SIEGE

Day 7

1

It was doubtful anyone slept that night either. The effects of the brief clash had been heard and felt throughout the castle and many of the noncombatants were already convinced the hour of their doom was upon them. But one apothic hour after another passed in tense anticipation, and nothing came to disturb the wait. At being repelled once, the daemons wouldn’t renew their assault but left the defenders hanging and then it was morning.

Half past eight, the winter sun peered feebly over the land, and a catalogue of exhausted faces gathered upstairs in the conference room.

“We’ve turned the enemy away in our first major encounter, suffering no casualties,” General Monterey summarized. “This should probably be considered a no small triumph. Yet, I fear it comes with heavy costs to us in spirit.”

Rather than that of strength, the skirmish had been primarily a test of courage, and so barely had the company overcome it that no one felt like celebrating. Looking at the numbers involved, the nightly assault could be considered no more but a light prank, yet everyone’s pulse remained heavily beating long after. If less than twenty of the beasts could achieve such an effect, what would happen if twenty times that came next? This glimpse into the unrelenting horror lurking outside reminded them of what they had so nearly forgotten in the quiet days before—that it was their very existence they struggled to keep; an existence lost with woeful, whimsical ease.

Moreover, at this point, they could only give up any hope that the mutineers had found their way outside to safety. No reinforcements could be expected. No conquest by force.

They truly were alone in their bind.

“The timing can hardly be a coincidence,” the General continued to say. “It is very likely the attack came in response to Foulton’s enterprise. And judging by the casual nature of the return visit, it doesn’t seem like our friends were able to inflict noteworthy damage upon the enemy.”

“How could they?” Yuliana said. “They hardly had any weapons, only so few arrows…”

“They dug their own grave,” Miragrave injected with little sympathy. “They rather insisted on it. Save your pity. The only thing that matters is that we’re still here.”

But for how long…? Everyone was most likely thinking the same question, but no one wished to be the one to say it aloud. None present had the excess of confidence to question themselves so, and questioning others the same way was surely tantamount to aimless bullying.

Carmelia picked up the embers of the fading conversation and stood.

“I may have something of use in regards to the company’s fortitude,” she said. “With the procured herbs, the castle’s collection of alcohol, and my personal wares, I was able to distill a potent compound, which will temporarily remove fatigue, reinvigorate the body, and stimulate a sense of unwavering courage in a person. There is only one dose per combatant, so I recommend saving the medicine as a last resort. I will have the officers distribute it later.”

“Now it’s stimulants?” Izumi commented. “How safe is it? Do I even dare to ask? I suppose growing cat ears isn’t on the list of common side effects?”

“The medicine is rather taxing on the human biology,” the sorceress answered. “There is an elevated risk of cardiac arrest within four hours of digestion. And once the effect wears off, you are liable to feel thrice as fatigued as you were before. But if you are already at your limit and about to die, the downsides may be worth it.”

“Thanks. I love how you don’t sugarcoat these things, doc.”

“It’s true that everyone’s getting tired,” Millanueve said. “And there are still almost ten days left until that champions gets here. Are we really going to hold that long?”

She went and said it, after all.

“Not if we keep questioning it every gods-forsaken day!” Miragrave grunted in answer. “You all know what you must do. Hold. So stop counting the days and hold! Treat every morning as if it’s the first. Whether your courage takes pharmacy or a flogging is up to you, but forget not what is at stake.”

And the morning meeting was concluded.

2

In the shadow by the wall was a line of old archery target boards, round oak disks painted with rings of blue, yellow, and red. A bit further away were hay-stuffed sacks roped on short poles, tied to look vaguely humanoid. Most likely to be pocked with polearms to achieve the correct form. It appeared the southern side of the castle’s backyard had been in use as a training ground by the royal guard. Short grass grew between the loose, flat stones that covered the ground, and the day was still too young to melt the rime that coated the spots where direct light couldn’t reach. Last night’s snow was only a memory now. The clouds were too frayed and far apart to fully cover the pale sky and the sun shone bright through them.

In the otherwise barren backyard was a man doing push-ups.

Against his title, the Prince of Luctretz was easy to identify by how little his appearance resembled a noble or a soldier. Clad in an outfit crude even for a town guard, his lamellar vest and rough trousers, and wearing no coat even despite the cold. So long as circumstances allowed it, he performed the same workout routine every morning and evening, a set of push-ups, squats, crunches, pull-ups, and stretches, like one preparing for a difficult battle. It was not a fallacious impression, of course, but his intent exactly.

