Rakuin no Monshou
Volume 12, 1: Creeping Shadow

Volume 12, Chapter 1: Creeping Shadow

Part 1

“So hard...”

The trembling voice crept along the cold stone floor. Transparent teardrops trickled downwards as though chasing after it.

“I’ve tried so hard to forget that day. To tell myself that it was all just a dream. That I had a sweet dream about promising a happy future with someone. Then I had a bad dream that tore it all up in one night. I was finally, truly, managing to convince myself of that... Even though I was finally starting to forget... When he appeared in front of me again.”

“...”

The only one listening to Layla’s soliloquy was Vileena Owell. The third princess of Garbera and fiancée to Crown Prince Gil of Mephius, she stood rooted to the spot as she listened to the truth behind Gil’s past, unable to interrupt.

“Even though he had caused me so much pain, even though he’d casually pushed me from the summit of happiness straight into the pits of despair simply because he found it amusing to do so... he looked as though he didn’t recognize me at all. Not just that, the second time I met him, he acted like a completely different person from the crown prince I knew.”

Layla was no longer looking at Vileena. She herself probably did not know who she was talking to anymore. It was as though the words poured out along with the emotions welling up from the very depths of her heart, all while her shoulders, lips and voice trembled.

“Ah, but that’s no wonder,” Vileena was startled by the sudden smile which appeared on Layla’s lips. “He died. He was shot by my father and killed. Even for a crown prince, once his chest was pierced by a bullet, there’s no way to come back to life. That’s someone else. That can’t be the Crown Prince of Mephius. But then... then, why? Why did someone with the same face as him appear and take the crown prince’s identity? To torment me again? Even though everything’s already been taken from me, that still wasn’t enough? Then, is that why Father was hurt? Or else... it’s not me, but to deceive the princess? Did he appear to make her suffer the same thing as me? No, not just the princess...”

Something pressed strongly against Layla’s mouth, blocking her voice inside within.

It was Vileena. Before she had realised it, the Garberan princess was hugging Layla to her chest. Layla’s entire body trembled violently, exactly as though she was rejecting Vileena; but the princess wrapped her arms around her back even tighter and Layla, sobbing even more bitterly than before, pressed her cheeks against the younger girl.

It was not true, however, that while enveloping Layla in her own warmth, Vileena herself was calm. At this point, it was difficult to believe that Layla was deliberately lying. And yet... that ‘’that’’ Gil Mephius had forced his right to the first night on a girl of the people, and that Layla’s father had shot him dead because of it – the ‘truth’ that Layla was telling her was simply too far removed from the reality that Vileena knew. The contradictions raged through her slender chest like a storm.

Died... He... died? It was a feeling that she too was familiar with. Back in Apta. She had not been able to believe that they had been parted for all eternity. And in actual fact, Gil had nonchalantly returned as though nothing had happened.

Then were there similar circumstances to the the ‘truth’ that Layla was talking about?

To hide the shame of having used his right to the first night, he pretended to die... No, that didn’t add up. It couldn’t add up. Vileena’s thoughts were in complete disarray.

Desperate to replace an answer, she cast her mind in every imaginable direction, but no matter how far she followed every thread of thought, she always came back with nothing.

Someone else – As sharply as something slapping her cheek, those simple words suddenly burst to the surface of her mind. The same words that Layla had blurted out earlier.

That’s impossible.

Yet for some reason, those frivolous words that she had discarded from the start had taken on a strange sense of reality, like a snake abruptly raising its sickle-shaped head.

Vileena had heard comments that Crown Prince Gil was like a different person compared to the past. A great many comments.

Indeed, there had been rumours even in Garbera that Gil Mephius was a ‘fool’. That he showed no ambition to take part in government or military affairs, and simply spent every day racketing about with his friends until late at night. He was apparently constantly terrified of his father’s very shadow, and even the retainers looked down on him. Although he was still young, there had also already been more than just one or two scandals involving women.

Because of that, Vileena had, from the bottom of her heart, despised the thought of marrying that ‘fool’ Gil, and, before leaving Garbera, she had energetically decided to train him to bend to her will, and so bring about victory for her country.

However –

Once she had actually arrived in Mephius and met Gil face-to-face, he had been like a completely different person from the rumours.

Certainly, he had also been very different from all the other aristocrats Vileena was acquainted with. They had even yelled at each other once because of a difference of opinion. He was definitely extremely eccentric, but he was not the feeble-minded man that rumour had made him out to be. He was, in particular, completely hopeless when it came to women. Or rather, he gave the impression of being uninterested in playing around with them.

Rumours heard from abroad are really untrustworthy. Yet no sooner had Vileena been forced to that conclusion than the Mephians themselves all started agreeing on one thing:

“The crown prince seems like a completely different person from how he was before.”

Among them, there were some ladies who whispered to the princess that, “this is a perfect illustration of how a layabout who could never go to sleep unless dead drunk is transformed by marriage into a splendidly hard-working man. The crown prince must surely be pushing himself to become a mature adult before your wedding, Princess.”

She herself, however, did not agree with that.

It’s impossible to suddenly become that kind of person. He must have been like that long before meeting me.

But then – why?

Why did the crown prince transform so abruptly that the retainers were left staring wide-eyed?

At that moment, scenes appeared in Vileena’s mind. As quickly as one scene seemed to flicker and light up, it merged into another, then another.

Their first meeting in Seirin Valley. Even though she had offered him her greetings, Gil Mephius had not given her any direct response, but had simply mumbled the words that his aide, Fedom, had whispered to him.

Afterwards, Ryucown’s men had barged in on the ceremony and just when the princess had seemed about to be kidnapped, Gil had given his own men and the gladiators exactly the right orders to prevent that from happening.

That same evening, there had been the scene that Vileena had suddenly remembered just a moment earlier, when they had yelled at each other.

