* * *

Silverrich, commander of the Silverrich Company, looked every inch a veteran of a hundred battles, from the scar across his face and his keen eyes to the battle gear that seemed to have served him for many years.

Yet he had brought only about a hundred men, not the five hundred his company was known to have. Whether he had judged that number sufficient or had some practical reason for bringing so few was unclear.

All hundred, however, were men-at-arms, fully equipped with helmets, armor, shields, and weapons. His soldiers were plainly a different breed from the men recruited out of farming villages. They had the unmistakable air of professionals.

“... So the problem is a dwarven steel sword?”

They had failed to take a city because of a single sword? Privately, Silverrich thought it pathetic.

“It is.”

Gunnar answered rather curtly. He did not much care for mercenaries to begin with.

“Hmm... That should make a fine prize.”

“You’ll be lucky to keep your head.”

Gunnar’s spiteful remark was uncalled for, but Silverrich seemed too experienced even to mind. A mercenary encountered all sorts of nobles. Gunnar was positively decent by comparison.

“Very well. Let’s summon every available man here, apart from His Grace’s rear force. Gather every scrap of food we can, and launch an all-out assault as soon as the siege engines are assembled. We needn’t worry about the supply route. Once we take the city, we can return to Torvik by river.”

“You make it sound so easy. Do you think my soldiers and I have just been wasting our time? Will you take responsibility if this fails? A thousand men could starve.”

Silverrich’s proposal certainly left no way back. In plain terms, he meant to bring in every man and all the food, then finish it in a single blow.

Yet Gunnar’s pointed questions drew only a faint chuckle.

“When you hire mercenaries, your greatest worry should be that they’ll drag things out without doing their jobs, all while collecting their pay. We don’t do that. We’re busy. We have plenty of places to go besides this backwater, young lord.”

“... Where are you going?”

“Never mind that. His Grace has given his instructions, so I would appreciate your following my advice.”

“...”

Gunnar turned to the Earl of Windale beside him. The earl nodded. They had failed to take the city themselves, after all. Listening to a professional might not be such a bad idea.

Besides, he wanted some rest. No doubt the men guarding the supply route in the rear had suffered against the Highlanders too, but siege warfare truly drove a man to his limits. It was time those men did their share.

If the attack should fail, they would be out of food anyway. He could simply leave.

This really would be the last time. And the Earl of Windale was not alone in thinking so. The soldiers felt the same.

Watching the duke’s army from the walls, Gringen’s soldiers sank deeper into despair.

Valeri had led from the front, raising their spirits time and again with his impossible feats, but even that could not help now. The duke’s army was swelling by the day.

Gringen had only eighty soldiers. Every man killed or wounded was a grievous loss, yet after all their fighting, the enemy’s numbers kept growing by the hundreds. How could they not lose heart?

Had it been hopeless from the beginning? What had all their fighting even meant?

Worst of all, the news that Valeri had collapsed sapped their will to fight beyond measure.

Arne stepped forward to restore that resolve. He gathered everyone together and stood upon the wall to give a speech, hoping to kindle their will one last time.

In one hand he held the billhook once wielded by the Ballsack Opener. It was Arne’s weapon now.

“Everyone. I know your worries and your fears, because I share them. But running away out of fear is not the right choice. You and I both know there are lives worse than death, don’t we? We have sacrificed sleep and fought prepared to die, not merely to prolong some wretched existence. There are things we want. To live like human beings. To live without groveling. To live with our families in homes we built with our own hands.”

Having supervised the construction work, Arne knew the people who had worked alongside him. He sought them out in the crowd, looking at each in turn. He knew their names too.

“Torch, Wells, Kennid, Wolf, Woods, and all of you who worked with me: thank you for everything. This is goodbye. I intend to die in the final battle. I won’t force you to join me. I simply wanted to thank you.”

There was something deeply moving about Arne’s speech. Unlike Valeri’s words, it did not set hearts ablaze, but it struck a deep chord within them. Some wept freely.

His words came from honesty, from an open heart.