Earlier in the morning, shortly after the assembly, the man had gone to see Carmelia in private.

“I heard it is thanks to your abilities that Lady Izumi gained her magic,” he’d said to the sorceress. “Would it be possible for you to grant this same power to myself or the others, so that we might stand a better chance against the enemy when they come again?”

“Unfortunately, the arc would not be of use to you,” Carmelia answered the man. “That person is exceptional in many ways. People are ordinarily limited by their natural reserves of mana; as a non-magician yourself, you would only be exhausted attempting to cast runes of equivalent potency. And tuned to the level where they would be safe to use, their benefits would become negligible.”

“Then is there no way at all for me to become stronger, as I am?” the Prince asked, unable to fully hide the frustration in his voice. “I would be grateful for any counsel you could spare me.”

“And what is it that you hope to gain, exactly? You are already unusually strong among men. You should be content with what your blood has given you, and not seek methods that cost more than they give. For the first rule of magic is to not reach for that which is beyond you.”

“I know that lesson only too well,” the Prince replied. “Alas, I have also learned that being strong among men means precious little in the world at large. I have seen the enemy we face now, and I saw how far my measure fell short of that menace. Yet, admitting defeat so easily is not in my nature. I cannot suffer the thought of my fate being in the hands not my own. I care not for the costs, but if there is any way at all I can contribute more for our survival, I will do it without another word.”

“Like our majesty, you are a leader to humans,” Carmelia told him. “If you are willing to accept my counsel, I would tell you to wage your battle in her way, in spirit rather than flesh. It won’t be swords that wins us victory in this war, if any victory is to be found.”

“I can hand out thin soup and hollow words about bravery every hour of the day,” he retorted, less than pleased. “But if those things get inside the wall, it takes more than good spirit to chase them out.”

The sorceress exhaled a faint sigh at this.

“As you wish. Bring your weapon of choice to the armory later and I will attempt to enchant it. I am far from a master at the craft, but I shall do what I can if this consoles you. Yet, know that possessing a weapon that cuts does not mean the wielder himself is changed.”

“I would thank you nonetheless. And beg pardon for not knowing to take no for an answer.”

Done with his workout routine, the Prince equipped his freshly modified saber and took his stance. On the outside, it didn’t look so different from before, but even with his mediocre potential, he could sense the magic in it. All Carmelia had done was reinforce the blade so that it wouldn’t easily break or dull. She had also put some manner of a spell on the edge to make it cut easier when swung with the intent to kill. He couldn’t tell what exactly was done or how, but he felt the sinister, deadly quality of it. Instead of merely “honed”, most people probably would’ve considered the weapon “cursed” now.

The sword had become strong, but was he strong enough to hold it?

No, there was only option. He had to get used to how it felt, as soon as possible.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, and tried to focus. But as soon as he shut his eyelids, the dark he saw was filled with swirling claws and sharp edges, and the blunt heartache for the loss of his companions came back stark and clear. His sword hand wavered and he struggled to maintain his grip.

“Damn it...”

—“Oh, are you training?”

A sudden voice drew the Prince’s attention and he looked up to see two people come his way from the front yard’s direction. Millanueve and Waramoti. Despite her claims of quitting the Guard, Millanueve kept up with her duties the same as any other day. While not needed by the Empress, she patrolled the castle grounds among the regular watches. Today, the bard appeared to be with her. Seeing the Prince’s solitary practice, the look on Millanueve’s face brightened up with approving excitement.

“At least someone here doesn’t neglect the basics!” she said. “You are very well-disciplined, your highness!”

“Ah, no, this is nothing,” he bashfully replied and dropped his stance. “I’m but fooling around, trying to feel better about myself—and failing.”

“If training by yourself doesn’t work, then maybe I could lend you a hand?” she offered. “To tell you the truth, I have been itching to move my arms all week!”

“I, ah…I don’t think that would be such a good idea,” he replied, glancing at the sinister edge of his saber. “It could get dangerous.”

“Nonsense!” Millanueve dismissed his concerns. “Oh, if you are worried, I know just the thing! I found them the other day—wait right there!”

Leaving the Prince and the bard to wait, Millanueve went running across the yard to the guard house in the corner of the curtain wall. After a while of making noise indoors, she came back out, carrying under her arm a bundle of wooden sticks—no, wooden weapons.

Practice swords, by the looks of them. Quite similar to the ones used by the Imperial officer school, sculpted of white oak. She came over and dropped a pile of them onto the ground.