“The royal family started this war of their own accord, without considering their people’s feelings, but they now claim to take them into consideration by ending that war? Those exalted, high-born nobles hold the lives of the commoners entirely in their grip, huh,” Gil had spat out, causing Vileena to fly into a rage.

He might have come across as a man who thought about the people and about the ordinary troops, yet when subjugating Ryucown, he had stood by and watched as the Garberan and the rebel forces clashed without sending a single soldier in reinforcement. When she had pointed out the contradiction, Gil Mephius had been almost ridiculously upset. That man who sized things up so infuriatingly calmly; that man who, when it came to battle, seemed to toss away personal feelings to somewhere underfoot, in a ditch, or wherever.

“For now, we have to wait for the right time,” he had finally managed to bite out, looking as though she had touched a weak point in his heart.

Right, a weak man.

That was another impression that Vileena had of him.

The next scene which rose to her mind took place on the topmost floor of Apta Fortress, against the backdrop of early evening, where a man was kneeling, alone and in tears. It was the first time she had seen anything like that. A man sobbing out loud. And as it had been none other than Gil Mephius, the princess had felt more shocked than words could express.

The recollections still would not end. There were scenes which had been indelibly seared into her mind, and a great many others which had done nothing more than lightly graze its surface, only a few fragments – a casual word, a certain gesture – remaining in her memory. They went so fast that not even Vileena’s eyes and ears could follow them. Before one scene even came to an end, the next one would start, so there was no sense of time and space, with each scene blending into the others.

Amidst them, something strange happened.

“It’s the same for everyone.”

Next to the princess, who was sitting down, was the figure of a man standing beneath a clear blue sky. He was smiling dazzlingly.

“What is our real self? Doesn’t everyone live their lives without knowing the answer? Or without knowing if there even is an answer? Royalty, philosophers, priests, peasants, merchants, and even slaves – everyone grieves over their own situation; and not knowing what to do with themselves, they dream that there exists a true calling for them. ‘Who am I’ and ‘who will I become’ – those kinds of worries are as countless as the stars in the sky, and will follow you around endlessly.”

The one who had said that had been the gladiator, Orba. A man whose face was hidden behind an iron mask and that she had thus never seen. And yet, right now, in the image that flashed through Vileena’s mind, he had removed the mask. His face seemed to be buffeted by the wind and as dazzling as looking up into the sun.

Startled, she hurriedly tried to pull that scene back to her consciousness. She wanted to ‘see’ it one more time, before it drifted away.

“Princess.”

What appeared before her ‘eyes’ however was a scene from yet another memory.

"I hope you will never lose that honesty. No matter what happens from now on.”

This was Apta once more. It was dusk and Gil Mephius, wrapped in its golden light, had spoken those words on the topmost floor of the barracks.

But – why was it? Maybe it was because of confusion born from too many memories revolving too quickly, but to Vileena’s eyes, it looked as though Gil was wearing an iron mask.

“Then, will you promise me?” She heard her own voice from far away. “From now on, would you confide in me without concealing anything? If you do, I will help you to the best of my poor ability.”

“Yeah. But,” he laughed lightly. “Don't forget one thing. Mephius' Prince Gil is a 'liar'.”

His figure merging into the evening sun, half of Gil’s face seemed to shine the colour of iron.

The curtain fell on the theatre of her memories with terrifying abruptness. So much so that she was left reeling from it. There was nothing more. The words, gestures and scenes from her memory all vanished from her mind, and Vileena was left behind, alone.

For a moment, it felt as though her thoughts went blank, but her heart started thumping wildly as if to fill in that empty space.

Perhaps... she thought.

It can’t be – she denied it in the next second.

But like a wave surging forward, that perhaps came back again, her doubts erasing the it can’t be.

The clash between those two emotions did not last as long as her reminiscences had. The second one gradually grew weaker, and a suspicion that she could barely acknowledge entered her heart.

She remained unmoving, caught up in that inextricable tangle. Before she realised it, loud footsteps were fast approaching.

Gowen rushed up the tower staircase.

He was the one who had given orders to only a few soldiers to guard Layla, who was locked up in there. And late that night, he had received a report from those very soldiers. They had been told that a young man named Alnakk, who had started serving the princess, had recently been sniffing around about Layla. On top of that, the lady’s maid who had given them that warning was said to have entered the tower to help Layla wash herself.

“A lady’s maid?”

The soldiers had surely believed that she had been sent by Gowen but, of course, this was the first that Gowen, himself, had heard of it. He figured it out instantly.

The princess!

He had hastily headed towards the tower. The door leading to the topmost floor was ajar.

Gowen gnashed his teeth. I knew it, I shouldn’t have said anything – he thought.

Layla appeared to know the previous – or rather, the real – crown prince, so her very existence was liable to bring danger to Orba. In actual fact, she had already turned a blade against him and tried to kill him, but he was more afraid of the knowledge she possessed becoming a danger to Orba’s inner circle than of any sword coated in poison that she might wield.

Once the princess learns about it... the magnificent deception would come to an end.

Shit, if only we had a smooth-talker around. It was unlike Gowen, but his mind conjured up the face of a man who was not there, who could no longer be there. Poor talker that he himself was, he was not at all confident that he would be able to mystify the princess.

With no leisure to worry about it, Gowen leapt and landed on the top floor.

“Now, Layla,” a woman’ voice could be heard. Princess Vileena’s voice.

The princess guided the sobbing Layla to the bed and covered her with a blanket. “Please rest for now. I’ll cast a magic spell on your pillow so that you won’t be bothered by bad dreams.”

She blew on the pillow – it was probably a Garberan way of coaxing children to sleep – then turned her gaze towards Gowen, who was standing ramrod straight in the doorway. Her tenderly smiling face turned all at once into an angry expression as she approached him, her eyebrows lowered.

Gowen gulped unconsciously, but before he had time to put himself on guard, she said:

“At the very least, provide her with a bath.”

“Huh?”

