I Became the First Prince: Legend of Sword's Song
chapter-77

Not One, But Many (2)

Time passed slowly.

Fragments of the sundered red sea were scattered before me, some of it touching my arms, my shoulders, and my chest.

My skin felt aflame, and through that terrible pain, I could feel the presence of a distant mind.

The hazy world became clear.

I saw the Warlord before me, and his coruscating red armor of sparking battle fervor had disappeared.

He looked defenseless, showing true fear for the first time since we had begun our battle. Now was the only chance I would get.

I endured the pain and readied Twilight in a tight grip. I hoped, and continued hoping, that the tragic fact of his existence would come to an end there and then.

But was I too hasty? Was it even possible for me to deal a death blow, to reach him again with my sword?

The price of using an excessive amount of power could be great, indeed, and I had absorbed a lot of power from the knights’ poem.

I struck at him, yet he swayed to one side; even then, I had only managed to channel half the intended amount of mana into my blade.

The power of the poem, the dragon’s very own will, had flowed from me and left me empty. The dark blue flames of Twilight dissipated into nothingness.

[The Poetry of the Tue Dragon] had given me the strength to tear through the Warlord’s shielding armor of fervor, but at the same time, the poem had robbed me of the power needed to split the orc open and end its accursed existence.

And all the while, the Warlord’s spear was still swinging at full momentum.

What a shitty situation!

I had lost my strength, and this boded very ill, for even if the Warlord’s magic has also been broken, he was a huge, born as a monster while I was in the body of a teenager.

I knew that poets would call a situation such as this ‘hitting a rock with an egg’. Still, I readied my blade. I had at least trained this body into a state of health over the past year, so that had to count for something against this hulking one-armed monstrosity and his spear.

I would rely on the slightest flicker of fire that still existed at the end of Twilight. I will not allow this tale to end in tragedy.

The Warlord was staring at me, grinding his teeth. I could see that he had noted my weakness, and the fires of victory once more blazed in those evil red eyeballs of his.

Suddenly, a spear as large as an iron pillar was heading straight for my nose. I twisted my body and stepped back in an instant, having turned to one side as I ducked beneath the swipe, yet the Warlord was fast as he turned his spear in a full circle above his head and stepped in for another jab at me. The spear’s blade clipped me with its flat face, the force of it slamming into my chest.

I staggered back, yet I still managed to lunge forward with my arm and strike at the beast with my sword.

It sunk into his flesh, and I could feel the rough, scalloped texture of his skin brush against my hand.

A moment passed when his fervor uncomfortably resisted the nearness of my presence.

It felt as if I had placed my hand in an electric current – as if I had flown a wire kite in a thunderstorm.

Then, the resistance gave way, and I stared into the Warlord’s face.

The King of the Orcs was embarrassed, and one could clearly see defeat written over his savage features.

He was staring at something, and I followed his gaze, seeing a great, gory red gash that had been carved at a diagonal angle way past his clavicle and through his collarbone. The great cut then moved ever so slightly, like fleshy tectonic plates, and then – Thud! – his entire shoulder slipped from his chest in a welter of gore, like a great chunk of ice that broke off from a glacier.

His arm flopped to the floor, still clutching the spear.

The Warlord gave a soft groan, a growl, opened his mouth wide, and then: “Graaaaaooooooooooo! Uuuuuhghhh, Graaaaooooooo!!!”

Through that rotten maw, he gave voice to a great roar of utmost pain and great anger.

At that very moment, the slowed passage of time started to flow swiftly for me once more.

“For Balahard!” a black shadow shouted as it streaked past me, and after it had passed, I saw that a black javelin had been thrown straight into the roaring Warlord’s face. It looked exactly like the throwing spears that the Black Lancers preferred to use.

“Graaaaoouuuuaaa, Graaaaoooorraaaghh!” the Warlord roared in even greater pain, as he now had a spear that had been thrust neatly into his eye socket and the fleshy bits beyond it.

“Here is the gift of winter, you big green bastard!” Quéon Lichtheim shouted as he boldly marched up to the Warlord and punched it in its face.

The beast continued to roar, and then, after suffering such great pain, the King of the Orcs that none had thought would ever fall, fell.

“For Winter Castle!”

“For the men who fell in the north!”

The Black Lancers shouted and jeered at the monster as they jabbed their spears into it and made their horses kick their shodden hooves sharply into its flanks.

“Stop, take them off! Stop!” the Warlord cried out in its crude language, sounding at once like a beast yelping in fear and a child sobbing inconsolably. The Black Lancers jumped from their horses, all charging as one as they pierced the great orc in a flash of spears and a shower of blood. The Warlord struggled as it was pin-cushioned, but the orc’s resistance was just ugly convulsions, for the beats had already lost two arms and had a piece of iron lodged in its brain.

“This fucking damnable monster!”

“Die! Fuck, die! Die!”

The Black Lancers were repeatedly spearing the orc, like a bunch of insane whalers. The Warlord’s body turned from green into a gory, pulpy red mess of meat. Nevertheless, the beast lived on through the entire ordeal. Its cries and pleadings become ever more miserable.