“With these, there’s no risk of cutting your partner and we can train while holding nothing back!”

“Do hold back a little!” Waramoti told her, examining one of the tools closer. “These are still hard wood. Hitting a bad spot could kill a man easily enough.”

“Well, I promise not to hit too hard,” the girl assured, as though she were beyond any chance of harm herself.

“Very well,” the Prince amiably conceded, put his saber away and replaced it with a wooden spatha. “Just for a bit then.”

“Excellent!”

“Your highness,” Waramoti’s sharp whisper made the man pause and look back.

“Yes?”

“You should know that Lady Millanueve is considered something of a VIP in these parts,” the bard explained in a hushed voice. “See to it that she doesn’t get a scratch, or suffering and tears are sure to follow! Suffering for yourself, mostly, and tears for your loved ones.”

“Ha…?”

“I’ll be ready whenever you are!” the girl urged the Prince with a wide, beaming smile, making practice swings to warm up her arms. “No need to be shy!”

“Eeeehhh…?”

Great uneasiness upon him, the Prince went over to face Millanueve and raised the oaken sword. “Let’s start this slowly, shall we—Oh!”

Only too eager to get going, Millanueve dashed at him and opened with a stab aimed at his gut. The Prince pulled aside to evade, while she turned her weapon around and swung fast at his forehead. He blocked it in a great hurry.

“Nice reactions!” she complimented, her smile only widening.

“What happened to holding back!?” he cried.

“Oh, I am sure I could’ve stopped that one right shy of your face.”

“I didn’t get the same impression!”

The bright sound of wood striking wood rang out time after time again, echoing along the castle walls, while the small barony’s knight chased the Prince around the yard. He certainly didn’t imagine a girl half his size could give him such a hard time, even for play. With no time to mind his manners, he let go of protests, mustered his focus and answered the heated offensive, taking great care not to hit the opponent, and not be hit himself.

Under that unexpected mental pressure, he found mysterious contentment. Perhaps there was the worthwhile training he had been searching all along? Soon enough, he forgot his apathy, trading blows with the Ludegwertan maiden.

Their improvised drum performance began to soon draw the attention of others. Knights freed from their watch on the wall paused to spectate the silly mock battle on the way in. Instead of going on, the crowd grew in size, until a few inspired souls asked to borrow the spare swords.

Before long, there were multiple pairs sparring, and it was as if the glory days of the castle had suddenly returned.

Growing hot, Millanueve took a break to remove her overcoat. While taking the coat away, she also took the chance to trade her beat-up weapon for a fresh one, and left the Prince to practice with the soldiers. She came to where the bard sat cross-legged on the ground, idly playing his lute, and then noticed another odd group coming at them from the front yard’s way. There was Margitte, recently freed from her watch, as well as her mentor Laukan, and Arnwahl.

“What is all this racket?” Margitte stopped before Millanueve and the bard, and questioned the view. “Don’t you people have anything better to do?”

“We’re training?” Millanueve answered her. “People need exercise to keep healthy. Would you like to join us, Master Beuhler? There’s plenty of room, if you’re looking to work up a good sweat.”

“Are you mental?” the magician asked, bashfully flicking her curls. “What am I even asking, of course you are. As if I’d swing a piece of wood around like some deranged cave troll! Sweating is among the most unpleasant things I can think of in life, and I have to wonder if you’re a woman at all to fancy such things. Tell these people to find more productive ways to waste their time.”

“Now, now, my apprentice,” Master Laukan interrupted her. “Have a look at their faces before you judge them.”

“Their faces?”

Margitte looked around, unsure of what she was expected to see. At first, she couldn’t perceive anything out of the ordinary, but then, she had something of an epiphany.

“They’re—smiling?”

The men oppressed by apathy and terror for the past week, constantly grim and on the edge, were now suddenly smiling, laughing freely, and looking relaxed, whilst testing their strength and discussing techniques. The shadow of doom had been, for this moment, banished from the sunlit yard.

“Perhaps the best weapon against the enemy is no sword or magic arrow, after all,” Laukan remarked as he went to take a seat on a bench in the shade. “By all means, do carry on. And thank you, Lady Millanueve, for showing this miracle to us. It warms this old heart like you wouldn’t believe, to see that the joys of living are not yet lost on us.”

“It was his highness's idea,” Millanueve answered. “I didn’t do anything.”

“This wasn’t quite what I had in mind,” the Prince commented further away.