“She insolently pointed a blade towards His Imperial Highness, the Crown Prince, so I will not ask you to treat her with courtesy. However, she also served by me for a time, so at the very least, I would expect that she be treated in a manner befitting a woman.”

“...”

As Gowen remained silent, Vileena walked towards the door, as much as to say that she had finished her business there.

“I was hoping to hear of the circumstances, but what she said was quite incoherent. If anyone outside were to hear her, they would not think her sane. Furtively hiding her away like this, however, is more likely to attract needless attention from those around. As it did mine...”

For a moment, Gowen glanced between Layla, asleep on the bed, and Vileena, who was walking down the staircase.

Well then, this is... the veteran soldier and former overseer who made even tough gladiators tremble in fear muttered inwardly. She’s just no good at acting, so it seems pretty clear she learned something. Hey Orba, in that case, should I be warning you that there’s now another person whose mouth needs to be sealed, or should I be advising you to just run away at once with your tail between your legs?

The opponent was the third princess of Garbera. Someone who might well be an enemy far more difficult to handle than Mephius’ Emperor Guhl if she were to stand in Orba’s way.

Part 2

The troops led by Zenon Owell took up position at a point eight kilometres east of Dairan.

The way was barred to the north by cliffs projecting out onto the sea, and to the south, by steep, craggy mountains where almost no vegetation grew, so this mountain pass was the only road through which an army could march along. Allion’s second wave of troops, which was moving from the east via the country of Ryalide, could naturally only approach Dairan by following this route.

Prince Zenon of Garbera had hastened to bring reinforcements. He commanded a thousand two hundred soldiers from his own Order of the Tiger, three hundred from the Order of the Badger, and about seven hundred from the western allied forces.

After conferring with Lord Eric, the next grand duke of Ende, they had undertaken the responsibility of halting Allion’s second wave of troops, which was advancing along the overland route.

Their opponents numbered three thousand.

The enemy held the numerical superiority, but they could not possibly have foreseen that Garbera would take part in the fighting. One glance at the white flag of Garbera that was currently flying above Zenon’s head, and maybe they would lose their fighting spirit...

While he was not actually optimistic to that extent, neither did Zenon believe that the fighting would become particularly fierce. The enemy was facing a long-distance campaign, and simply maintaining their supply line was a huge cost in time, effort, and money. Even if they called on Ryalide’s assistance, they could not be planning to remain stationed there for any long period of time.

And if we can just block their way... In other words, if they could prevent the enemy from joining with Kaseria’s main body of troops, anchored to the north in Zonga, then Zenon estimated that they could win the war.

After taking up position, they had erected palisades against horses and dragons, and had installed three canons on high ground. Airships had also been flown to scout out the surrounding terrain.

A few days passed. It was now around the time when Lord Eric was still waiting impatiently for Kaseria’s troops to make a move.

The riders sent out on reconnaissance returned, fiercely lashing their horses. They had caught sight of Allion’s army.

“They’ve arrived?”

Zenon had been in his pavilion, reading through some old books that he had brought from his own country, but hurriedly put on his armour when he received the news.

“Finally, huh.”

Outside the tent, Moldorf and Nilgif, the Red and Blue Dragons of Kadyne, already had their horses lined up and their long spears at the ready. The end of Moldorf’s lance was divided into three prongs.

“By the way, I still haven’t heard,” his younger brother, Nilgif, spoke in a carefree tone, “what about the enemy general?”

Even though war was close, Zenon grinned involuntarily. There were two reasons for that.

The first was because he remembered how Nilgif, although technically taking part in the war meetings, had spent each of them with his eyes closed and his arms folded. One might have believed that he was plunged deep in thought, except that the quiet, even breathing coming from him within less than five minutes had attested to the fact that he was asleep.

And as for the other reason – it seemed to him that when Nilgif asked “what about the enemy general?”, he was not particularly enquiring about the enemy’s personality or about what kind of tactics he used, but simply wanted to confirm “who is it I should be aiming for?”

Putting on his helmet, its plume casting a shadow over his virile features, Zenon answered in an even voice.

“According to the scouts, the enemy commander-in-chief is Phard Chryseum. He uses his mother’s family name, but, apparently, he is Prince Kaseria’s older half-brother. He is said to be a fearless commander who has taken to the field a countless number of times and, every time, he’s torn through the enemy’s vanguard and left behind mountains of corpses.”

“Oh, sounds fun!”

“Don’t be pushy, Nilgif,” his older brother reproved him. “We’re fighting in a foreign country. We might be here as reinforcements, but this is a gathering of many powers and acting however you want by yourself might completely disrupt command. In this war, I won’t let you rush off ahead of me.”

The three companions spurred their horses forward to the front lines. It looked as though the enemy had started setting up their battle formations less than two kilometres away, down the mountain pass.

The enemy – Allion’s forces – was also receiving reports from its scouts.

“The flag of Garbera?” growled Phard Chryseum. Since he was sucking the meat from a rib, his voice sounded strangely stuffy.

Beneath the battle flags of famed commanders flapping in the wind, his black cloak swayed gently. A woman’s profile was embroidered in silver thread within its lining. Although his build was chubby, the two arms protruding from his armour were magnificently muscular and he was a man who gave off the same feeling of oppression as a small mountain. He was practically baby-faced and habitually wore his fluttering golden hair tied back.

With a pop, he pulled the bone out from his mouth then licked his lips that were shiny with grease.

“It’s gotten interesting. Garbera’s all about that, isn’t it – those chivalry guys. I always wanted to see what it was like.”

“Please wait.”

The man who stopped him as he seemed about to immediately rush off was so thin he almost seemed to exist as a contrast to Phard. In his blue hooded robes embroidered in red thread, he was unmistakably one of Allion’s non-combatant military sorcerers. His face looked as though only a thin layer of skin was stretched over his skull.

“What, Morga?”

The man did not flinch even as Phard glared at him in displeasure.

“We have not yet completed our preparations. If you would wait but a short while, I will open a ‘passageway’ so we can communicate with Prince Kaseria.”

