You can have your tricks, girl—but I’ll teach you not to break your stance!”

Garda ducked beneath the blade with an agility that belied his bulk. As surprise came over Liz’s face, he slammed his palm into the ground and unleashed a surge of mana. The sand tangled around her leg, thwarting her balance and sending her sprawling. She tried to rise, but her trapped foot kept her locked in place. A shadow fell over her. She looked up to see Garda lifting his greatsword high.

“I’m not done yet!”

Liz drove her fist into the ground, blasting a plume of sand into the air. Garda’s greatsword missed its mark as surprise sent his aim astray. Now freed, Liz leaped high over the zlosta’s head to land in his blind spot.

“Yaaah!” She lunged forward with Lævateinn, Garda’s unprotected back before her.

“You ought to have learned the first time!” Sensing her intent, Garda swung around to meet her. Their swords clashed, setting the air ringing with a metallic keening.

“This is the end for you!” Liz cried. Lævateinn matched her resolve, unleashing a blast of flame.

Garda scowled. He tried to jump back, but Liz pressed the advantage, mixing feints with her attacks as she closed the distance. She used her fists when it suited her, moved to sweep his legs when he dodged her punches, planted her feet and stepped in when her sweep failed. The honed efficiency of her motions prompted an admiring grin from the zlosta’s lips.

“Impressive. I barely recognize you!”

Spiritblades conceded their power in accordance with the strength of their master’s will, and uncommonly fervent convictions could push them to even greater heights. The crucial question was how strongly the wielder’s desires resonated with their weapon.

In other words, Liz had awakened to her destiny. Though she was still struggling to break through her unremarkable shell, she had taken her first step on the path before her—on the road to becoming a legend.

“Such progress in so short a time,” Garda breathed. “How easily you humans defy our expectations. This is why you make such troublesome foes.”

He, however, had his own cause to fight for. His own reason to seek victory at any cost.

“But I’ll not fall here—or what would become of Mille?”

Mana surged from within the zlosta’s body. The manastone on his forehead flared with a fierce light.

“What are you—?!” Liz froze. Her determined expression slid away, replaced by apprehension. Garda’s body had swollen to twice its original size.

“My turn. I’ll need to make this quick if the Liberation Army is to stand a chance.”

Garda swung his greatsword down with all his might. Liz scrambled out of the way at the last second. The blade came down on the spot she had been standing not a moment before, leaving an enormous crater.

“Let me show you why all of Soleil once feared us!”

Garda whirled Bebensleif in a frenzy of blows. Liz tried to seize the initiative, but the greatsword’s terrible weight beat her back. Slowly, the tide turned. Bebensleif’s wake alone sliced her cheek open, and only her Spiritblade’s blessing saved her from worse—without that, it would have torn her face to shreds. Blood sprayed from the soldiers around her as the razor wind ravaged their bodies.

“I’m the one you want, not them!” Liz yelled, charging forward with wild abandon.

She thrust with Lævateinn—but in vain. Garda reached out and seized the crimson blade in one mighty fist.

“You’ll need more than that to stop me,” the zlosta grunted.

“Happy to oblige!”

Liz’s fist crashed into Garda’s cheek. A dull thud shook the air, as though she had struck a block of iron, but the enormous man only grinned as he looked down on her.

“It’s no use, little lady. Can’t you feel your power ebbing?”

Confusion flashed through Liz’s eyes. In the throes of her battle high, she hadn’t realized it, but it was true. She was flushed with the spirits’ power, too much so, and she had been expending it in vast quantities to compensate for her own shortcomings. She had been fighting with an open tap. Now her lack of discipline had added to her exhaustion, while her power had left her body sorely used.

“A shame. If you’d wielded it better, I might have been the one to fall here.”

Garda’s eyes were cold as he launched his attack. Liz fought back as best she could, but it wasn’t enough. She collapsed to her knees, sweat pouring from her body.

“At least I can grant you a quick death,” the zlosta said.

Bebensleif fell. Liz weakly raised Lævateinn to block it, but the impact sent the crimson blade spinning away.

“I’m...not...done!” she grunted, struggling to rise, but her legs betrayed her. She toppled face-first into the sand.

Garda strode up to her, raising his greatsword to deal the final blow. “I’m not one for killing women or children, but all’s fair in war.”

With what almost sounded like an apology, he made to swing the blade down—only to find that he could not.

“What...?”

A searing chill assailed him from behind. He spun around in alarm—and saw darkness there, billowing, deep enough to drain the light from the world, though the sun was high. As he watched, it drank in light from all around, deepening to an even blacker and more malignant shade. A soft light glimmered in the heart of the storm. Something emerged, sand crunching beneath its feet.

Garda instinctively raised his blade. Cold sweat dripped from his forehead.

“Who in the world are you?”

Out from the darkness came a boy, his soft features squarely at odds with the unsightly eyepatch covering his face. He smiled a nightmarish smile as he approached. He did not answer Garda’s question.

“I’ll need you to step away from Liz.”

Garda barely had time to register the boy’s voice before a tremendous impact blasted through his abdomen.

＊

As the zlosta went flying, Hiro turned his attention to Liz. He ran to her side. “Are you all right?”

“Hiro...” she responded weakly. With the power of the spirits running wild inside her body, her breathing was pained and shallow.

Hiro’s gaze softened as he looked down at her. He wrapped an arm behind her head and sat her upright.

“Just relax. Breathe deep. Think happy thoughts. Can you do that for me?”

She was not yet ready to rise to such heights. Even Artheus, a prodigy of his age, had taken two years before he could withstand their toll. Hiro’s gaze fell on the crimson sword lying at her side. Just what was Lævateinn thinking?

“Hiro... I...”

“Ssh. Don’t say it. Keep it tucked away safe.”

If what she was about to say was giving her strength, he didn’t want to hear it. Better for her to keep it locked away in her heart where it could fuel her Spiritblade’s flames.

Hiro drew a deep breath and laid her on the ground. “I’ll take it from here,” he said. “Don’t worry. I won’t be long.”

With that, he stood up and turned away.

“What are you?” The zlosta had risen to his feet at last. Now he was approaching.

Hiro’s smile deepened into a ghastly grin. “You’re still standing. Not bad...but how about this?”

His black mantle fluttered as he spun, swinging his silver sword with all his might.

“Did you not hear me, boy?!”

For all its strength, the attack was slow. The zlosta batted it aside with ease.

“Yah!” Hiro followed up. The razor edge of his sword carved a precise arc toward the zlosta’s vitals. His foe dodged at the last second, but the sword tip still grazed the man’s lilac skin, sending blood splattering across the sands.

The zlosta tried to strike back, but Hiro angled his body sideways and leaned out of the way. The greatsword crashed down inches from Hiro’s nose. As the zlosta’s eyes widened, Hiro stepped in to unleash a flurry of his own.

“Hah!”

“Ngh?!”

The irregular rhythm of Hiro’s strikes kept the larger man off-balance, but keeping up was the zlosta’s only choice. A single misstep would see his head roll. As he struggled to fend off the silver blade, an explosive kick smashed into his side. He tottered but did not fall. A trickle of blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. He wiped it away as he glared at Hiro.

“Even now, at the eleventh hour, more men appear to oppose me.” The zlosta swept his sweat-slicked hair back from his forehead, revealing the small violet crystal embedded in his brow. “Truly, I was not born lucky.”

Hiro’s stance was so slovenly, anybody would have thought he was distracted, but the zlosta knew better. He sensed the fearsome presence radiating from that scrawny body—an aura of raw might that spoke of experience on countless battlefields tempered by years of devoted study. To find it in a child so young was nothing short of astonishing.

The man broke into roaring laughter. “Gah ha ha ha! A natural-born warrior, that’s what you are!”

Finding such ferocity in a boy so many years his junior, he could not help but smile. He threw his weight behind his greatsword, heaving it in a mighty uppercut like it weighed no more than a twig. It churned up sand in its wake as it sped toward his foe.

Hiro raised the tip of his gleaming sword an inch or two, but that was his only answer.

Blades clashed. The greatsword skittered along the upturned edge of its silver counterpart, showering them in sparks.

“You’ve some skill, boy!” the zlosta laughed. The parry threatened to open up his guard, but he converted the momentum of his deflected swing into a thrust with the heel of his palm. He aimed for Hiro’s eyepatch, where the boy could not see him coming, but—

“Nice try, but that’s my better eye.”

Hiro twisted to avoid the blow. The effort left him open, and most warriors would have tried to press the advantage, but the zlosta knew better. He recognized the bait.

“Then I’ll blind you in both!”

Instead, he kicked up a cloud of sand with the toe of his boot. Yellow grit obscured Hiro’s vision. The zlosta took the chance to launch himself backward. As he landed a safe distance away, he sensed something amiss and glanced down at his right arm. Blood dripped from a neat cut across his skin.

“I was right to retreat, it seems...”

He raised his head to see Hiro dispel the dust cloud with a dismissive slash. A bead of sweat trickled down his cheek from his brow. He wiped it away on his shoulder. When he looked back ahead, he was grinning.

“I’m impressed, enemy or not. How a boy so young achieved such mastery of the warrior’s art, I do not know. But admiration will do me no good. I must find a way to turn the tide.”

