* * *

From the outside, it certainly looked splendid and imposing—the great army of the Duke of Eldeira, that is. The banners of each house fluttered proudly, and the soldiers were well equipped. Some knights had even donned their helmets, complete with crests, though there was no need for them yet. Perhaps it was to raise morale.

Before leaving, soldiers embraced their wives and children. The children’s eyes seemed full of pride at the sight of their fathers marching off to war in armor, while their wives were filled with worry and sorrow. They would have to wait with nothing to trust but a promise to return. The one small mercy was that the battlefield was not very far away.

The long marching column headed west. It would skirt the marshes to the north, then turn east again. The Earl of Windale led the vanguard, the duke’s troops under his eldest son Gunnar held the center, and the Earl of Winslow commanded the rear guard. As discussed beforehand, Duke Sven would remain farthest back to protect the supply route.

After they had marched for some time, the grass on the plains began to thin until rocks outnumbered the patches of green. From there, the road grew narrow and uneven, making passage difficult for the carts. Donkeys and draft horses could not pull them alone; several men had to push from behind. If a wheel broke, they had a real problem on their hands. The cart had to be repaired, and men had to shoulder its load.

Apprentice knights rode busily up and down the column, relaying word between front and rear—requests to slow down because the carts were struggling, reports of anything unusual ahead. An army on the march was vulnerable, making this another source of tension.

Sometime after noon, scouts were sent out to find a place where the army could halt. The rugged, rocky terrain offered no space large enough for them all to camp together. They would have to crowd as close as possible, erect tents to keep out the wind, and sleep under blankets.

Then, just as they had feared, a man appeared on their flank. There was only one at first, leaving them wondering what he was up to. His clothing marked him as a man of Dunbria: a skirtlike garment and rough hides that looked only half tanned. He seemed somewhere between civilized man and savage. His long hair was red, as was his equally long beard. The great sword resting on his shoulder looked almost as tall as a man, hilt included. He was a Highlander.

He held something in one hand and flung it toward the marching army. It bounced down the rocky slope—a human head. It belonged to one of the men sent to look for a campsite.

“Fuck...”

“Savage bastards.”

The soldiers muttered in disgust.

The Highlander standing boldly above them bellowed a challenge at the duke’s army.

“Who gave you leave to set foot on this land?”

Duke Sven had seen it too. To bolster morale, he rode toward the man.

“I am Sven, Duke of Eldeira! Who are you?”

“I am the king of Dunbria! Duncard, heir to Alpin! Even Sigmund, descendant of Vǫlsungr, never set foot on this land! How dare the likes of you trespass here!”

Within Dunbria, its ruler styled himself king. This was possible because its terrain was so rugged that it had never actually been conquered. He had become a margrave only because he had accepted the title without knowing what it meant, believing it to be a token of friendship. Strictly speaking, the kingdom and Dunbria merely observed mutual nonaggression. Theirs was not a relationship of liege lord and vassal.

“You red monkey! Do you think I don’t know you backed the third young lord and murdered the second to advance his cause?”

Duke Sven rebuked him with confidence. In all honesty, though, the man hardly looked capable of plotting such a scheme.

The margrave might well have felt wronged by the accusation, but true to his appearance, he offered no excuses. He simply looked down at Duke Sven and said,

“Shut your fucking mouth and come up here. Let’s fight.”

Men emerged in a line beside Duncard. There might not have been many, but they made an imposing sight. Every one of them was tall and burly, with much the same attire: skirts, hides, and great swords. When the wind lifted their skirts, however, everything underneath was plainly visible. They wore nothing beneath them. It was something of an ordeal for those looking up from below, but the Highlanders showed no shame. If anything, they looked proud. What was wrong with a man showing his tackle to other men?

“Come down here if you’re so confident!”

Duke Sven shouted back, refusing to be outdone.

“What did you come here for if you haven’t got the guts? You mongrel bastard with no pedigree!”

“A savage like you is the one with no pedigree! Come down!”

“Come up!”

“Come down!”

It looked rather childish, but this was not a world where etiquette had yet become particularly refined. The duke’s men might see the Highlanders as little better than savages, but in truth, they were scarcely less savage themselves. In any case, with each side demanding the other come up or down, nothing looked likely to happen. Yet the duke’s army could not simply ignore them and march on. They were effectively pinned in place.

Then someone stepped forward like a hero. Sword and shield in hand, he began scrambling up the rugged rocks, straight toward the margrave. It was Gunnar, Duke Sven’s eldest son.

“All right! I’ll come up!”

“Young lord!”

The nearby knights hurried after him in alarm. There were fewer than ten of them.

Whether in battle or single combat, the man above had the advantage. Sure enough, as Gunnar came within reach, Margrave Duncard brought his great sword down at him. It was a heavy blow, but Gunnar caught it forcefully on his shield, shoved it aside, and thrust with his sword. Duncard was no ordinary fighter either, and evaded the attack.

Once they closed the distance, they abandoned their weapons and grappled, clawing, pushing, and pulling in a contest of strength. But Gunnar’s natural strength was tremendous. The older Duncard could not withstand it and was sent sprawling. This was Gunnar’s chance to finish him, but the margrave’s men beside him were hardly going to stand idly by. The knights trying to hold them back had already suffered casualties.

The other soldiers and knights watching from below wavered, unsure whether they should join the fight. At the same time, it was an entertaining, stirring spectacle.

“You—ptoo! You savage! Now you come up here!”

Gunnar took the spot where the margrave had stood, spat at him, and shouted boldly. But the knights seized him and all but dragged him down, leaving him no chance to fight on.

The ten knights fought desperately to fend off the Highlanders while several of them practically carried Gunnar back down. It was a vicious fight, and the Highlanders fought ferociously too. But they never came all the way down.