“As usual, that sure is convenient,” Phard’s manner changed abruptly. He seemed to be the kind of man whose interest switched with dizzying speed to whatever was in front of him. “Can I talk to Kaseria directly?”

“It would take time... No, not just an hour or two, but the time to prepare adequate facilities and ether supplies. And on top of that, you would need to receive training in sorcery, Lord Phard.”

“Talk about needing patience,” Phard’s forehead creased into a frown. “If you want to train your arms, just carry something heavy. If you want to strengthen your legs, just run while doing so. But I can’t even guess how you’d train to strengthen yourself in sorcery.”

Although he was grumbling, Phard seemed willing to wait for the ‘sorcery’. Crunching on the bone with his sturdy jaws, he swung a heavy battle staff and started whirling it above his shoulders as though it were as light as a feather, probably intending to kill some time. Near the tip of the staff, a considerable number of iron balls hung from chains. They made a humming sound as they spun, and the nearby soldiers yelped and scattered away from their general to avoid being hit.

Morga left quickly and entered the tent reserved for his preparations. He was something like a staff officer attached to Phard; in Allion, it was not unusual for sorcerers bearing that kind of role to accompany troops.

As soon as Phard grew tired of swinging his weapon around, he retired to his pavilion and went to sleep, wrapped in the same black cloak. Loud snores could soon be heard from there, although something very like sobs were occasionally mixed in with them. His attendants had often witnessed how he would press his cheeks against the embroidered woman’s profile, practically wailing as he did so. Incidentally, the embroidery apparently represented Phard’s mother back in her younger days. While you would be forgiven for thinking that they had been torn asunder by her early death, she was still perfectly healthy. It was just that this huge man of nearly thirty missed his mother.

Night fell, soon followed by the dawning day.

At breakfast, Phard appeared for all the world to have utterly forgotten the previous day’s conversation and to be about to give the signal to attack, when the sorcerer Morga knelt by his side and started giving his report.

“Oh?”

What Morga was conveying were Kaseria’s instructions, which they had only received late that night. Had they been using airships or fast horses, it would, of course, not normally have been possible to communicate so quickly; this was the work of sorcery.

“This is enemy territory and ether is scarce, so we cannot open a ‘passageway’ here,” said Morga.

The further they were from Allion, the longer it took to prepare and the shorter the messages that could be transmitted, but for most people, who were not well-versed in sorcery, it was certainly a means of communication that defied common sense.

In any case, Phard listened to the instructions from Kaseria, nodding frequently.

“My little brother really is smart,” he gazed in the distance towards where the enemy had pitched their camp. “It’s fun to fight head-on, but killing a fleeing enemy also makes for an exciting battlefield. Both get my blood pumping. Right, we’ll wait.”

He flopped down and set his custom weapon beside him.

“Ooi, you lot! No war for now. Have a drink.”

Wine casks were immediately opened. His men looked as though they were going to waste no time acting on Phard’s generous suggestion and filling their wine cups to the brim.

“Hmm,” after a moment of deep cogitation however, “if we’re going to be waiting for the enemy, we might not have enough to drink. Wait, wait, you lot! No alcohol. No, it’s not that I won’t hand it out. Let’s have a kabat. Only the one who wins gets to drink a cup.”

Kabat was an ancient form of combat from the Magic Dynasty that had been handed down in Allion. A circle drawn on the ground was used as an arena. The contestants grappled bare-handed, and the winner was the one who pushed his opponent backwards on the ground or out of the circle. Trained soldiers usually performed in front of crowds of spectators at festivals held several times a year.

“Don’t worry about it being your superior officers. If I catch anyone going easy, I’ll come and be their opponent.”

While Allion’s camp was displaying this peculiar turn of events, in the opposite camp, Zenon Owell was puzzled at the enemy having halted their actions.

Having heard that battle was drawing near, Nilgif was so wound up that he seemed unable to sit still, and he was incessantly putting horses through their paces nearby. Had Zenon not been the commander of the allied forces, he too would have wanted to start at once.

While Nilgif was getting excited, his older brother Moldorf was like a boulder as he sat cross-legged. He carried a spear under one arm and looked ready to spring into action at any time, but his expression was as tranquil as could be.

He handed the kumis he was holding to Zenon, who happened to pass by.

“You should calm down.”

His attitude was entirely like that of a commander, and it was with mixed feelings – part astonishment, part envy – that Zenon took the alcohol.

“Nothing will come of you getting as impatient as the men are.” He jerked his chin towards where Nilgif was rebuking a subordinate even while galloping his horse. Although he was a considerable distance away, it felt as though the dust he was sending flying had enough force to reach them.

While looking at the scene, Moldorf seemed to be saying with some self-derision that he was used to this. Zenon let slip a chortle. After which he dropped down next to Moldorf, who glanced at him from the corner of his eye.

“There’s maybe no point asking now, but I heard that Garbera and Ende had clashed near their border. And then, not that much time later, here you are rushing to help them.”

“I have the same kind of question. I had heard that the west was a land of never-ending conflicts. And yet now, you’ve joined hands and come to Ende’s assistance.”

“That would be thanks to King Ax, the leader of the Confederacy, being so capable... and also, to Mephius.”

“Mephius?”

“You don’t need to bring up the history of Taúlia to know about the long state of tension between Tauran and Mephius. The one who broke through that like it was nothing and suggested an alliance was, of course, that Crown Prince.”

“Of course,” Zenon chortled softly again. “The mastermind who pushed you into marching with our troops. That thoroughly irritating brat.”

“Exactly,” Moldorf washed down his drink with a gulp then laughed loudly. “Even though everything he says sounds upright, does he himself even actually believe any of it?”

“He seems like the sort of man who’s a reliable ally but a dangerous enemy.”

“We’ve actually crossed spears. Well, to be precise, it wasn’t the Crown Prince himself but one of his men who was probably acting on his orders, but anyway...”