What was a hero, if not someone who gave people courage and hope, guided them along the right path, and brought them together? By that measure, Arne too had the makings of a hero.

“And Wid is my friend. If not for him, I would never have come this far. I don’t know how I ended up fighting so hard to protect this city... I really don’t. But I think I can die happy. I will fight, if only to protect my friend.”

Arne spoke with a smile. His face was simply at peace. This was not courage dredged up by force. He seemed to face his fear with an easy heart.

What an irony. Before Valeri’s return to the past, Arne had died at his hands defending a city. Now, instead, he was prepared to die defending Valeri.

The people did not raise a mighty cheer. They simply applauded, as did Skard and Knut. Unfortunately, Yorik was absent, keeping vigil beside the unconscious Valeri.

Perhaps life was so painful and wretched precisely so that moments like this could bloom.

Two days had passed since the Silverrich Company joined them and all the troops guarding the supply route assembled. Now there was barely any food left for tomorrow. They had scraped together every man and every morsel for this final assault.

Unless they captured Gringen and took the river route to Torvik, they would have to retreat hungry while fighting the margrave’s army. In effect, they were trapped in enemy territory.

It was an overcast day. The weather had been clear only yesterday, but now gray clouds filled the sky. It might rain. If it did, who would benefit, and who would suffer?

None of that mattered anymore. Neither the duke’s army nor Gringen could back down from this fight.

Reinforced by the supply-route guards and the Silverrich Company, the duke’s army numbered nearly eight hundred. It advanced in three divisions.

The Earl of Winslow’s forces marched in the center, protecting the battering ram. Gunnar and the Earl of Windale took the left, while the Silverrich Company pushed its siege tower forward on the right.

The rumble of so many marching feet resembled distant thunder. Rather than charge with a show of spirit, they advanced slowly behind a solid shield wall.

When they entered bowshot, Gringen’s soldiers loosed a volley. The duke’s army answered with several times as many arrows.

As arrows flew back and forth, the infantry continued advancing behind their shields. So far, there were scarcely any wounded on either side.

“Stay in formation! Keep in step!”

“This is it! The last battle! Break through there, and we go home!”

The noncommissioned officers urged their soldiers on, sometimes with vicious curses.

The ground beneath Gringen’s walls was blackened with scorch marks and littered with unrecovered bodies. Rubble lay where the wall had collapsed.

When the enemy was almost upon them, Gringen’s soldiers unhesitatingly hurled down peat, reeds, and wood, setting the foot of the wall alight again. Flames raced along the long stretch of wall in quite a spectacle.

Enduring heat that seemed to cook their flesh, the duke’s soldiers dragged up sandbags and threw them onto the fires. That did little to extinguish them, but it was better than nothing.

Their formation wavered somewhat. The men carrying sand and those holding weapons were failing to rotate smoothly.

Once the flames seemed to have weakened enough, the Silverrich Company’s commander gave a bold order.

“Just push through!”

The mercenaries pushing the siege tower redoubled their efforts and picked up speed, its wheels rumbling.

They rammed it against the wall without caring if it took a little damage. Men armed with swords and shields swiftly climbed its stairs.

But no one was on the wall. Looking into the city, they saw a long, deep trench. Gringen’s soldiers waited on its far side, bows and crossbows in hand.

THWANG! TH-TH-THWANG!

They hastily raised their shields. They could not block everything, however, and several shafts struck their legs.

Yet these were mercenaries with extensive battle experience. Gritting their teeth against the pain, they did not retreat, but headed down from the wall. They knew that if they hesitated, the men behind them could not get in.

Experience had taught them that moving forward and allowing their comrades to join them actually improved their chances of survival. In this, they were distinctly different from ordinary territorial troops.

Mercenaries began pouring over the wall in earnest. Formation no longer mattered. They meant to overwhelm the defenders with numbers.

“Long live His Majesty the King! Lead us to heaven!”

“Long live the Silverrich Company!”

After a mighty cheer for the king and their company, the mercenaries charged, carried forward by their momentum. But the trench was too wide to leap in a single bound.