Their eyes burned into one another, trying to see one, two steps ahead. Whoever predicted his foe’s next move would be the victor. To move too hastily would mean death. They faced each other down in a mental tug-of-war, battling to seize the initiative.

The zlosta laughed. “How I’ve missed this! The thrill of life and death hanging in the balance! There is no higher joy. My heart sings with delight!” A shiver played over his skin as he trembled with excitement. “Come, One-Eyed Dragon! A fight to the death, winner takes all! You can’t say fairer than that! My name is Garda Meteor, and I challenge you!”

His dry lips split into a full-faced grin. He spun, driving the tip of his greatsword—as long as he was tall—into the sand.

Hiro glanced at the blade, then gave a dismissive shrug. “You zlosta and your obsession with killing,” he said. “Unlike you, I’m not a brute.”

As he spoke, his mouth widened into a savage smile, putting the lie to his words. The expression made an unsettling fit for his youthful face. Liz’s forehead furrowed with concern. Hiro glanced at her, then reined in his fury just a little.

“But I’m afraid I’m in a bad mood right now,” he continued. “So I’m not going to let you off easy.”

Nothingness flowed through him. Shedding every last vestige of his emotions, he gave himself to the abyss. He raised his silver sword before his chest and leveled it at his foe.

The world was still for a moment, then a shower of sparks exploded between them. The clashing of metal echoed across the battlefield. With neither combatant desiring a protracted struggle, every strike was meant to kill. Still, their difference in skill gradually made itself known. Unable to match Hiro’s speed, Garda fell further and further behind, until he sensed the battle slipping too far out of his control and sprang away.

“What is that weapon you wield?” he asked. “You hide its power well, but not well enough. It blazes like a beacon to me. Yet no song or tale tells of any such sword. At least, none that I know.” The zlosta skewered Hiro with a searching gaze. His muscular body swelled with mana. “I ask you again, One-Eyed Dragon. Just what is that blade of yours?”

“Bebensleif’s Graal is Force. Lævateinn’s is Might. Each of the Five Noble Blades has its own Graal, a unique expression of itself. No two are alike. That should be your answer.” Hiro’s face took on a sly cast. “But I could make it clearer, if you’d like.”

He took a shallow breath, brandished Excalibur high—and launched into motion.

“What—?”

Garda only had a moment to register his surprise before a streak of sublime light bore down on him. Liegegrazalt was its name—a blistering assault accelerated to supersonic speeds. The Heavenly Sovereign’s Godspeed left the realm of sound behind.

Garda thrust Bebensleif forward to guard against the flurry, but his right arm buckled, spraying blood. Before he could even grimace in pain, another streak of light was upon him. That, he could not block or evade. Blood sprayed across his enormous frame.

“Gaaah!”

The zlosta tried to fight back, but he could not even see his enemy. He could only swing blindly, chasing the blur of Hiro’s ghost. The streaks of light multiplied, mocking his efforts. Countless lacerations scored his skin.

“Behind you.”

Hiro solidified into being behind Garda’s back to plant a brutal kick in his ribs. For a moment, Garda threatened to topple, but then he flared with mana, bracing his legs with sand to weather the impact. Gritting his teeth, he spun around with all his might, sweeping Bebensleif around to clear the clotted air. Hiro leaped high before the blade could draw close.

“I’ve got you now!” Garda growled. “In midair, you’re a sitting duck!” His trap sprung, the zlosta thrust his greatsword directly at Hiro.

“Guess again.” Hiro summoned a spirit weapon beneath his feet. Using the impromptu foothold to correct his trajectory, he brought Excalibur down with vicious force.

“Bah!” Garda spat as he was forced back onto the defensive. Like that, he was once more fending off Hiro’s ever-changing assault. He blocked the boy’s blade only to see a fist bearing down on him; he dodged the punch only for a kick to slam into his belly; he stopped the kick only to find that silver blade coming for his throat.

“Stay still, curse you!”

Snarling in anger, he swung desperately, but his swings only found thin air. In the sweltering heat, his wild motions sapped his strength. Before long, he fell to his knees in exhaustion, his chest heaving. Sweat gushed from his forehead. Blood trickled from his countless wounds.

Hiro looked down at his foe and lowered his sword. “Have you had enough yet?”

“Don’t mock me. I’m far from done!”

Hiro sighed. “That’s a shame. I’d hoped for a peaceful surrender.”

He wiped away his sweat with the back of his hand, catching his breath, and looked around. Battle cries rose into the air as the imperial soldiers slaughtered the enemy. They pulled riders from their camels, mobbed the men as they struggled to rise, and hacked them to death. The rebel army’s initial momentum had long petered out.

“Stand firm, men!” someone shouted. “Mars watches over us!”

The imperials, clad in their heavy armor, were no ordinary warriors—they were the Grantzian Empire’s Fourth Legion, protectors of the south. Although the zlosta had slain their commander, Kigui, they were experienced enough not to descend into panic. If anything, they fell on the rebel army with renewed fury. The wings closed around from the sides, making the enclosure complete. Shouts and cries drifted on the wind from the enemy lines, accompanied by the stench of blood and death.

Hiro turned away from the hellish spectacle and back to Garda. “Besides,” he said, “you can hardly use your Fellblade.”

He had fought a wielder of Bebensleif before. On that occasion he had not been able to pick them apart so easily. A mighty warrior in their own right, their skillful use of the Fellblade’s Force had restricted his agility and forced him onto the back foot. Even with Excalibur’s blessing lending him strength, this should not have been such an easy fight—Garda’s Fellblade should have been granting the zlosta the same boon. Hiro had a theory about that, however.

“I don’t know what your sword saw in you,” he said, “but whatever it is, you’re losing it. Although I’m sure you know that even better than I do.”

Garda grinned sheepishly. “I’ll admit it. It’s all but given up on me, and yes, I know why. But still, I choose to fight. I must.”

“You’ll never be able to beat me without it.”

This was not the world of a thousand years ago. In this age, the spirits ruled Soleil. Though they stayed away from Lichtein, the atmospheric mana here would still be extremely thin. Garda’s manastone would do him no good with its true power inaccessible. With his Fellblade abandoning him on top of that, he had no hope of defeating Hiro.

“Surrender. Please. I’ll make sure you’re treated well.”

That was a lie—there was every chance that circumstance would force Hiro to make cruel use of Garda and the rest of the rebels—but he could not say that. It would only encourage them to fight harder.

Whether or not Garda had seen through Hiro’s charade, the zlosta answered with a defiant snort. “Make us. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble, seeing how easily you bested me.”

Hiro had a contingency plan for this eventuality, one that involved breaking Garda’s will to fight. First, he had to rattle the man.

“You know,” he said, “you spend an awful lot of time looking over your shoulder.” The zlosta kept his face impassive, but Hiro didn’t miss the way he flinched. “There’s someone important to you back there, isn’t there?”

Several times throughout their battle, Garda had seemed distracted. Even now, though he was in mortal danger, his attention was still divided between Hiro and something behind his back.

“You wouldn’t dare.” The zlosta glared up at Hiro with undisguised fury. It was as good as an admission.

Hiro considered for a moment. “Liz!” he called. “Can you stand?”

“I... Yes. I’m all right. Better than I was, anyway.”

“I need you to go into the heart of their army. Fetch the girl they call their leader.”

The zlosta reacted just as Hiro expected. “Over my dead body!” he bellowed. As his fury swelled, the very air around him began to warp. Hiro sensed an outpouring of a tremendous amount of mana. A stinging heat scorched his skin.

This, he hadn’t quite expected. It was rare for a zlosta to care at all for any member of another race, let alone to this degree. Typically, they considered anything other than pureblood zlosta to be inferior species. At the very least, they had made no secret of their prejudices a thousand years ago; they had regarded the other peoples with contempt, of value only as slaves. The zlosta were superior beings, they believed, their primacy beyond question. It was that very arrogance that had cost them the war against the Fourfold Alliance. Garda might simply be an anomaly, but in any case, if this girl really did mean something to him, they would have to move quickly.

“Go, Liz. I can handle this.”

The rebel army was surrounded. Before long, the girl would fall victim to the fighting. If she really was Garda’s raison d’etre, her death would mean the end of any chance for his surrender. The Fourth Legion and the rebels would continue to fight until one of them wiped the other out. From a strategic perspective, that would be a disaster. Word of the battle had surely already reached the ducal army. If the Lichtein forces flanked them now, even the Fourth Legion would not last.

Besides, I can’t afford to suffer major losses. Not if I’m going to make a good account of myself.

He needed a victory that would give the central nobles no grounds for complaint. The best way to do that was to force the rebels to surrender, then repel the ducal army.

“I’m counting on you, Liz.”

“Consider it done.” Liz vaulted back into the saddle and turned her mount toward the remnants of the rebel army.

“I think not!” Garda made to follow her, but Hiro moved between them, with Excalibur leveled at the zlosta’s chest.

“No, I think not. This is over.”

They had discovered where Garda’s heart lay, and Hiro trusted that Liz would recover the girl. The zlosta had as good as lost.

The giant man snorted. “If you want to keep me here, you’ll have to cut off my feet.” He lunged for Hiro.