“Oh!” Zenon Owell’s eyes gleamed with interest.

Moldorf told the foreign prince about the battles in the west and, while he was describing one of the scenes, he added, “he’s certainly a dangerous man, but, well, it’s nothing to be too worried about. Sure, I was defeated once, but if there’s a second time, I’ll win.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s a child. And it’s because he’s a child that he pulls off all these things that adults wouldn’t think of. But once you know that, an adult has ways of dealing with kids.”

“Ha ha ha, I see. I definitely caught a glimpse of immaturity when I talked with that crown prince in person.”

“It’s fine while he’s green,” Moldorf heaved a sigh reeking of liquor, “his immaturity is just about his only charm. But once he becomes an adult and loses even that charm, I’m worried he’ll become the kind of foolish ruler who doesn’t trust or confide in anyone.”

“Hmm, well, it’s another country’s affairs so I can’t really say it with confidence, but...” Zenon’s bright smile was very like him, “on that point, I’m fairly sure things will be fine.”

“Hmm?”

“Because you know, that crown prince has got my little sister with him.”

Having said that as though it answered everything, Zenon put the leather flask to his mouth for the first time. It smelled strange, but he drank deep without worrying about it.

Part 3

At around the same time, Orba, as Gil Mephius, left Solon with a thousand three hundred soldiers and arrived in Idoro to the east.

Before doing so, he had notified Ende that they would be responding to their appeal for reinforcements, but the reply he received was truly vague. That probably meant that Eric, the next grand duke, was away from the capital, Safia. With Ende not yet having transitioned to its new regime, communications were likely to be slow. With no reply forthcoming, and since he had been afraid that if he waited too long he would be too late, Orba had moved swiftly.

He was met in Idoro by the domain-lord, Julius. He too had been in Solon during the direct confrontation between the Emperor and Crown Prince, but he had returned earlier to his territory since Prince Gil would be leading his forces through it.

“I did not have the opportunity to present you with my greetings in Solon,” he said with a smile.

Day after day, a long succession of people presented themselves before Ineli and Fedom, who were seen as points of contact with the Crown Prince, hoping for a chance to meet the heir to the throne and to fix themselves in his memory, so Julius felt that luck was on his side to be able to meet Gil face-to-face like this.

“If there is anything you lack, please just grab the person concerned and let them know. I will be delighted to provide you with anything, be it weapons and armour, provisions, or even if you want women... Ah, but hold on, Your Highness has Lady Vileena, the perfect wife for you. But if, perchance, anything improper were to occur, allow me to say with confidence that my lips would be sealed firmer than the sacred iron gates in the Ryuujin Tribe’s underground ruins at Avort. Ha, ha, ha.”

It was probably because his mood was so good that his jokes were in poor taste.

Right, thinking about it, we have met before, huh – Orba meanwhile only remembered Julius to about that extent.

During Gil Mephius’ first campaign, just before they had headed to Zaim Fortress to subjugate Ryucown, they had held a council of war here in Idoro. Julius was a man known for his harsh treatment towards slaves, and it was because he had been on the verge of executing the slaves from Tarkas’ Gladiator Troupe, who were travelling with the troops, that Orba had saved them by ordering that they temporarily be hired as his own Imperial Guards.

Looking at it that way, there was no particular relationship between them.

Orba received Julius’ welcome but did his utmost to ensure that his men didn’t cut loose too much.

Three days passed while they remained in Idoro. During that time, another messenger arrived from Ende.

Isn’t there a single sensible guy in Safia?

Had Kaseria left Zonga? How far had Allion’s second wave of troops, taking the overland route, already approached? In this situation in which he didn’t even know that much, time crawled by as slowly as a snail.

Perhaps because he could sense Prince Gil’s state of mind, Julius showed consideration. “To ease the Crown Prince’s boredom,” he organised a gladiator performance.

When he heard about it, and even though Julius’ messenger was right in front of him, Orba clicked his tongue.

Completely unnecessary – he thought, but in Mephius, it was the custom to organise a gladiator contest when one was receiving a person of higher rank to one’s town or castle. A noble’s ability was then judged on how many gladiators he could summon, and on how long a show he could stage.

Orba really wanted to excuse himself by claiming that he wasn’t feeling well or something, but Julius was the domain-lord of an important city. From now on, Gil Mephius would not be able to avoid socialising with him.

I’ll be meeting plenty of people I don’t agree with and having conversations about things I don’t go along with. – He grudgingly decided to set off towards Idoro’s largest amphitheatre.

Given that it was about gladiators, he chose Pashir, Gilliam, and ‘Orba’ as his attendants, three men that the Crown Prince had elevated from their ranks. In this case, ‘Orba’ was, of course, the former gladiator Kain, hidden beneath the iron tiger mask.

“So, how’s the way I’m walking? It’s exactly like Orba, right?”

“Not at all.”

In the reception room reserved for aristocrats, Orba’s expression was sour. The three that were there with him all knew about the relation between the ‘Crown Prince’ and ‘Orba’.

“Yeah, it’s spot on,” Gilliam gave his stamp of approval. “You’ve got the same stooped shoulders he had, back when we were gladiators. The way you hunch up your chin is also exactly like he used to.”

Pashir remained silent, but the faint smile at the edge of his lips showed that he agreed. Although he had an official position separate from this, he would invariably take it upon himself to go as a bodyguard whenever the prince went anywhere.

“Yep, I’ve been observing Orba and practicing,” out of the blue, Kain smugly started teasing Orba.

“Self-training is fine and all, but you’re an Imperial Guard. Wouldn’t you rather be fawned over under your real identity? If ‘Kain’ stands out for his great deeds, being popular with women or earning a fortune won’t be just a dream anymore.”

This was ironic coming from Orba, whose real name and face were always hidden.