Done with lightening her outfit and replacing her weapon, Millanueve turned to the training grounds again, searching for an idle prey—partner with her gaze. And then she heard a voice behind her.

“May I have the honor, milady?”

Arnwahl stepped over to the pile of swords next to the bard, picked one up, and turned then to Millanueve with a faint smile on his lips.

“But of course!” she agreed without a second thought.

“Oi,” Waramoti smelled danger and cautioned the champion, but went entirely ignored.

The two moved further away to open ground and faced one another. They performed chivalrous bows mirroring each other, touched blades and proceeded to spar. It seemed every bit like casual training, so the minstrel gave up on getting in their way.

“We spoke of this before,” Arnwahl said to her while absentmindedly knocking at her weapon. “About your reason to hold the sword.”

“Yes.” She nodded. “I remember.”

“You told me it was to protect the good. I take it the cause remains unchanged?”

“Of course? I believe it’s even more important now, looking at where we are. But, to be entirely honest with you, I don’t think the real answer is as simple as that.”

“No?”

“At first I wished to become a knight to protect the people of my hometown, and my family. Or no. Before any of that, I believe all I really thought about was wanting to make my father proud of me.”

“A natural reason,” he commented.

“But that has changed,” Millanueve continued, her expression turning grave. “Only very recently. On my travels, I came to see evil. True evil. And I saw how helpless I was before it. I realized there are forces in the world, truly sinister forces, that must be opposed with might, or else they will ruin everything we hold dear. The enemy isn’t going to ask for my opinion, or if I can fight despite being a noble, or a woman. They just do what they do, unless someone stops them. And that’s the purpose for which I carry my sword now. Not just to protect the good—to make sure evil doesn’t win. There’s a difference.”

“I see,” Arnwahl laconically uttered. The mild spark of curiosity seemed to fade from his eyes. The look annoyed Millanueve.

“And you told me you wield your sword for challenge, to prove yourself, yes?” she asked. “I suppose you had your way, after everything that happened.”

“No,” he denied. “To be honest, I was not fully sincere with my answer at the time either. I spoke more of the general human nature and not my personal aspirations.”

“Truly?”

“Yes. That being said, I believe my true purpose is far simpler than what was given.”

He came forward and swung the practice sword at Millanueve in sluggish arcs, aiming slightly past her to give her the time to dodge. His movements were deliberately slow, but there was weight behind them. She took care to parry each hit and retreated before his lazy assault.

“How do you mean simpler?” she asked. “Wanting to prove yourself superior by overcoming opposition—can it get any simpler than that?”

“We talk about goals,” he said with a carefree wave. “Power can be used to protect, to conquer, as much is true. But neither of those things is of any interest to me. I see them as no more than unwitting by-products of the Path, not the essence of it. Distortions, so to speak.”

“Distortions...did you say?” she repeated with a frown.

“Yes. Destroy evil, save good, protect justice—naught but distractions with which the lesser men confuse themselves and others, all of them unfit to house a lifetime of dedication, ephemeral as they are vacuous. Society’s values shift constantly with the times, and so do views on good and evil. What worth is there then in chasing something so weak and forgotten in a generation? And what worth is there in appearing ‘powerful’ to the fools who believe in such nonsense? No. Such things mean nothing to me.”

He said so as he gradually increased the speed and strength of his swings.

“Then what is your real purpose, Arnwahl?” she questioned him. “What made you a knight if not justice, or even the search for glory?”

The man cut down at her guard and stilled his weapon there, above her brow. He pressed on with one hand while she held him back with great effort, and he said,

“I wield the sword for the sake of the sword—as simple as that.”

“….What does that mean?”

Though he remained composed on the outside, a strange tension had come into his voice and gaze. He spoke as though a zealot of his religion.

“Not a mere tool, the sword is a crystallization of the Path itself. A tangible expression of an intangible ideal. Swords were made to cut; there is no room for good or evil in there. What I seek is unity with the weapon through action, the actualization of its purest meaning; to become something more than a man, a measure of violence in body and soul. That is the reason why I stand here today. To be one with the blade, to cut, to find my purpose in execution. Outside the clash of our weapons, no other illusion holds form. Before the truth of steel, vainglorious words and ideals are rendered hopelessly hollow. The only reason that lasts the test of time is therefore the relinquishment of reasons. To only be!”