Hiro slipped inside the zlosta’s guard. “Sorry, but you need to take a nap for a while.”

He drove his fist directly into Garda’s face from point-blank range. As the man’s head snapped back, Hiro grabbed it, drove a knee into Garda’s stomach, then spun and smashed his heel into the side of the man’s skull. His foe grunted in pain, rocking on his feet. Hiro grasped the zlosta by the face and flung him flat, sending up a cloud of sand. He raised his leg high, blowing the sand away in the process, and brought his foot down hard on Garda’s solar plexus, driving the zlosta’s body down into the sand. At last, his foe was out cold.

Hiro turned to the nearby soldiers. “Tie him up tight. I don’t want him running away.”

He replaced his grip on Excalibur’s hilt and took off toward the rebel troops still putting up a fight.

“Eaaagh!”

“He’s coming! He’s coming for us!”

Garda’s defeat sent a wave of dismay through his army. Some of the rebels tried to break and flee, but they were surrounded. There was no hope of escape.

“It’s no use running, you lackwits!” a cry went up. “We’ve got to help the boss!”

If escape wasn’t an option, they would have to fight—but they had no chance against an enemy they could not even see. Hiro cut them down in the blink of an eye. Every swish of his sword drew forth a new scream and a new spray of gore. Blood began to pool in the desert sands. Cheers went up from the imperial lines as their enemy wilted. The bodies were piled high when the front lines of the second cohort bellowed a victory cry. The rebels’ resistance flagged, and despair spread through their ranks.

“Now it’s all up to Liz.”

By then, the battle was over, but a few pockets of resistance still held out. Hiro would need Garda and the girl to convince the most determined rebels to yield.

He threaded his way back through the rebel lines, past men who were already laying down their weapons, and returned to where he had left Garda. A huddle of imperial soldiers surrounded the zlosta, obscuring him from view. There were too many to simply be guarding him. Hiro pushed his way through the group and into the clearing at the center.

“This is our world, fiendkin! And when you defy us...this is what you get!”

A noble’s offspring clad in expensive armor was raining kicks down on Garda, with other soldiers joining in the violence.

“If not for Zertheus’s mercy, Mars would have ended your line a thousand years ago! You forget your debts, you ungrateful cur!”

Hiro understood the men’s frustrations. They had just seen their comrades slaughtered before their eyes. It was only natural for emotions to be running high. If they had been a little more discreet about it, he would have let them be. What he could not overlook, however, were subordinates willing to publicly undermine the interests of the army for the sake of venting their anger.

“I would suggest you leave it there.” Hiro’s tone made it clear that he would not take no for an answer. Affronted stares converged on him from all sides.

“Oh, you would, would you?” the noble sneered. “And who do you think you’re talking to?”

“You and your lackeys.”

“Do you know who I am, boy?”

“Please, enlighten me. I’m sure your career must be illustrious.”

“You have the honor of addressing Daniele von Edouard, commander of the Twenty-Sixth Battalion.”

The good Sir Edouard must have been stationed toward the rear of the first cohort. If he had witnessed Hiro fight, he would not have put on such airs. Indeed, the soldiers who had seen Hiro’s charge were slowly shrinking away. Sir Edouard must have decided to show his face after hearing about the captured zlosta. Not only had he acted outside of orders, he had done so to enable mistreatment of a prisoner. That constituted a clear violation of military regulations—one Hiro could not ignore.

“I’ll give you a choice, boy,” Sir Edouard sneered. “Be my cupbearer or be a corpse.”

A battalion commander would make for an ideal example to impress upon the men the rule of law. Meanwhile, in the battles to come, this man’s life would be worth less than Garda’s. Hiro’s mind settled on the conclusion that his future plans had no need for Daniele von Edouard.

“I won’t give you a choice at all,” Hiro said. “You won’t be hard to replace.”

The man narrowed his eyes, perplexed. “What?”

“Didn’t you hear? I said your life is worthless to me.”

“You little—”

Sir Edouard made to grab Hiro, but his head sailed free from his shoulders, trailing a ribbon of blood through the air. It hit the ground with a red splash, its features still contorted in rage.

“Well, that’s not quite true. Your death was quite educational.”

As the soldiers watched in stunned silence, Hiro crouched beside Garda.

“Are you all right?”

“I’ve woken to worse,” the zlosta grunted.

“I don’t want you dying on me. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure no one else gets any bright ideas.”

“I’ll take a hundred of these milksops over whatever you are.”

Hiro chuckled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He stood up and looked around. By then, the soldiers had recovered their wits. Their hands were drifting to their hilts. Some looked on the verge of drawing steel.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Hiro warned. “That’s punishable by death.”

His swiftdrake stalked through the group to his side, glaring at the soldiers as it passed. He removed the long pole hanging from the beast’s flank and drove it into the ground. The wind seized the fabric wrapped around the tip and flung it wide. There, beneath the bright blue sky, fluttered the heraldry of a man who had once been myth—a sight now spoken of only in legends and seen only in picture books, so holy was it to the people of the Grantzian Empire. A dragon on a black field, clutching a silver sword: the sacred standard of Mars, the second emperor and the War God of the Twelve Divines. The sazul.

The soldiers were struck dumb. Their eyes moved between Hiro and the flag, the flag and Hiro, as though they were looking at some kind of legendary beast. Nobody spoke. They could only stand with mouths agape.

In the end, it was Garda who broke the silence with a bellowing laugh. “I see now. I see it all!” The zlosta roared his fury to the sky as Hiro looked on. “This is why you spared my life?! This is what you wanted?! You used me!”

As the last syllable left Garda’s mouth, the zlosta’s Fellblade began to glow. Slowly but surely, the weapon dissolved into thin air. A flicker of loss crossed his face, but only for a moment. Soon, his regret faded into an exhausted acceptance.

“Faithful to the end, eh?” he muttered.

Hiro could tell from Garda’s face that the Fellblade had abandoned him at last.

“Now you’re just like any other zlosta,” he said. “Although if your manastone is anything to go by, you can still take care of yourself.”

“Well? Have you humbled me enough yet?”

“I’m not gloating, if that’s what you’re asking. Your sword’s choices make no difference to me.”

With or without his Fellblade, Garda would play the same role in Hiro’s plans.

Hiro cast a glance over the soldiers. They were staring at him goggle-eyed, unsure of what to do. He idly wondered how long they meant to stay like that.

With a sigh, he addressed them. “I am Hiro Schwartz von Grantz of the line of the second emperor. As of several days ago, I am also fourth prince of the empire.” His voice was not loud, but it carried, even above the din of battle. “As a member of the royal family, I have a duty to enforce the rule of law. Good Sir Edouard engaged in the gross mistreatment of a prisoner. I have punished him accordingly. If anybody here objects to his sentence, you may step forward now.”

Neither was his voice especially sweet, but it held within it a power to command.

“Nobody? Good. Now, restrain those two, if you would.”

Hiro indicated the men who had been Sir Edouard’s partners in crime. Shock and dismay spread across their faces. They backed away, but the rest of the soldiers quickly detained them.

“Get your hands off me!”

“What have I done so wrong?! That fiendkin cut down my friends! Yours too!”

After executing Sir Edouard, Hiro could not afford to let these men off the hook. If his command was seen as inconsistent, it would harm morale and breed resentment in the ranks. It would be necessary to assign them a suitable punishment.

“Take them to the rear,” he commanded. “The rest of you, spread word through the army that mistreatment of enemy captives will not be tolerated.”

The soldiers sprang into action with lightning speed. As they scrambled to their duties, Hiro returned his gaze to Garda.

“Your girl should be here soon,” he said.

“If you’ve harmed a single hair on her head, I’ll take yours off.”

“She means a lot to you. Can I ask why?”

Garda hesitated for a moment but decided there was no use playing coy. “It’s not so easy for a zlosta to lead a human rebellion. She made a better leader. One they could trust. Played the part happily for me too, though she did all the work and I reaped all the benefits. I meant to see her back to her hometown when this was all over. It was the least I could do, I thought. And now I can’t even do that.”

“Then I think I have a proposal for you.”

“And what might that be?”

“If you swear to serve me, I’ll make certain that she gets home safely.”

Garda’s forehead creased with suspicion.

“It’s not a bad deal, if you ask me,” Hiro continued. “If you’re thinking about escaping with her, give it up. You don’t stand a chance without your Fellblade. Although you don’t seem like the type for pointless heroics anyway.”

“And why should I take you at your word? Who’s to say you’ll hold up your end of the bargain?”

“I’ll swear it on the Spirit King’s name.” Hiro glanced south as he spoke. A horse was approaching with Liz on its back.

The sixth princess tugged on the reins, bringing her mount to a stop before them. “I’ve got her,” she said. A young girl sat in front of her on the saddle, swathed in a black cloak.

“Good work,” Hiro said. “What’s her name?”

The girl spoke for herself. “Mille, commander of the Liberation Army.”

Hiro peered under her hood to get a better look at her face. He was immediately struck by a familiarity he couldn’t quite place.

“Uncle Garda!”

As Hiro tried to remember where he might have seen her before, Mille leaped from the horse and flung her arms around the zlosta.

“Forgive me,” Garda said. “I could not do as I promised.”