“Say, Orba,” yet Kain’s expression was extremely serious when he answered. “I was just a small-time pickpocket. From the time I was born, I’ve never had parents or relatives. And then I got caught by the guards and from the next day onwards, I was a gladiator. I lived one day at a time, not knowing if I’d see tomorrow. That’s ‘Kain’. The guy you and me both know well.”

“...”

“So I intend to fully enjoy life as someone else when I’m ‘Orba’. It’s fun, you know? And if we’re talking about being popular with women, putting on that iron mask is way more efficient than trying to flirt with them with just my real face.”

“From the way you’re saying that, you’ve done it before, huh?”

“Ah... no... well, once or twice, maybe...” Kain’s eyes went shifty. “But...”

“But?”

“Say you go from being the crown prince to becoming emperor, and you don’t plan on ever revealing your identity as Orba,” Kain started with a preface, “and so when I’m a grandfather, I’ll have the iron mask hidden in my house. And say, one day, when my grandchildren come to play, they accidentally replace it. ‘Wow, Grandad, are you actually Orba, the masked gladiator?’ they’ll ask, their young eyes sparkling, at that time, I’ll neither admit nor deny it. And that way, I’ll be leaving tantalising hints.”

Orba thought that was a pretty long-term dream, but he did not say anything. Men all had plans for what to do ‘afterwards’ with their lives.

Just before noon, they were guided to their seats in the amphitheatre. Maybe because Julius had advertised it, there was a good attendance for the hastily organised performance. Gil’s group was lead to the special lodge, which had pillars supporting a stone canopy. With Pashir, Gilliam, and ‘Orba’ fanned out in a row behind him, Gil Mephius sat next to Julius, the domain-lord of Idoro.

“Those who are about to die for His Imperial Highness the Crown Prince and for His Excellency Lord Julius give their greetings!” An elderly man announced resoundingly.

Bathed in sunlight, a row of muscular gladiators each raised one hand to their chest and bowed their head.

It was a very familiar scene. Simply from seeing it, a burning emotion welled up within Orba. What came with it were not tears, however, but a feeling of wanting to throw up.

The gladiators all carried wounds, great or small, on their bodies, and their faces were dark from dust, but their eyes as they looked upwards shone just as brightly as the sun that was blazing down on them.

It was not the Crown Prince they were looking at. No, they were staring at the ones standing beyond him, at Pashir and ‘Orba’. Each of their chests burned with fighting spirit and with the hope that they too might be appointed Imperial Guards if the Crown Prince was pleased with them – that their days of living hell might all at once give way to the freedom that they could not help but yearn for, and that, at the same time, they might obtain the status and honour that, as gladiators, they would not be able to achieve in all their lives.

Before long, the life-and-death struggles began before Orba’s eyes. For all that he looked on as expressionlessly and apathetically as possible, the crash of steel, the spurts of blood, the beastlike howls in their death throes – everything grated on the former gladiator’s five senses. One after another, the memories revived.

The training grounds always reeked of the stench of fodder and dragon dung. Amidst the clash of roaring voices, Orba, drenched in sweat, brandished his sword and repeatedly took aim at the overseer, Gowen.

Although they were encircled by a high fence, there were lattices on the east side and, through the gaps, they could catch glimpses of the world beyond. The training grounds and their buildings were by no means within the prosperous part of town. Quite the opposite: they were next to the slums. The people that went by were children with grubby faces, prostitutes with patched clothing, and peddlers selling goods of dubious origin.

Freedom...

Orba craved it every bit as much as he did the food and water he needed to survive. Perhaps even more so. It stretched out like a glittering blue sea. The freedom to walk along the streets, the freedom to run along them, without anyone having decided his destination for him. The freedom to peacefully fall asleep after the sun had gone down, without anyone ordering him to fight to the death the next day.

Even if he had more gold than he could carry, he would gladly have exchanged it for that. Even if that freedom was just the freedom to beat up those he didn’t like, the freedom to steal and to keep running away until he ran out of breath, the freedom to collapse without food or money and to die by the roadside.

He had thought about escaping again and again. On nights before a fight, lying on the hard ground, he would wonder – Tomorrow, will I be sleeping in this same place alive and healthy? He had spent many a sleepless night endlessly, obsessively going over it in his thoughts. And then, greater than his craving for freedom, greater than his fear of death, more implacable than any other thought –

Revenge.

Amidst the excited cheers, Orba leapt out like a wild animal let loose from its cage. In front of him was an opponent who would try to take his life – to snatch away his future which consisted only of a single day at a time.

Swords crashed against one another. Red and blue sparks scattered and flew.

“The game is over!”

The announcer’s voice reverberated above Orba’s head.

He suddenly went rigid. In his hand was a blood-stained sword, right before his eyes rolled a now silent corpse.

A hallucination.

In reality, as Gil Mephius, Orba was looking down from on high at both the winner and the loser, lying dead and shrouded in blood. Having won the tournament, and even though he had a dark red scar roughly at the level of his heart, the winner raised both hands and gave a roar of joy.

Barely an hour earlier, a row of men had stood before Orba with shinning eyes, yet now, this was the only survivor.

“Magnificent,” Orba stood up and praised the victor. “It’s a priviledge to witness such a display of warrior spirit before heading to the battlefield. An omen of victory, surely. You are appointed an officer of the Imperial Guards. No objections, Orba?”

“From a brave of his calibre, I expect splendid deeds,” ‘Orba’ respectfully replied. He knew his script on this stage.

As a matter of fact, the young man who had won was not as splendidly skilled as ‘Orba’ claimed. Luck, however, was on his side. It had blessed him from when the combination of fighters was decided, and the opponents that chance had decided for him were all ones that he could handle.

Put otherwise, it was simply luck that had decided the life and death of these men, and luck that had separated their ‘afterwards’ into light or shadows. Orba had promoted him neither for show nor on a whim, but because he anticipated that making an ally of luck was as good as roping in a hundred strong soldiers.

Eyes brimming with tears, the young man bowed towards Gil Mephius, then once more shouted from exhilaration.