Hundreds of times, it was pierced by the spears, and at some point, one of its legs were hacked off and staked upon a spear, from which it hung like a grisly banner over the battlefield.

The dignity of a king was nowhere to be found if one studied the Warlord’s scattered parts.

It is how a being born as a king, a being that had fought as a king, and a being who till the end had wished to remain a king had died.

The number of times the Black Lancers’ spears had pierced him reflecting the numbers of the soldiers and knights who had died under the tide of monsters that the Warlord had unleashed upon Winter Castle.

It was the miserable death that had been accorded to the killer of my uncle.

“Agh… uggghh…” the Warlord sputtered, and then its leg finally relaxed.

He was kneeling on his stump and his remaining leg, kneeling in a crimson pool of his own blood.

My vision was blurred as I took in the scene. Something kept scratching against my teeth, so I spat it out.

I spat out a handful of dark red blood, and I felt joy upon knowing the cruel Warlord had finally died.

I had a handful of my own lifeblood to offer up in mourning to those who would never return – a piece of longing for the uncle I had lost and a piece of repentance for the stupidity of my past.

Even though it was just a handful of blood, many things poured out of me in that single moment.

『An amazing thing has been achieved upon this day』

『The first verse of [Poetry of the Defeated King] has been completed』

『You have gained insights into the deeper workings of Muhunshi』

I heard these messages storm through my ears, and that sound was as fierce as my renewed spirit.

* * *

The very instant that the Warlord fell, the orcs started to flee en masse. Not a shred of dignity could be found in these invaders that had so ravaged the north. They were just frightened beasts that fled from their pursuers.

And as every hunter knows, a wounded beast could never be allowed to flee. The humans made sure that the fleeing orcs paid a heavy price for their cowardice.

“Knights! Pursue the surviving orcs, and rally the cavalry to ride with you!”

Upon the commander’s orders, the knights and cavalrymen mounted up and scattered all across the land as they tracked the groups of fleeing monsters. The soldiers that remained cared for the wounded; they recovered their dead and cleared the battlefield of all else.

The soldiers kept stealing glances at the center of the field as they went about their assigned duties. In the exact middle of a group of five-hundred soldiers and knights, the body of a great monster had been staked upon many spears. Those who were gathered around these grisly banners were the troops of Balahard. These men had kept their silence even when the survivors of the central army had loudly cheered the fact that the orcs had finally been defeated. They all just stood around the remains of the Warlord; their backs turned to the south.

“Are we supposed to go there?” one of the central nobles asked. “I saw earlier when they took in His Highness the First Prince, he had been greatly hurt, I think.” Other nobles nodded at his words, yet not one of these aristocrats dared approach the area where the troops of Balahard stood vigil. Maximilian had approached them, though.

* * *

When I returned from driving the orcs over the bridge with our infantry, I found my brother Adrian crying as he lay face down in the bloody mud under the spears upon which the Warlord’s carcass had been mounted.

I could not imagine what things, what thoughts, were flashing through my brother’s mind.

He had remained a strong prince even after so many good people have died at Winter Castle. When he had survived that great charge, and when we had left the castle, he had been loaded into a wagon, unconsciouses, or so it seemed. Instead of spending his waking moments in mourning, he had planned on how to destroy the enemy.

I had seen anger in him, but little sorrow.

And now, there he was, my strong older brother crying sadly into the earth.

I approached him but had nothing comforting to say.

I was not alone in that, for everyone around me stood silent and unmoving – everyone except Adrian’s champion, Arwen Kirgayen.

After searching the area of land beyond the bridge where the orcs had camped, she had come to us, and in her hands, she carried a great banner. She passed without hesitating through the soldiers as she headed to the gathered troops of Balahard.

She finally came before my brother and knelt before him, her knee squelching into the mud.

* * *

The First Prince had by now sat upright, a blank expression plastered on his face.

“Your Highness, I, Arwen Kirgayen, have completed your orders and now return to you once more.”

She had lured the orcs, just as her master had commanded her to do. She had then remained in the defensive lines to guard over the Second Prince and ultimately report her observations to Adrian.

She then gave her report.

“Of the twenty-nine Balahard cavalry that had followed me in our diversionary operation, all twenty-nine were slain. The only survivors of the mission were Bernardo Eli and me.”

Maximilian studied the faces of Balahard’s men upon this news, wondering if they would look ill upon Arwen.

They seemed to bear her no ill will.

“Seven of the nineteen remaining Black Lancers were killed.

“Of the Second Balahard Ranger Company, forty-three out of hundred-and-twenty-four were slain.”

“Seventy-two out of the hundred-and-ninety-eight soldiers of the Fourth Balahard Infantry Company have died.”

Arwen remained on her knees as she continued to list other statistics on the general situation.

Maximilian strongly felt that her timing was wrong. He thought it was cruel to report the dead in such a factual manner so soon after the battle. He even thought that Arwen’s report would make his brother cry again, but Adrian did not cry.