Mille shook her head. “I’m just glad you’re all right...”

“Nobody hurt you, did they?”

“No. The nice lady made sure they didn’t touch me.”

“Good.”

As the two took comfort in their reunion, Hiro turned to Liz. “Before we go any further, how are things on the front line?”

“By the time I made it there, only Mille and her guards were left.”

“That was all?”

“That was all.” Liz nodded. “The rest ran as soon as the fighting broke out, or so I heard. Apparently, the same thing happened to the rear guard. Half of the soldiers deserted, and the ones who were left couldn’t put up much of a fight.”

“Do you know where these deserters went?”

“East, I think.”

“Interesting.”

Hiro turned his gaze to the east. There, where the rear guard had fled, lay Fort Arzabah. A gentle incline blocked him from seeing any farther. He turned back to Garda.

“Tell me, did you use sellswords for your rear guard?”

The zlosta nodded. “Mostly. And a handful of freedmen.”

That clinched it. The ducal army must have bought out the rear guard. When and how they had managed it were questions for another day. The problem now was what to do about it.

“Liz, you command two thousand, don’t you? I’m guessing you left Tris in charge?”

“That’s right.”

Hiro gestured to two nearby cavalrymen. The men snapped to attention.

“Yes, Your Highness!”

“I know you’re not messengers, but you’re all I’ve got. You, ride to the left flank and find Sir Tarmier. Instruct him to deploy his forces east. Tell him it’s on the orders of Lady Celia Estrella.”

“At once, Your Highness!” The first man rode off as fast as his steed could carry him.

“And you, ride to the core of the army and find General von Kilo. Tell him that the ducal army is coming from the east and he is to ready the reserves immediately. Make sure he understands that the fourth prince commands it.”

“Consider it done!” The second, too, departed.

With that, Hiro turned back to Liz. “And you...go and find Tris as fast as you can. I want you in command of the left flank.”

“And what will you do?” she asked.

“The ducal army is riding this way as we speak. I’m going to bloody their noses. Hopefully that will buy us some time.” Hiro hefted his standard and mounted his swiftdrake.

“And what of us?” Garda interjected.

“Mille will ride with Liz. You follow behind on camelback.” Hiro’s sword shimmered silver as it sliced through the zlosta’s bonds.

“You’d set me free? For all you know, I might kill your lady friend and make a run for it.”

“You’re no threat to Liz without your Fellblade. As I said, if you’re thinking about escaping with Mille, give it up.”

Besides, there was no guarantee that Garda would be safe if Hiro left him here. The zlosta’s escape was a risk, but so was his death. This was the best way. At least Hiro could feel confident that Garda would not run—not if it meant leaving Mille behind. Placing the girl into Liz’s keeping gave him some leverage over the zlosta. Garda would do as he asked.

“I won’t be long,” Hiro said.

Already, a cloud of sand was rising skyward from the other side of the eastern rise. Hiro’s lips pressed into a line as he spurred his swiftdrake across the desert.

＊

The ducal army had advanced to within spitting distance of the battlefield. They numbered five thousand: two wings of camel riders, one thousand men apiece, with one thousand slaves leading the vanguard, and a core and rear guard comprising two thousand infantry.

Leading the army was the duke’s second son, Karl Oruk Lichtein, with Marquis Rankeel Caligula Gilbrist as his vice-commander. The two men’s faces were sour as they rode side by side.

“I took none of them for heroes,” Rankeel scowled, “but I thought they’d have more steel than that.”

On the previous day, the eleventh hour before the battle, a report had arrived from the north. A separate imperial force was burning towns and villages in the wake of the main army. Such tactics were to be expected, given how deep the imperials had plunged into enemy territory, but the nobles, growing fearful for their lands, had started clamoring for negotiation or surrender. The time Rankeel and Karl had needed to spare calming them down had delayed their advance.

“Spineless, the pack of them. They reap only what they have sown.”

Rankeel’s words were not entirely true—the nobles who had chosen war with the empire had perished in battle with the rebel army. Even so, surrender was out of the question, and negotiation would be impossible without first repelling the Fourth Legion. Maintaining Lichtein’s integrity as a nation would require negotiating favorable terms. If they folded before even drawing swords, they would be the laughingstock of Soleil.

“The battle to come will decide everything, my lord.”

Karl smiled. “I leave it in your capable hands.”

As Rankeel nodded, a messenger ran up to him.

“My lord!” the man shouted. “Troops are approaching from the rebel army!”

“The sellswords, I presume. So they’ve managed to break away.”

“Shall we add them to our ranks?” the messenger asked.

“No. Let them fight on their own.”

The ducal army was already chasing lost time. Integrating the sellswords into their number would only slow them down further. Besides, Rankeel did not trust men who fought for gold. They cared nothing for their comrades or their homeland, only for lining their own pockets. Such men would desert at the drop of a hat, if they didn’t stab their employers in the back first. To bring them into the ducal army’s ranks would be asking for trouble.

“Bring me their leader,” Rankeel continued. “I wish to know the state of the field.”

“At once, my lord!” The messenger departed back down the road.

Before long, a man dressed in light armor rode up in his place. His garb was crusted with dried blood, and his grimy face was devoid of the slightest spark of intellect. He might as well have been a common bandit.

Rankeel looked the man over and frowned. On closer inspection, the sellsword was wearing the armor of the ducal army. The bloodstains were not new either; they were days old at the least. Knowing that this man had fought with the rebels, it was not hard to connect the dots: he had taken this armor from the same battlefield where Duke Lichtein had met his end. The realization was enough to disturb even Rankeel’s composure. Fury began to boil in his breast.

“Thankee for your custom, sirs.” The man rubbed the back of his head with a patently insincere smile, entirely oblivious to Rankeel’s anger. He bobbed his head in acknowledgment.

Rankeel was tempted to cut the impudent lout down from his horse right then and there, but he took a deep breath and did his best to suppress the urge.

Karl, sensing Rankeel’s disquiet, responded in his stead. “You have fought bravely, my friend. I am Karl Oruk Lichtein, and I would be honored to fight by your side.”

The sellsword gave an unpleasant laugh. “And I yours. After the fat lot of gold you’re payin’ me, it’s only right ye get your money’s worth.”

“How fares the battle?”

“Heh. Well, I can tell ye the rebels are takin’ a real beating. Only a matter of time afore they cave, I’d say.”

“That bodes ill. We must hurry, Marquis.”

Karl’s words snapped Rankeel back to reality. He nodded. “Indeed we must. You, sellsword.”

“What can I do for ye?”

“You and your men will lead the way. Our scouts have not yet covered the terrain. You must show us where to flank the Fourth Legion.”

Karl cocked his head quizzically. Their scouts had been reporting regularly. They knew exactly where the battle was taking place.

“Can you do this?” Rankeel continued.

“Consider it done, sirs. They’ll never know what hit ’em.”

As the sellsword departed, Karl turned to Rankeel. “Why did you say that?”

“Why did I lie, you mean?”

“Exactly. That man was sneering at you behind his smile. I am certain he thinks our scouts are fools.”

“I hope he does. He would not have agreed to lead the way otherwise.”

“Is that worth shaming ourselves?”

“The fate of our homeland hangs in the balance. To fail it now on account of pride would be the greatest shame of all. Let idiots smile their vapid smiles if they wish.”

Karl thought for a moment. “I see,” he said finally. “You are a far better master of your emotions than I. If only I could restrain myself so easily.”

Despite his words, Karl still seemed dissatisfied. The conversation fell into a lull.

Rankeel grunted. “Did you see the armor the lout was wearing? It was of ducal make.”

“How could I not? It was filthy, but the design is distinctive. I suppose he must have bought it from some merchant.”

“More likely he took it from a corpse, my lord. On the same battlefield that claimed the duke’s life.”

“Are you quite certain?”

“It was fine steel. I could not make out the crest beneath the grime, but its owner was likely a noble of some renown.”

“Disgraceful.” Karl scowled. “Once this war is won, I will see them duly punished.” He glared after the sellsword, though the man was no longer visible. His breathing grew heavy with anger, and his hands clenched tight on the reins.

“That’s why I’ll have them lead the way,” Rankeel said, as though to reassure him.

“Excuse me?”

“They will be first to the fray. If any return, we can sentence them then. In the meantime, they will serve us best as shields for imperial arrows.”

Karl grinned. “A fine plan!”

“Besides, my lord, I must correct you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You said that I was master of my emotions. I assure you, I am not so noble.” Rankeel shrugged. “I am not immune to anger. I was sorely tempted to cut the man’s head from his shoulders. I did not, because even cravens such as he may serve a purpose, but I will not deny, it was to satisfy myself that I sent him to the front.”

Karl looked on, astonished, as a wicked smile spread across Rankeel’s face. So, even this man could lose his temper. “Still,” he said, “it takes a general to think to use the man. That would never have occurred to me. I would simply have killed him.”

Rankeel rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “You flatter me overmuch, my lord. Save your praise for after we have won this war.”

Karl nodded in assent. His anger finally seemed to be spent. “As you say. For now, victory is all that matters.”

With newfound resolve in his heart, Karl turned his gaze ahead. Rankeel nodded with satisfaction. The men rode on in silence, side by side.