Orba received Lord Julius’ salutations, then left the amphitheatre. He felt as though, just like that young man, there was a dark red gash across his chest.

The sun shone down from up above.

Yet by the time that dazzling sun had sunk below the mountain ridge, then risen again over the world of men, the young man who should have become an Imperial Guard had met with the same fate as the slaves he himself had killed for the sake of his freedom and future.

His master and companions had apparently thrown an all-night banquet to celebrate the start of the hero’s new life. When morning came, he was stretched out flat, his face pale. He was already dead by the time he was discovered. It was thought that the wound he had suffered the day before had taken a turn for the worse.

Orba received the news early in the morning.

“I see,” he said. He did not have anything particular to add, and ate his breakfast.

A man with no luck – he thought to himself.

Or perhaps he had used up all of his luck?

Orba tried hard to recall how he had fought and how he had shone with delight when told that he was appointed as an Imperial Guard but, in the end, Orba could not even remember his face.

He was unlucky...

Not only Orba, but also most of the people who knew of the young man’s fate thought the same way. However –

First one.

There was one man, his lips curled into an evil smile, who held a different opinion. He claimed to be a merchant who had travelled far from the distant west.

His name was Zafar.

He was a sorcerer who had once served Reizus, when the latter had taken the name ‘Garda’. In Birac, he had lured Layla, Vileena’s lady maid, into attempting to assassinate the crown prince.

The old man’s connection to Orba ran deep, yet this time as well he had turned up on a street corner in Idoro, feigning harmlessness. Next to him walked a woman who was also from Tauran. She was pretending to be Zafar’s daughter, and her name was Tahī. She was a sorceress who had likewise served ‘Garda’ and who had thereafter schemed to assassinate Ax Bazgan, the leader of the western alliance.

Both had failed in their attempts but had met up here in Idoro.

“The Revered Elder has allowed us the deaths – has allowed us the manipulation of the fates of up to twelve people. First is one who became an exalted sacrifice of flesh and blood. This time, failure will not be tolerated. Tahī, you understand, don’t you? We cannot act recklessly.”

“There will be no mistakes,” Tahī smiled faintly.

A hood covered her head and she wore robes long enough to cover her entire body, but even though her figure was almost entirely concealed – or perhaps, because it was concealed – her every gesture was alluring.

Idoro was at the time in a fervour over the Crown Prince’s visit. Rumours of his audience with Emperor Guhl had already spread throughout Mephius. The main character from that heroic legend had arrived with an army, so the populace had gone in droves to surround Julius’ mansion, in the hopes of catching even just a single glimpse of the Crown Prince; and when his men went out, they followed them around in groups, even though they had no business with them.

Zafar and Tahī arrived at the foot of the tower which served as the launch pad for air carriers. The entrance to it was on the other side of a fence.

Perhaps there had been some kind of news, as the area had been busy since just after noon that day. Slaves were moving a number of huge cages; within them were dragons.

“Oh, it seems that the prince will be leaving soon. We need to hurry.”

The cages were being transported into the tower, probably ready to be loaded onto carriers. It was a job that usually took time and manpower since dragons locked up in the same cage were prone to becoming enraged and acting violently. The dragon handler must have been a good one though, and every single one of the scaly beasts, large or medium-sized, were quiet, not letting out a single howl. Even now, a person who seemed to be the handler was running between the cages and calling out to the dragons.

It was, needless to say, Crown Prince Gil’s personal dragon tamer, Hou Ran.

“That’s...” Tahī’s red lips parted.

Zafar realised a bit too late. From the area around Tahī’s forehead, a sudden, crimson ‘wave’ seemed to materialise. It was hard to know how to describe it. It resembled both wispy smoke and a watery whirlpool, although an ordinary person would not have been able to see it in the first place. Just as this ‘wave’ that baffled description seemed to be revolving before Tahī’s forehead, it suddenly shot free and flew towards the dragon handler who was in front of the tower.

For a second, Ran stopped moving. Tahī’s lips curled upwards into a smile. This was her signature, flame-summoning magic. Just now, however, it did not take the shape of a ‘flame’ but was more on the level of a wave of heat. Even so, a direct hit had enough power to inflict a burn.

Ran, however, immediately gave a supple swing of her arm. Zafar saw the ‘wave’ disappear like smoke dissipating in a strong wind. It was an astonishing phenomenon, but perhaps Ran herself was unaware of it, since, after looking around blankly for a moment, she returned to her work with apparent unconcern.

Tahī’s expression turned angry.

“Don’t go too deep,” Zafar stretched his hand out in front of her face as he spoke. “I’ve only just said not to act recklessly.”

“It was just a preliminary test,” Tahī said teasingly, but her eyes were not smiling.

Zafar shot her a sharp glare.

“Once I move into action, you just need to hold her in check. We don’t yet know the extent of that person’s power or their true identity. Sooner or later, we will have to uncover them, but now is not the time.”

“I understand,” Tahī answered without looking at Zafar. Her eyes still stared straight ahead, as though they were piercing through Zafar’s hand, held before them like a shield, and still held Hou Ran in sight.

“I see,” she then muttered softly. “I understand why the Revered Elder gave me those orders. That is the same as me...”

Part 4

During Gil Mephius’ stay, a succession of incidents occurred in Idoro.

In each of them, people lost their lives. Nothing about them raised any particular suspicions, however. They included a drunkards’ brawl, a cheating husband stabbed to death by his wife after he was found out, or business talks that turned sour before ending in mutual killing. Although you couldn’t go so far as to call them everyday occurrences, these kinds of cases were by no means uncommon, and it was simply coincidence that they all happened around the same time.

Such trivial matters naturally did not reach Gil Mephius’ ears.

Second... third...

Which meant, of course, that each time an event occurred, each time a body was discovered, Orba had no awareness of the whispering voice that seemed to be tallying them.