The First Prince had merely stayed seated, receiving the news with a grim face. He then rose to address those around him.

“Everyone… Good work,” Adrian praised the survivors, with his voice cracked and almost bursting with emotion.

“Your Highness, I gift you with the Warlord’s banner,” Arwen Kirgayen said as she politely offered him the thick shaft.

“Let’s go back,” the First Prince said as he grabbed the flagpole without unfurling the banner itself, breaking with custom.

“Let’s return to our fortress.”

* * *

Even before the field of battle had properly been cleared, the northern army had left.

After dividing their forces into labor squads, the central nobles had come together to plan future work. Yet, they became very confused when they heard that those who had contributed the most to the victory were leaving for the north.

The commander had stepped forward, strongly encouraging the First Prince to stay and observe the situation with them. Adrian did not listen.

“I have work to do,” was all that he had said. He had hurried along, then shouting over his back that he had something very important to do in the north.

“Brother, I will follow you,” Maximilian said.

“No, return to the capital. You have your duties as a prince, brother, your own job to do,” Adrian stated as he put his hand on his brother’s shoulder and graced him with a deep and meaningful look.

Even though no further words were spoken, Maximilian somehow knew what his job was to be.

“We will see each other again soon enough,” Adrian had greeted Maximilian, and then he left for the north.

After the Northmen had left, those that remained had to suffer the headaches of reconstruction and retribution.

“How must one treat those who have never even heard the word honor, much less possess a single a sliver of it in their craven hearts?”

“Since they seem to share the same heart, they have already offered to pay money to mollify us after their cowardice. My lords, I don’t think their tax is so small.”

“When the northerners were here, we could have marched, but now these cowards and their troops outnumber us.”

“It’s a shame, really, that we have to deal with all these petty matters. Is this my prize for risking my life in battle?”

The central nobles now had to decide the fates of their fellows who had fled from the bridge’s defense. They also discussed how to repair the damage inflicted upon the central army during the battle.

The problems were complicated, and the solutions not self-evident.

“Still, you must be glad that you fought and saved the bridge, no?” Count Brandenburg lightly scolded the commander and the nobles.

Those around him laughed and said that he spoke true.

* * *

The northern army marched from the Rhinethes straight to the province of Balahard.

Finally, they arrived at Winter Castle.

The traces of their hasty retreat were still much in evidence before the south gate of the fortress. Count Vincent Balahard and his forces awaited the army in front of this gate.

“Your Highness, you are back!” Vincent exclaimed in greeting.

Adrian just gave a curt nod to the knight beside him, who then opened the lids of large chests that stood upon a wagon.

The various pieces of the Warlord’s carcass were removed one by one. Its head, still attached to its torso, came out first, the selfsame head that had cried out so terribly in fear and pain.

“It has been hacked into pieces. I can barely recognize its shape,” Vincent said, pretending to be calm, yet his eyes and trembling body proved that he was anything but calm. “Where’s the other arm?” he managed to ask.

“Oh, one of its arms were cut off by your father, so I have no idea where it is. The beast never told me.”

Vincent closed his eyes upon hearing these words but quickly opened them again as he tried to maintain his mask of faux serenity.

“My father did not fight in vain, then,” Vincent said. He then ordered that the Warlord’s head be removed and stuffed separately. Soldiers groaned as they lifted the chests off the wagon and carried them to the castle to begin their grim labor.

“Your journey must have been hard. Please, let’s go inside.”

Even upon this invitation from Vincent, the First Prince did not move. Without saying anything, he removed a roll of cloth that had been tied to his back and held it out to Vincent.

“What is this?”

“It is the Warlord’s banner.”

At that very moment, the cold northern wind blew in from the Blade’s Edge Mountains.

The banner of the Warlord unfurled, and that final trace of the brief kingdom that the orcs had carved out fluttered in the wind – a banner torn, tattered, and faded.

“Ah, now the day will never come when I will beat your highness at catching flags.”

The First Prince shook his head as his gaze swept over the walls of Winter Castle.

“Mount this banner on your highest spire, where everyone shall see it through the ages as a symbol of the iron will of Winter Castle.”

Adrian looked around at the gathered soldiers.

“The master of this banner is Balahard!” he declared.

They had all fought and struggled and finally gained the victory. Only now had Adrian declared the great triumph that they had won on the Rhinethes, and he only declared it here, beneath these walls.

The survivors of Winter Castle cheered.

Only

* * *

“Say that again,” the King said with a frown.

“Your Majesty, the First Prince has refused to return.”

The King’s frown deepened as he listened to the messenger.

“Say that again!” the king commanded as deep anger crept into his voice.

The messenger trembled under the king’s wrathful attention. Yet, he had a family to feed and debts to pay, so he had no choice but to do his job. He closed his eyes tightly, and delivered the full message, delivered the words of Prince Adrian Leonberger.

“Your Majesty, His Highness the First Prince said that he would return by himself in due time, as he sees fit.”