Their peace of mind was short-lived, however. Before long, they noticed that the sellswords in front of them were acting strangely. The harsh clashing of swords rang distantly in the air, accompanied by ferocious battle cries. It was common practice among such men to shout and beat their shields with their swords to intimidate their enemies, but there should have been no such foe. The expected site of the battle was still some distance away.

As Rankeel’s mind raced, a harried-looking messenger approached on horseback.

“Battle is joined, my lord!”

“Battle? What do you mean?” Rankeel peered ahead, frowning, but he could not make out the front line through the haze of dust and sand. “What are their numbers?”

The messenger hesitated. “Erm... One, my lord.”

“What?” The word came unbidden from Rankeel’s mouth. Surely the messenger must have misheard. His voice grew terse as he tried again. “I asked you how many men they have.”

“One, my lord,” the messenger repeated. “He appeared on the road to challenge the vanguard. The sellswords are engaging him as we speak.”

“One man set himself against a thousand soldiers?”

Even if this mysterious warrior was trying to buy time, that was a fool’s errand. What could one man do against an army? Perhaps it was an ambush; maybe he had more men waiting in the wings and he was plunging into the vanguard in a reckless gambit to divert the ducal army’s attention. Rankeel considered the possibility for a moment, then dismissed it.

“No. Impossible,” he said to himself.

If that was the Fourth Legion’s plan, they wouldn’t have been able to get their forces into position without being noticed. It would have been no small task to thwart the gaze of the ducal scouts, all the more so in the open desert.

Catching himself descending into confusion, Rankeel slapped his face to clear his mind. Confounding him like this was probably the enemy’s intention. He grinned. If that was so, and the goal was to slow the ducal army’s advance, this warrior had an impressive understanding of strategy.

“Clever. A lesser commander would have halted their march out of caution. Or, no... Perhaps this is my own prudence working against me.”

“Is everything all right?” Karl looked at Rankeel, concerned.

Rankeel nodded. He spread his arms in a reassuring gesture. Whatever this enemy was scheming, he would thwart it. After all, what could one man do?

“Quite all right,” he said. “We may continue our march. There will be no ambush.”

His confidence would prove short-lived. Not long afterward, the vanguard ground entirely to a halt. Rankeel left Karl in the safety of the back lines and rode ahead.

“Have you taken leave of your senses?!” he bellowed to the men. “We have no time to stand around! March!”

Even as the words left his mouth, however, he became conscious of the pall of fear hanging in the air. The slaves’ faces were pale. They looked so terrified, they might faint at any moment.

Rankeel approached their lines. “What happened here?!” he demanded.

A slave answered him in a voice that trembled with fear. “The... The Desperation...”

Cold fear settled in the pit of Rankeel’s stomach. That word belonged to an old folktale, of the kind that parents told to frighten children who stayed up too late. None knew whence it originated, only that it had spread unseen far and wide, filtering down from noble to commoner to slave. Some said that it had first been told by a nameless bard; others, that it had sprung from the faerie tales of the Knightdom of Nala in the southwest of Soleil.

“The Desperation? That is a tale to frighten children! Have you lost your wits?!”

Rankeel masked his apprehension with ridicule, but alarm bells were ringing in his mind. His sweat ran far too cold for the desert heat, seeming to sap the warmth of his body. He gulped. With trepidation, he turned to the fore—and gasped. There, in the shimmering heat, a black shape was dancing.

Beckoning to him, luring him closer...

Cornix spread his wings over the battlefield.

The ancient faerie tales spoke of him: Cornix, the Midnight Crow, the lord of death and destruction who strove to lead the world to ruin. Or, to give him his other name: Varachiel, the Black God.

“It cannot be...” Rankeel breathed.

One sellsword fell to a swipe of those baleful wings, then another, and another. Blood sprayed skyward as the men collapsed, bleeding out into the sand. Tearful whimpers reached Rankeel’s ears. There were notorious marauders on this battlefield, no doubt; skilled swordsmen too; but before those dark wings, they were all as babes. The sellswords mustered what resistance they could, but they died in vain. Rankeel himself had plotted to send them to their deaths, but to see them cut down so callously, even he felt pity.

And yet, he could not bring himself to go to their aid. Fear of the apparition before him rooted him to the spot. As he stood frozen, his voice trapped in his throat, a severed head landed at his feet. It wore the face of the sellsword leader he had so despised.

Rankeel did not so much as glance down. His gaze was fixed on one detail of the scene, and one detail alone. His instincts screamed at him to keep his eyes on his enemy, but that was not the true reason. His mind was filled with what he had seen in the instant the boy in black had beheaded the sellsword—in the instant their eyes had met.

The boy was far away, so far that Rankeel could not even be certain he was a boy. To make out his expression from this distance should have been impossible. The sight must have been a mere vision his brain had shown him. The delusions of a mind possessed by fear.

But their eyes had met.

And Rankeel had seen the smirk on his lips.

The sellswords began to break and run. They fled toward the slaves’ lines, crying for help.

“Loose arrows!” Rankeel shouted. “Don’t let them get close!”

The archers were faithful to his command. More than a thousand shafts split the sky, carving long arcs to rain down on the remaining sellswords. They died in agony beneath the deluge. The volley fell on the boy, too, but he emerged unscathed.

“Monster!”

This horror must have been Varachiel himself, stepped straight out of myth. What else could it be if not that? Surely not a mortal man?

Only then did Rankeel see what was happening around him. The slaves were falling to their knees, begging the gods for forgiveness, repenting their sins. The vanguard’s spirit was breaking.

“I will put a stop to this myself.”

He focused his core to give himself strength, opened his mouth wide—and closed it again. The boy had turned away with a flick of his black mantle. This was their chance. Surely this boy could not avoid every arrow with his back turned. Nobody had eyes in the back of their head. At least this would show whether he was a monster or a man.

“Again!” Rankeel bellowed. “Fire!”

He flung his arm down toward the boy. Once more, the sky darkened with arrows. So dense was the downpour, even a mouse could not have escaped it, but the boy’s mantle struck them all aside.

As Rankeel watched, aghast, a series of heavy thuds resounded from nearby. He looked around to see several slaves lying faceup on the sand, blood seeping from neat holes in their chests. The men did not even seem to realize how they had died. Their faces registered fear, despair, dreadful awe—but not pain. One might even have called them lucky to have passed so kindly.

A sharp pain lanced along Rankeel’s cheek, breaking him from his fugue. He laid his hand to the source of the pain. It came away wet.

“Am I...bleeding? But why...?”

His trembling fingers were sticky with blood. He looked back up at the boy, but the dark figure was already gone. All that was left was a killing field strewn with the forlorn bodies of countless sellswords.

A hot, dry wind blew across the sand, restoring the warmth to his body. As the gears of his mind began to turn once more, a shudder of terror assailed him, so overwhelming that he wanted to scream. His heart pounded furiously in his ribcage. He pressed his fist against his chest, trying to calm its panicked beating.

“Hah...” He gave an empty chuckle. “So that must be the man in black.”

He had heard the reports. He had simply assumed they were false—the desperate lies of inept nobles trying to shirk responsibility for a defeat that had claimed the lives of two of the duke’s sons. He still could not credit them fully, even now, but after what he had seen, he could no longer dismiss them out of hand. That had been an error. He should have considered that they might hold a grain of truth.

It was no use lamenting the past, but now he needed to plan for the future. This man in black would need to be dealt with sooner or later. Rankeel would have liked to have investigated the man thoroughly, but that would have taken time the imperials would not allow them. Besides, the slaves were on their knees around him, quaking in terror as they whispered the names of the gods. The scars of this incident would impact their ability to fight.

“Maybe I can’t kill him, but I can keep him pinned down. I’ll show him that wars are won by armies, not men.”

He would retreat for now. He could not risk his slaves abandoning their wits. Starting well meant everything in war. An unwise decision here might doom their prospects later, once the fighting began in earnest.

Marquis Rankeel sounded the retreat and returned to the rest of his army.

＊

The Fourth Legion’s left flank finished deploying eastward, but between the strain of their forced march and the exertion of the battle, their morale was phenomenally low. It was testament to their discipline that they organized into orderly ranks without complaint. Had they been conscripts, they would have formed up slower, and many would have deserted in fear.

As tension hung heavy in the air, the sixth princess assumed her command. The solar sheen of her crimson hair was dulled by sand and dust, but the loss of its luster did nothing to diminish her nobility. As compelling as Palladiana, her presence alone bolstered her soldiers’ resolve.

Liz breathed a sigh, half exasperation, half affection. She might have been a wife awaiting her husband’s return from the battlefield, or perhaps a mother looking out for her wayward child.

“He’ll be okay, miss. He’s strong. I can tell.”

The girl in front of her was swathed in a large cloak that hid every inch of her olive skin. Even her face was invisible beneath the shadows of the heavy cowl. Although she was no longer the commander of the Liberation Army, many still bore her a grudge: the ducal forces would kill her if they got their hands on her, and the Fourth Legion had no love for her either. Accordingly, Liz had decided to accompany her, to protect her from anybody who might do her harm.

“I know,” Liz replied, “but he’s always so reckless. I just hope he hasn’t gotten himself hurt.”