It was a sort of ‘shadow’ that prowled through Idoro at night. Merging with the darkness, it wandered through every nook and cranny of the fortified city. And it unfailingly caught the ‘scent’ of every incident that was on the verge of unfolding.

When, not long ago, a group of new mercenaries, who had recently arrived in Idoro, got into a quarrel with a more experienced group in a bar along one of the back alleys, the ‘shadow’ had softly crept in. And it had smoothly slid up to a wife who was thoroughly fed up with her carpenter husband that went out fooling around every night.

The shadow had started whispering. It was the very faintest of murmurs, that only those involved in the incident were able to hear.

When the long-serving mercenary approached a newbie with a wine cup in one hand, the voice that said – He’ll kill me if he sees an opening – had sounded like the voice of his own mind. When the wife had half-resigned herself to her husband having affairs, it had whispered – It’s about time to teach him a lesson. Right now, he’s entranced with a younger woman. Sooner or later, he’ll take all the money in the house and run off, leaving me behind.

The second they heard the voice of ‘their awareness’, they felt their emotions well up like fire within them.

What was left behind afterwards was a corpse.

And the mercenary, the wife, and every other person who became an assailant could only look down in a daze at their blood-covered victims.

Each and every time, the ‘shadow’ whispered its count and left without a trace, wandering back into Idoro’s night, in search of the next ‘scent’.

One night, when the crown prince’s flagship, Dhum, was weighing anchor at Idoro’s air carrier departure point. The cages had been loaded into the ship’s hold, and the dragons had all lain down their heads and were sleeping peacefully.

Hou Ran had thus finished her work, and was now staying the night in the same place as the dragons to help them feel reassured in this unfamiliar environment. She was lying at the centre of the hold, wrapped up in a single piece of cloth.

There was nobody else there. Several soldiers were on watch outboard, but none of them noticed the dark shadow crawling beneath their feet.

Once on board the ship, the shadow unhesitatingly made straight for its destination: the hold were the dragons’ cages were lined up. The ‘shadow’ turned its formless gaze towards the centre of the room, where Hou Ran lay stretched out. In the starlight that shone through the window, her hair seemed to shine with a strangely pale lustre.

The ‘shadow’ whispered something. Although Ran’s eyelids fluttered and quivered for a second, her sleep remained undisturbed. A few of the slumbering dragons in the cages on either side of her had a similar faint reaction, but they too continued to sleep peacefully.

The next day, the morning brought uproar in one area of Idoro. Preparations for departure were almost complete when a corpse was found in an air carrier which was scheduled to fly before noon that day.

A woman’s corpse.

It went without saying that Orba received a report about it. He rushed over there.

“Ran...”

When he called out, the woman he had known since their time with Tarkas’ Gladiator Troupe turned around.

“What happened?”

“Hmm, I don’t know,” she shook her head.

The reason Orba had asked her was because he found it surprising to see her among the onlookers.

The body belonged to a young slave woman who helped take care of those who worked at the port. Her aggressor had already been arrested by the guards; he was the second son of the harbour master. Even though he was her master, he had long held wicked thoughts towards her. Having summoned her to the ship in the middle of the night with orders about a job to do, he had forced her down but, because she had struggled violently, he had instinctively struck her.

Ran irritably paced around the cabin in which the incident had occurred.

“What’s wrong?”

“It stinks.”

“Stinks?”

“Yeah, but... I don’t know. Where did it come from... where did it go... A nasty stench.”

Orba, naturally, did not have any understanding of the ‘stench’. He had not been informed of anything concerning the succession of incidents in Idoro, and even if he had, it was doubtful whether he would have connected them to the affair that had occurred onboard the ship.

After all, Orba was in a hurry.

They had finally received an answer from Ende. A military officer living in Safia, who had long been part of Eric’s faction, was concerned about the way Prince Gil was being made to wait at the border. Overriding the high officials who were dragging their feet, he made the judgement call to accept the prince’s request to be allowed into the country.

“It was Lord Eric himself who issued the appeal for reinforcements to Mephius. There is no need to wait for his reply,” by the time he had convinced the higher-ups, a messenger had already been sent to Idoro.

After meeting with him, Orba had hurriedly finished preparations for departure. Having Ran move the dragons was part of them.

From times immemorial, sailors on ships sailing the sea or sky had loathed incidents involving women, and it was an ominous event that had occurred the previous night. Orba, however, had laughed at the frightened men, and the ships had risen into the sky at the scheduled time.

After crossing the river east of Idoro, it would take half a day to reach the border fortress. However, they could not proceed to Dairan as they were, and would need to leave the Dhum at the riverside fortress. The aforementioned military officer had apologetically explained that this was the last-minute compromise they had managed to hammer out to have the reinforcements be allowed to pass.

“They said that without direct confirmation from Lord Eric, we cannot allow ships from another country to freely fly our skies.”

“It’s fine. Then could you have some of your own ships readied for us?”

Orba had a good impression of the officer, who must have been about twenty years older than he was and who handled things well. Ende was a country with a very old history, and the long years had brought stagnation which, like rickets[1], had warped the personality of its nobles. Eric, however, was young and had been raised, sword and armour wet with blood, in a rough region far from the centre of Ende. Yet only very few people would already have felt the influence of this new mood.

Leaving a few men to guard the Dhum, Orba transferred to Endean ships to travel north. If speed was the priority, it would have been best to split the soldiers up and have them ride in small and medium-sized ships. As was to be expected though, such a large variety of boats was not what had been prepared; instead, there were two large ships.

Air travel was convenient, but it had taken them about five days to reach the final relay-base before Dairan. By that time, the sun had already set; it was only a short distance from there to Dairan, but it was not advisable to fly by night.

They decided to stay overnight at the base.

References and Translation Notes

1. ↑ Rickets is a childhood condition caused by serious vitamin D deficiency, which leads to the bones weakening and softening, and which in turn results in slowed growth and stunted skeletal development. Nowadays, it is perfectly treatable, but back when it wasn’t, it could leave people deformed for life.