“Come down here, you sons of bitches!”

“Savage bastards!”

Their spirits revived, the soldiers hurled abuse at the Highlanders.

For the moment, the Highlanders hoisted Duncard onto someone’s back and withdrew. It was unclear whether he was seriously hurt, but with their king injured, they had little choice.

“Let go! Let go! I could’ve killed him!”

Gunnar shook off the knights, fuming. Even the most useless man had his talents, as the saying went. His courage and strength, at least, deserved recognition.

But Duke Sven walked up and slapped him hard across the face.

SMACK!

Gunnar blinked, stunned and bewildered.

“You half-wit! Two knights were injured because of you! How many times have I told you? You must protect a single knight even if it costs you a hundred soldiers!”

He was not entirely wrong, but this was excessive. First, they had been pinned down and needed a way out. Whatever the losses, Gunnar had broken the deadlock. Second, he should never have humiliated him so publicly. Gunnar was, after all, the commander-in-chief charged with taking Gringen.

Gunnar had expected praise, only to receive a slap. Disappointment and hurt brought tears to his eyes.

“You imbecile. Are you going to cry in front of the soldiers?”

At this further rebuke, Gunnar turned and left without answering his father, covering his eyes with one hand.

The soldiers and knights around them looked as though they were attending a funeral. Two knights had been injured, but the sight of their commander-in-chief leading the charge up the slope had set their hearts racing.

“I will handle the supply route. Continue the march,” Duke Sven ordered.

The army reluctantly marched on, but their rising spirits had been crushed, leaving an unpleasant feeling behind.

They proceeded slowly, driving stakes along the roadside as originally planned. But the Highlanders kept appearing to harass them. Stretched out in a long marching column, they could not form up properly. Only the section under attack could strike back, making it difficult to respond even to small numbers of Highlanders. Like clothes slowly soaking through in a drizzle, their casualties steadily mounted.

The losses were small compared with the army’s total strength, but for the soldiers it was exhausting and stressful. They could not sleep properly and had to eat in fear. With casualties accumulating, they crawled onward for over a week before finally reaching level ground. There, far in the distance, stood Gringen.

But contrary to what they had heard, its walls were stone, not a wooden palisade.

“What the hell is that...?”

Someone spoke in a voice drained by disbelief. The words captured everyone’s feelings. They had said the city would fall as soon as they arrived. So much for that...

Gringen’s walls filled the duke’s army with despair, but to Valeri, they were still woefully inadequate. Proper walls required sand and stone to be packed neatly inside, then another outer facing built. There had been no time, so that process had been skipped. If the enemy removed the stones at the base or undermined the walls, they could collapse in short order.

More important than anything in a defense was whether there was a moat. Moats were, in fact, what made castles and cities so difficult to take. But there had been no time to dig a proper one, leaving theirs narrow and shallow. As it stood, it merely made setting ladders securely a challenge. Enemy troops could fill it in quickly enough.

On the other hand, they had plenty of arrows, and thankfully, food continued to arrive by the northeastern waterway. Of course, the duke’s army was suffering Highlander raids and could not focus entirely on the assault either. Both sides had their shortcomings and hardships, as was the way of the world.

Scraping together everyone available, Gringen could muster roughly eighty men. Only about twenty were properly equipped. Up on the walls, the soldiers were already losing heart at the sight of the enemy in the distance. It was understandable. This was not simply a crowd of people, but a seething mass of sturdy men, every one of them armed.

Valeri gathered all the city’s soldiers and delivered a speech from the walls beside a banner bearing a fluttering frog. Everyone listened, not just the soldiers: women preparing meals for the troops, elderly people too old to fight carrying stones for repairs, even children hauling arrows. He slowly swept his gaze over them, as though looking at each one in turn, then shouted.

“Listen carefully, all of you! As long as this banner stands, we are winning! If we defend this banner to the very last person, the city lives! Will you let the enemy conquer you and live miserable lives like slaves again, or will you live like human beings, as you do now? Anyone who wants to live as a slave, surrender your weapons and leave this instant! I will take it that everyone who stays would rather die than live as a slave! We will win! We will win, no matter what! If you cannot believe in yourselves, believe in me! I will fight beside you! Fight bravely!”

As he finished, Valeri drove the flagpole firmly into the wall. In the extraordinary circumstances of war, hearing such a confident speech from the renowned Valeri naturally set the young men’s hearts ablaze.

“Let’s fight! Let’s fight!”

The soldiers raised their swords, spears, and bows, shouting for battle. Even the women and children, ordinary civilians all, joined in at the top of their voices.

Arne and Skard had known it all along, but they found themselves thinking anew how truly impressive Valeri was as they joined the chant. Yorik shouted most passionately of all. Knut merely clapped. Their cries carried beyond the walls, reaching even the duke’s distant army.

Watching them shout themselves hoarse, Valeri felt his own heart race. It seemed as though all their desperate hopes were gathering upon him. He had first come to this city with a different purpose, but after four months, his thoughts and feelings seemed to have changed. Just as he had regained his smile in Winslow, the people of Gringen were gradually finding theirs again. Seeing hope for life in their eyes, he sometimes felt that he was the one drawing strength from them.

He had grown up without parents or love, always watching his step. Before his return, he had resented the world and his own bloodline. Yet now, did someone like him truly deserve the expectations, hopes, and trust of so many people?

He had once lived by the notion that everyone used one another, so he would use them too. Not anymore. At the very least, he could not betray them. Even if the world had betrayed him, he would not betray these people. Just watch. He would win, no matter what. The resolve rose within him of its own accord.

Judging the odds coldly from his experience, Valeri knew this battle verged on recklessness. But even if he died fighting—even if he failed to defend Gringen—would that not be worth more than merely driving a blade into his own throat? That was what he thought.