“The whelp can take care of himself,” Tris declared.

“Agreed. Although I would not blame you for doubting the word of an enemy.” Garda stood by Tris’s side. Outwardly, he appeared to be in his early twenties, but zlosta were long-lived—in truth, he was well over a hundred years old.

“But he’s trying to stop a whole army by himself! Even for him, that’s too much! I’m just so—”

Worried, Liz meant to say, but the word died in her throat. The very boy she had been so concerned for had finally returned. He was still some distance away, but even from there, she could see the fatigue on his face.

“Clear the way!” she commanded, picking up a waterskin. “Let him through!”

In short order, Hiro made his way over to her. She wordlessly handed him the waterskin. Hiro thanked her and set it to his lips, draining it in a single gulp.

Liz suddenly froze. She had handed him her waterskin—the same one she had drunk from over and over again. She connected the dots in her head and blushed as crimson as her hair, burying her head in her hands with a pained whimper.

Hiro watched her, perplexed, only to become aware of a murderous rage emanating from beside her. Tris was glaring a hole into him.

Hiro gulped. He offered the old soldier his most innocent smile, before wiping his mouth and looking around.

“Wait, is this all?” he asked.

“Eh?” Liz didn’t seem to understand. “Oh! Right! You’re thirstier than that! Hold on, I’ll be right back!” She started to turn her mount around.

“Huh? Wait!” Hiro hurriedly stopped her. “That’s not what I meant. I’m fine for water. I’ve still got some left.”

“I-I knew that! I was just messing with you!”

Liz let the reins drop and started kneading Mille’s head. The girl didn’t object at first, but eventually, being forcibly pushed to and fro grew too uncomfortable to bear.

“Miss, you’re hurting me.”

“Sorry! Sorry! I just thought you must be itchy in that!”

“I’m not, though.”

“Don’t be silly! Of course you are!”

Despite Mille’s protests, Liz continued massaging her head. Hiro couldn’t see the girl’s expression beneath the hood but he could easily guess how she felt about the whole ordeal.

Unwilling to watch Liz embarrass herself any longer, Tris cleared his throat noisily. “I believe the boy meant to ask about our numbers, Your Highness.”

“Oh! Right! Of course! I knew that!” Liz released Mille’s head and thrust a finger toward Hiro. “It’s too hot today! Blame the sun!”

Hiro smiled awkwardly. “No, no, it’s my fault,” he said with a shake of his head. “I wasn’t exactly descriptive.”

“Will somebody tell these two we’re at war?” Garda muttered. Hiro pretended not to hear him.

“What I meant was, are these all the men we have? What happened to the reserves?”

Only the left flank had taken up defensive positions. Before leaving, Hiro had dispatched a man to General von Kilo asking him to ready the reserves, but not only were the reinforcements nowhere to be seen, the rest of the army seemed to be busy confiscating weapons from the prisoners and collecting them into piles. More than a few soldiers were lounging around, taking the weight off their feet.

“If this is all part of the plan, that’s one thing, but...”

It was possible this was all part of some elaborate ploy to make the army appear vulnerable, but the soldiers’ idleness seemed a little too believable for Hiro’s liking. He narrowed his eyes.

“You see...” Liz began, “General von Kilo said that I’m the commander here, so he’ll only listen to me, not the fourth prince.” She steepled her fingers apologetically. “I sent messenger after messenger, but all I got back was ‘two thousand cavalry will be more than enough for those untrained peasants.’ I tried, I really did, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Hiro said. “There’s nothing you could have done.”

That came out blunter than he intended. Liz hung her head.

Tris’s fury was palpable. The old soldier seemed on the verge of drawing his sword, although Hiro didn’t dare ask whether it was General von Kilo’s audacity or his own lack of tact that had made the man so angry.

“Let’s speak with him,” Hiro said. “I owe him an introduction anyway, and it sounds like I’m not going to get anywhere near him without you with me. Could you help with that?”

“Of course!” Liz perked up instantly, delighted to be relied upon. A smile blossomed on her lips. Hiro breathed a silent sigh of relief.

“I’ll make sure to tell the general about all your good points!” Liz continued.

“Really, you really don’t have to...”

“Do you mean to take Mille with you?” Garda’s voice had an edge of concern. “You do not make this von Kilo sound like a trustworthy man. I will not let you carry her into danger.”

“We’ll have to. Otherwise, what’s to stop you running off with her?” Liz’s gaze was cold as she stared at Garda, tinged with something that might have been hostility. “Don’t think I’ll ever forget how you used her. I won’t let you snatch her away to start another war.”

Garda shrugged, admonished. “The little lady has a sharp tongue.”

Mille’s face was hidden from the others, but from Hiro’s angle, he could just about make out her expression. The girl’s mouth was pursed in an unhappy little pout, but she was keeping silent. She seemed to see the sense in what Liz was saying. She had a good head on her shoulders, it occurred to him, especially for her age.

Hiro decided to move the conversation along before things came to blows. “Tris,” he said, “would you tell the soldiers to be at ease?”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” the old soldier asked. “For all we know, the enemy might be upon us at any moment.”

“They’re more likely to attack if they see that we’re the only ones ready. They’ll realize there’s been a communication breakdown.”

The old soldier pondered that for a moment. “Aye,” he said finally, “but if they see us lounging about unprepared, what’s to stop them trying their luck anyway?”

“They might under a headstrong commander, but our enemy is too cautious for that. Let him waste time thinking himself in circles. Our soldiers need the rest, and so do our horses.”

Hiro’s assault had made the enemy wary. The ducal army would tread much more carefully now, unless the imperial forces made an obvious blunder. General von Kilo’s refusal to send the reserves had been a failure on his part, but it had still served to sow suspicion among the enemy.

With Tris satisfied, Hiro patted his swiftdrake’s head. “I should be off. I’ll let you take care of things here.”

“Aye, I’ll see it done. Give the general an earful for me, would you?” Tris saw Hiro off with a hearty wallop on the back—an old-fashioned show of encouragement that nonetheless drove the breath from his lungs. Coughing, Hiro set out for the heart of the army.

＊

The sun shone fiercely down over the heart of the Fourth Legion’s forces, but the mood was cheerful. Soldiers bantered and laughed between themselves. To look at the merry scene, one would never have thought the enemy lurked just out of sight.

A canvas tent had been set up in the center to ward against the sand. Inside stood a plain table with General von Kilo and his advisors arrayed around it, poring over the map laid out on top.

“Our scouts report that the ducal army has fallen back. They have taken up position here.” One of the advisors placed a pawn on the map. “They appear to be sending out scouts, just as we are. We should assume that they have a good idea of our overall positions.” The man looked up at General von Kilo. “Are you certain it was wise not to send the fourth prince his reinforcements, sir?”

“I have no obligation to listen to this supposed fourth prince. He could be anybody. For all we know, that letter might have been the work of an enemy spy.”

“The ducal army has been seen in the area, sir. If they attack in numbers, two thousand men will struggle to hold them off.”

“You worry too much. Kigui would not have bothered me with this prattle.”

When the general had learned of his vice-commander’s death at the zlosta’s hands, he had been almost incoherent with rage. The intervention of his advisors had only barely been enough to calm him down.

“This supposed fourth prince carries the second emperor’s standard, does he not?”

“So I have heard, sir.”

“Well, there is your answer. If he is a true scion of Emperor Schwartz, he will give us a display worthy of his forefather’s name.”

“‘Unrivaled on earth with one thousand, unrivaled in heaven with ten, the War God’s machinations rule the world entire.’ Do you mean those words, sir?”

“Indeed. An absurd fable but perhaps he can live up to it. With two thousand men, he should be doubly unrivaled on earth.” The general chuckled with unconcealed contempt.

The advisor’s eyebrows arched slightly, but otherwise he continued unperturbed. “The myths may be exaggerated, sir. Besides, what if he truly is who he claims? Many worship the War God, not only among the people but among our own men. If this were to get out, it may threaten your position.” He did not say as much, but from his tone, he too seemed to be one of the War God’s faithful.

General von Kilo’s smile vanished, replaced by anger. “Enough. Drix, what rank are you?”

“Second Class Military Tribune, sir.”

“I see. You may leave.” Von Kilo gestured to the door with a dismissive wave. “Return when you have calmed your temper. The air here seems not to agree with you.”

“As you command, sir.”

Drix turned and made his way to the exit. The other advisors watched sympathetically as he went. As he tried to leave, however, he found that he could not.

“You may stay, Second Tribune Drix.”

A girl blocked his way. A girl with crimson hair—the Valditte, the Princess of Flame. The advisors bowed their heads as one. Even General von Kilo forced a smile.

“May I ask what brings you here, Your Highness?” he said with barely concealed displeasure. “I was led to believe that you had taken it upon yourself to prepare for battle.”

Liz’s brow furrowed. “That’s why I’m here. We’ve asked you several times to ready the reserves. Why haven’t you sent us any reinforcements?”

“Because I command this army and you do not. That is the only reason that matters.” As General von Kilo smirked, he seemed to notice the boy at the princess’s side for the first time. “As for whoever this is, only those with permission may attend my strategy meetings. Your royal blood does not grant you carte blanche to defy regulations.”