Arnwahl lowered his pose and adopted genuine technique for the first time, coming forward with a powerful stab aimed directly at Millanueve’s center of gravity. He kept his speed yet manageable, but the force of the strike was intense, his full weight and momentum behind it. Her guard failed and she staggered to the side to evade, but two more stabs followed in rapid succession.

“That’s not true!” Millanueve replied as she struggled to defend.

“And how am I wrong?” he asked.

“I don’t know!” she said without hesitation.

“...That is rather unreasonable.”

“I may not be able to put it well into words, but that’s how I feel. My heart is telling me that your way of thinking—your whole way of life—is wrong!”

“Nonsense,” the man grunted, applying more force into his moves.

“Don’t call it nonsense!” she argued as she weathered his assault. “You said it’s oneness with your blade that you seek? But swords don’t think! They want for nothing. It’s the human in you who chose the Path. It’s your intent that cuts. It was another human who taught you those techniques, and it was your heart that made you strong. In that case, any reason that comes from the heart should be just as good! Being stronger or weaker than the opponent doesn’t mean their reasons themselves are any better or worse! That has nothing to do with it!”

“Strength is the only measure of correctness that matters,” Arnwahl retorted. “It is true that one chooses their principles. But even now, your choices are being judged by the blade in your hand. Its verdict is inescapable, and in death made irrefutable. Those who seek the correct Path will prevail whereas others fall. That is all there is to life. The only thing that truly matters. And that, Lady Millanueve, is the reason why someone like you cannot ever overcome me, for play or otherwise. Not because of heart, or righteousness, or any such trifling nonsense, but because I am the one of us most committed to the truth of existence. There are no superfluous constructs of emotion to stall my blade, it is empty and clean. Your refusal to acknowledge this and the excuses you pile in the way of your swordsmanship are the reason why you will always fall short.”

“And that’s where you’re wrong!” Millanueve exclaimed. “I’m not going to lose, to you or anyone. Not because the sword decided it, but because I did! Because I have someone I want to reach from the bottom of my heart!”

Millanueve received Arnwahl’s descending cut, let it slide along her slanted weapon down past her shoulder. She took a step forward and countered with a two-handed overhead blow with all of her might behind it. Arnwahl drew his sword hand back and raised it to guard. She adjusted her aim slightly and struck hard.

——Crash!

A sharp bang rang out as Arnwahl’s practice spatha shattered.

“Ha—?”

The champion had chosen his weapon poorly.

He had unwittingly picked up the sword next to the pile, which Millanueve had traded away earlier. It had developed a fracture in her exchange with the Prince. Noticing his error, she kept hitting the same weakened spot over the course of their bout, until the frame finally gave in for good.

Caught completely by surprise, his weapon destroyed, Arnwahl reeled.

She turned her sword at the knight’s neck, to put him in check and force him to yield.

Seeing the approaching edge, Arnwahl’s mind went completely blank.

Wood or steel, he suddenly knew no difference. All he knew was the imminent threat on him. He was going to be defeated, and defeat in battle meant death. Every fiber of his being set out to reject this outcome. By pure instinct, his body moved. He dropped his knees low, discarded the broken tool, and seized the handle of the sword on his belt. He drew out the blade by three inches. There came a fiery flash and an air-rending crackle. With a sharp cry, Millanueve was struck back several yards across the air, lightly as a ragdoll.

Everyone in the vicinity stopped, stunned.

They saw Millanueve writhe on the ground. The shoulder of her shirt had caught fire. Waramoti dropped his lute and he and the Prince were soon at the girl, putting out the flames with their hands. Through the burned hole in the outfit, they saw blood begin to spread.

“Here, let me see,” Laukan hurried to them and knelt next to the groaning maiden. He pulled the shirt aside to examine the wound, and then pressed his hand on it, and began to murmur words of the ancient language under his breath. A faint, green light glowed through his fingers, and Millanueve’s agony began to grow lesser. She ceased to squirm and her breath came easier.

“It was an indirect hit,” the mage said to her. “The bone is intact. You’re going to be fine. But I fear a burn like this is going to leave a lasting scar.”

“My apologies,” Arnwahl said from further back. “It was an accident.”

The knight wasn’t smiling, but neither was the air about him particularly worried, nor apologetic. Seeing his unrepentant demeanor, the Prince got up and took a menacing step at the knight, but Waramoti caught his wrist.

“There couldn’t be a worse time for us to quarrel with each other,” the bard said, and then turned to the champion with both wrath and unease in his eyes. “But for your sake, Arnwahl—not a word of this to Izumi!”