On closer inspection, the boy was not the princess’s only attendant. A hooded figure stood behind her back. Von Kilo could not discern their gender beneath their heavy cloak, but judging by the short stature, it must have been either a woman or a child. He glared at the trio with distaste.

“If you were soldiers under my command, I would consider this gross insubordination and deal with it accordingly. I cannot punish a member of the royal family, alas. Still, I encourage you to exercise more discretion in future.” He waved them away as though shooing off a dog. “If there is nothing else, you may return to your posts. I have no time to entertain children.”

“With all due respect—” Liz began, but a hand on her shoulder stopped her short.

“Hold on, Liz,” the boy said. “I’ll deal with this.”

General von Kilo’s eyes narrowed with suspicion at the sound of the princess’s nickname, but before he could address it, the boy approached.

“General von Kilo, I assume? It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Black hair and black eyes, the rare combination known as twinblack. Neither trait existed naturally in Aletia. Even more curiously, more than half of the boy’s face was obscured by an enormous eyepatch. Dressed in his black garb, he was the spitting image of Mars as described in the empire’s myths.

“I am Hiro Schwartz von Grantz, fourth prince of the empire.” Hiro extended his right hand to shake, then stopped himself. “Oh, do excuse me. I forgot I was only a third rank tribune.” He glanced pointedly at Drix, who was halfway out of the tent. “I assume you do not shake hands with lower ranks.”

“Of course I do,” von Kilo finally stammered. He accepted the handshake, although the gleam of suspicion in his eyes remained as strong as ever. “Pardon my rudeness, but do you carry any proof of your identity?”

“My hair and my eyes should do...or so I should think, but I suppose they could be disguised. This can’t be faked, though.” Hiro patted the chest of his overcoat.

Immediately, the hem of the Black Camellia sharpened into spear-like points that sped toward von Kilo. So sudden was the attack that he could only flinch away, tripping backward and coming down hard on the floor. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs. His soldier’s training paid off as he scrambled back to his feet again, but his chest was heaving and his face was twisted in pain.

“Have you lost your mind?!” he wheezed.

Seeing the general fly into a rage, the advisors reached for their swords.

“Sorry about that,” Hiro said. “The Black Camellia can be irritable when she’s in a bad mood. I should warn you, she’s easily frightened. If you draw your swords, she might start to panic, and then even I won’t be able to stop her.” He looked over the advisors, a smile playing on his lips. “Unless you don’t believe me?”

Nobody dared take him up on his offer. Hearing the Black Camellia’s name, all of their gazes converged on Hiro’s garb, even at the expense of its wearer. None since the second emperor had been permitted to wear the regalía. They were awestruck to see it up close.

Sensing the hostility fade from the air, Hiro reached into his pocket and produced a scroll. “If the Black Camellia isn’t enough, this should convince you.”

General von Kilo approached warily. It was almost comical to see him so easily stripped of his arrogant bluster—not that one could blame him after his recent brush with death. His brow creased as he took the scroll, recognizing it as a missive from the emperor. His face visibly paled as he read. At last, he looked up again, his eyes wide with shock.

“What is the meaning of this?”

Hiro patted the man on the shoulder, then retrieved the letter and rolled it up. “In the event that your abilities are found wanting, His Majesty the Emperor commands you to yield leadership of the army to me. Personally, I would place Lady Celia Estrella in command with me as her aide, but—”

“This is absurd!” von Kilo interrupted, trembling with anger. “I will not yield my command to...to a stripling like you!”

“Not to me. To Lady Celia Estrella.”

“There is no difference!” The unpleasantly sticky air only grew hotter with the general’s rage. He was more irate now than he had been after the Black Camellia’s attack. His advisors shied away, watching the confrontation nervously.

Hiro shrugged dismissively, placing a finger to his lips. “That’s enough. Throwing a tantrum won’t change anything. Accept it and move on.”

“Wha—?” Von Kilo struggled for words. “I will not be patronized by anyone, least of all by you!”

“I said that’s enough.”

A silver streak rent the air. In an instant, there was a sword at von Kilo’s neck. The man whimpered.

“I have given you every chance to prove your worth, but you have made yourself a burden at every opportunity. I will not tolerate your bumbling presence any longer.”

“You dare...!”

“I will decide what to do with you at a later date. We have more pressing concerns at the moment.” Hiro sheathed Excalibur and swept his gaze over the advisors. “And as for the rest of you—by failing to rein in your commander, you have made yourselves complicit. I have no need for a retinue of yes-men.”

Although he was younger than them in years, he radiated the authority of a battle-hardened veteran. The advisors gulped. They mumbled their apologies, blanching with fear.

General von Kilo, for his part, seemed stupefied. Watching his ambitions go up in smoke was certainly doing him no favors, but it seemed to be Hiro’s condescension that had dealt the most damage.

As the man stood dazed, Hiro landed the final blow. “You may leave. Return when you have calmed your temper.”

Von Kilo’s face flushed beet red. Wordlessly, he collapsed.

“General?! General!”

“To the medic, quickly!”

Two advisors hoisted him onto their shoulders and carried him away. Hiro had not expected von Kilo to literally faint from outrage, but no permanent damage seemed to have been done. He glanced at Liz, who nodded and approached the table.

“Let’s get this meeting underway,” she said. “Don’t hold back. I want to hear your honest opinions.”

The advisors straightened, and their faces took on a newfound sobriety.

With the meeting over, Hiro stepped out of the tent and into dazzling sunlight. Soldiers were dashing to and fro by the hundreds. Sand rose into the air from their harried footsteps, which the wind bore away as it passed, toying with the standard-bearers’ banners and plucking playfully at the hem of Hiro’s overcoat. As he watched the flags flutter in the breeze, it struck him that a change had come over them.

“That was quick work,” he mused.

All of General von Kilo’s livery had been taken down, replaced by a lily on a crimson field—the colors of the sixth princess. The change of standards signified that Liz had taken formal command. Still, the greatest task still lay ahead of them: winning the battle. Without victory, their coup would be meaningless.

“Hiiirooo!”

As Hiro stood lost in thought, someone flung their arms around him from behind. There were no prizes for guessing who. He smiled affectionately. “What’s gotten into you?”

Liz pouted. “We haven’t seen each other in ages! You could at least act happy to see me.” She squeezed a little harder, making her displeasure known.

“Of course I’m happy. I’m glad you’re safe.”

“I want a bit more enthusiasm out of you, mister. You barely say anything unless you’re spoken to. Try expressing yourself better. If you aren’t good at saying, try doing!”

Liz seemed to be in a touchy-feely mood, but Hiro was painfully aware of the soldiers’ stares. As he shrank under their gazes, Liz began rubbing her cheek on his neck. She didn’t seem to mind the attention.

“Could you stop?” he asked, as politely as he could. “People are staring.” It wasn’t unpleasant but it was embarrassing.

Liz pulled away. “Fine, then. We can pick this up later!”

She had seemed so single-minded one second, only to change tack completely the next. She really was as fickle as a cat.

“That’s not what I... Wait, what’s that supposed to mean?”

But Hiro was too late. Liz had already flounced off with Mille in tow. She joined a group of soldiers who were busy filling sacks with sand.

“Come on, everyone! I know you’re tired, but just a little more!”

“Your Highness,” the commanding officer protested, “you needn’t trouble yourself—”

“I know, but I want to. Don’t worry about me, just keep working.”

“As you command.” Defeated, the officer turned to the rest of his men and raised his voice. “Put your backs into it, you laggards! Every grain you don’t collect is one you leave to our princess!”

As Hiro watched, smiling wryly, he noticed a figure standing off to the side. He approached and offered a greeting. “Do you have a moment?”

“Y-Your Highness?! Whatever do you want with me?!”

The man snapped bolt upright. It was the advisor named Drix—the one who had dared to contradict General von Kilo and almost been expelled from the meeting for his trouble. Only Liz’s timely arrival had saved him from punishment.

It seemed to be less Hiro’s royal titles that were making Drix nervous and more his status as the scion of the second emperor. He offered the man a smile to soothe his nerves. A pat on the shoulder encouraged him to stand at ease.

“There’s something I want you to do for me,” Hiro said. “Something in addition to our official plans.”

Hiro had used the meeting to order an immediate retreat. The work that Liz and the soldiers were engaged in now was part of that plan—one of several contingencies he had included in case the enemy deduced their intentions. Technically, it would be possible to win without falling back, but standing their ground would cost them in lives. Hiro would settle for nothing less than a complete victory, for utterly breaking the enemy’s spirits and laying a firm foundation for the future to come.

“What would you have me do?” Drix asked.

“Could you bring me General von Kilo’s private reports?”

Drix’s eyes narrowed slightly. He seemed to understand what Hiro was getting at. “Of course, Your Highness. I will see it done forthwith.”

Once Drix had departed, Hiro resumed walking, meaning to pitch in with Liz and the soldiers. Leaders could not expect to be respected simply for giving orders; they had to set an example for others to follow. That was true in all walks of life, not just in the military, but it was especially vital now, when they were so deep in enemy territory. He would have to take care to eat only once his men had eaten and perform his duties without complaint. The simplest things could have an enormous effect on morale, and though their impact was invisible, it could make the difference between victory and tragedy.

“Mind if I join in?” he asked.

Liz turned from her work. She wiped the sweat from her brow and cocked her head. “Don’t you have other things to do?”

“I’ve notified the officers of the change of command and made sure they have their orders. Everything seems to be going smoothly—well, to my eyes, anyway, if you catch my meaning. I’m just waiting on the scouts’ reports.”

He had been somewhat surprised to learn that Liz had been in quiet contact with almost every officer in the army. It was hard to know whether he had truly won the men’s hearts after his coup, but in any case, their loyalty to her had ensured their obedience to him. As to whether they would follow his orders once things got messy, only time would tell. In any case, his only outstanding business was dealing with the scouts’ reports; until they returned, his time was his own.

Liz didn’t seem pleased to hear that, however. “We’ll need you in good shape. You should be trying to save all the strength you can. After all the fighting you’ve done, you must be exhausted.”

Hiro shrugged. “I’d be lying if I said I’m not, but I can’t be the only one with my hands free.”

Liz’s eyebrows knotted in concern. “All right, fine. I’ve half a mind to put you to bed myself, but you’d probably only sneak back out again. You’re better off where I can see you.”

“Hey, now. I’m not a kid.”

“Oh, really? Then why do you wander off the moment I take my eyes off you?”

“You know what, I should get started. Sorry, can’t talk!”

That was quite enough prodding this particular hornet’s nest. Hiro cut the conversation short and pitched in with the soldiers. For a while, he worked in silence.

After some time, a scout ran up to him. “Lord Hiro. I have returned from the enemy lines.”

“Good work.” Hiro handed the scout a waterskin and waited for the man to catch his breath.

“It is as you foresaw, Your Highness. The morale of the enemy slaves is flagging.”

“Do you think they could launch an offensive?”

“Not the slaves. They have been sent to the rear. The enemy has brought their camel riders to the fore, ready to charge at a moment’s notice.”

“So they’re looking for an opening to strike.”

“I believe so, Your Highness.”

“But it doesn’t sound like they’ve committed to their plan, and we’re almost ready ourselves. I say we spook them a little.”

Hiro raised a hand, signaling the drumbearers. The men struck their instruments with all their might. Thunderous drumbeats shook the air, a wave of sound that rolled over the rest of the army.

The left flank’s cavalry were the first to move, advancing east. The right flank’s cavalry circled around to join them. Hiro hefted the fruits of his labor onto his back and mounted his swiftdrake.

“Remember, Liz, just like we discussed.”

“I know,” Liz replied. “Take care, okay?”

“I will. I’m counting on you.”

With Liz’s voice echoing behind his back—“It’s time, everyone! Let’s get a move on!”—Hiro and his swiftdrake made their way east.

“Even the wind’s on our side.”

He listened to the beating of the drums and smiled.

＊

The beating of the Fourth Legion’s drums had plunged the ducal army’s encampment into disarray.

“We’re under attack! The enemy is coming!”

“Send the slaves to the fore! Make a wall! The archers too, fill them full of arrows!”

Marquis Rankeel ground his teeth in chagrin as he watched the nobles descend into panic. “They’re running rings around us.”

When he had learned of the Fourth Legion’s change of command shortly prior, his first thought had been to gauge his new opponent. He had moved his camel riders to the fore and waited to see how the imperials would respond. When the enemy did nothing, he had concluded that he faced an inattentive commander and started organizing raiding parties—and at exactly that moment, the enemy cavalry had begun to move.

“And they have momentum in their favor.”

The enemy had timed their move perfectly. If this was the sixth princess’s work, she was a commander to be feared, and if it wasn’t, she had a capable advisor at her side. That was the privilege of being rulers of the continent: the empire had its pick of the best minds in every field. Still, this was no time for admiration.

“Stay calm! Deploy the camel riders to the flanks!” Rankeel commanded. He had no idea how the enemy would approach, but he could not risk being surrounded. “Archers to the fore! This is our chance! They’re riding right into our laps!”

As the words left his mouth, his blood ran cold. The man in black was leading the charge. “So you’ve shown your face,” he muttered.

The wounds this man had dealt had still not healed. Word of what had happened to the slaves must have spread; even the ordinary soldiers wore masks of terror. He would need to rally them. At least you’ll serve our purposes in death, he thought grimly as he marshaled his resolve.

“Nock arrows!”

As he gave the command, the enemy cavalry began to act oddly. They spread out sideways and scattered. The maneuver whipped up a cloud of dust, filling the air with an impenetrable brown haze.

“Blast it. We’re downwind...”

The cloud obscured the enemy soldiers, reducing them to battle cries and thundering hoofbeats. That boded ill. The one silver lining was that the dust also concealed the man in black. Thanks to that, most of the ducal soldiers remained ignorant of his presence.

“If they mean to surround us while we’re blinded, they’re taking us for fools.”

Rankeel looked over his forces. “Left flank, right flank, advance! First cohort, fall back!” he bellowed. Let the imperials come. It would be them who would find themselves surrounded. In eager anticipation, he waited for the enemy to emerge from the cloud...but they never did.

“Where are they?”

Something was wrong. The drumbeats, the battle cries, and the thundering of hooves all continued, but...

“They’re...receding?”

By the time Rankeel realized that he had been deceived, it was too late. The dust cloud cleared to reveal...nothing. He began to wonder what the enemy hoped to gain from their trick, but a panicked cry from the soldiers forced him to abandon his train of thought.

“I-It’s the man in black! He’s here!”

A wave of dismay sped through the army as the shout went up from the front lines.

“It can’t be...” Rankeel whispered.

The enemy was giving him no time to think. Even as Rankeel looked up in surprise, chaos and confusion were spreading through the ducal army’s ranks. The soldiers were petrified. Rankeel rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache coming on. He followed his men’s gaze. A man in black garb was standing stock-still in the distance.

A vision of a thousand slain soldiers passed through Rankeel’s mind at the sight. His body began to tremble of its own accord. Still, he was not foolish enough to succumb to fear. He slapped his cheek to clear his head, took a breath, and spoke.

“Order in the ranks! You have nothing to fear from one man!”

“But sir!” a cry came back. “That one man slew a thousand!”

“Stand firm, soldier. I have a plan for him.”

To deal with the man in black, Rankeel had assembled a hundred of the army’s finest. He was not optimistic enough to think they could kill him—not when he could fight a thousand men and win—but at least they could slow him down. If he could only keep the man in black preoccupied, the exhausted Fourth Legion would crumple. The enemy was one man against an army. He could not be everywhere at once.

“I’ll see you pay,” Rankeel muttered grimly. He drew his sword from his belt and gestured toward the standard-bearer. His chosen hundred camel riders moved forward. The rest of the army resumed their advance, keeping a wary distance.

“Once the vanguard engages the man in black, we will fall on the Fourth Legion,” he called to a messenger. “Until then, we follow them to disguise our intentions.”

“I will tell the officers, sir.”

“See it done.”

Time passed, but no battle broke out. As Rankeel was starting to grow suspicious, the messenger returned from the front.

“It’s a decoy, sir! The man in black is a decoy!”

“What do you mean, a decoy?”

“He’s nothing but black cloth over logs, sir.” The messenger shrugged an object from his back with a thud. True to his word, it was nothing but wooden logs bound to a sack of earth, draped with black cloth to give it the semblance of a man.

“Impossible. Ridiculous...” The sight was so absurd, Rankeel struggled for words. Had fear so paralyzed his mind that he had mistaken this scarecrow for the real thing? That he had fallen for this childish trick?

“There are more, sir. Lots more.”

“Excuse me?”

They crested the rise to find themselves at the same site where the Fourth Legion had clashed with the rebel army. The battlefield was an enormous basin where one could look down from all sides. Among the scattered corpses, wooden scarecrows draped with black fabric stood like gravestones.

“The bastard’s making fools of us.”

Childish though it may have been, the trick had worked. The entire ducal army knew the man in black’s power, and there was no telling whether the real thing might be hidden among the duplicates. His men were no doubt thinking the same thing. He could see it in the hesitance of their advance.

“Do they have us surrounded or are they simply covering their retreat? Either way, to think I would be so outclassed...”

Rankeel could see the Fourth Legion falling back on the other side of the graveyard. It was a tempting sight, but it was bait nonetheless. To pursue them would require proceeding through the basin. If there really was an enemy ambush waiting in the wings, ceding the high ground would not be merely disadvantageous, it would be lethal—and all the more so if the man in black was hiding among his lookalikes. They would be riding to certain defeat.

“We could march around, but even then...”

Not only would that give the enemy time to prepare, but the ducal army would run the risk of entering battle with their ranks not fully rejoined. The enemy commander had planned for every scenario. It was nothing short of exquisite strategy.

“They use our own land against us as though they were born here. Anyone would think we were facing Mars himself.”

With a self-deprecating chuckle, Rankeel looked up at the sky. The veil of night was setting in. They could no longer afford to wait for the favor of the heavens. Along that path lay ruin.

A shadow fell over his face. The road to victory had never seemed so dark. His men’s fighting spirit was waning and their morale was flagging. If he couldn’t find a way out of this quagmire soon, they would all drown in it.

An invisible wall seemed to stretch before him, tall and broad and impassable.