They had to descend and climb back out. As they scrambled up the far side, Gringen’s soldiers met them in close formation, thrusting their spears at Arne’s command.

“Thrust!”

“Hah!”

Whether the spears pierced them or struck their shields, the attackers could only be driven back. The leading mercenaries tumbled into the trench again, dead or wounded.

Whenever fresh enemies managed to climb out, the spears thrust again, sending another wave tumbling down. All the while, the soldiers in the rear ranks kept shooting arrows without pause.

The defense was holding remarkably well. If this continued, they might even win. But this was not the only place the duke’s army was attacking.

The battering ram hammered at the gates.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

They had barricaded the gates from inside, but once the gates broke, clearing the obstacles would only be a matter of time.

Meanwhile, Skard commanded the defense at the collapsed section of wall, temporarily blocked with ropes. His situation was much like Arne’s.

But the duke’s army seemed determined to finish things this time. Even as casualties rose rapidly, they refused to give up. The trench filled with the dead and wounded, and the attackers trod over them to cross.

“Aaaaagh!”

“I’m alive! I’m still alive!”

“Mother!”

Survivors trapped beneath the others in the trench screamed. Gringen’s soldiers threw more peat onto them and set it alight. It was utter pandemonium, a truly horrifying vision of hell.

The distinctive, acrid stench of the flammable substance mingled with the reek of roasting meat as bodies, both living and dead, burned.

Silverrich had reached the wall and now surveyed the battle. Apparently, there was no other way: they would have to keep pressing with superior numbers to the bitter end. These bastards were truly ruthless.

BOOM! BOOM! CRACK!

Then the gates gave way. Winslow’s army could not immediately pour through, but once it cleared the carts, stones, and timber barring its path, Gringen would truly be finished.

Meanwhile, like grains of sand slipping through fingers, a few of the duke’s soldiers were already getting into the city. Knut dealt with them, but there were not enough hands.

“To the gates! Get to the gates!”

Silverrich shouted. All manner of obstacles blocked the entrance, but men could still squeeze through if they tried. And the barricade was steadily being cleared.

Unfortunately, Gringen had no soldiers to spare for it.

On the left and right, Gringen’s defenders thrust their spears until their palms split, but now there truly seemed to be no way out.

In desperation, Skard mounted a horse, intending to hold the center even if he had to do it alone. At that very moment, an enemy arrow struck his shoulder, knocking him from the saddle.

The sight shocked friend and foe alike. There was something symbolic about a mounted man falling.

“We’ve won! Press the attack!”

“To the gates! Clear the barricade!”

Enemies swarmed the gates from both inside and out.

Meanwhile, at the company headquarters where Valeri lay unconscious, the sounds of fierce fighting carried from afar.

Yorik was beside himself with anxiety. He did not care what happened to him, but he would rather die than watch Valeri be killed by the enemy while unconscious. At last he made a decision and spoke to him.

“The way I see it... I don’t know much, but you have to live, Master Wid. I think you’re meant for greater things. I’m sorry to the others, but later... when you wake up, you can blame me.”

Yorik’s throat tightened as he spoke. Tears did not pour from his eyes, but his heart ached.

Still, he had made his choice. He would carry Valeri on his back, head to the landing, and escape.

As he pulled Valeri’s arm toward him to lift him, he heard a voice.

“How could I ever blame you...”

Meanwhile, the defense was nearing defeat. The gateway was almost clear, and Earl Æthelred of Winslow was leading his soldiers inside. Harald was there, as were Gidwin and Tommy.

Such was war. By a twist of fate, even fathers and sons, even brothers, could meet as enemies.

Not one of Gringen’s soldiers fled, even at the very end. But enemies who had entered the city began dragging women by their hair and attacking the defenders from the flanks and rear.

At the sight, elation began to well up in Silverrich.

“Every last one of them—!”

Silverrich could not finish. No, he had certainly shouted, but halfway through, his voice became inaudible. The same thing happened to everyone else. It was as though sound itself had suddenly vanished.

At this inexplicable phenomenon, friend and foe alike faltered. They tapped their ears and tried saying, “Ah, ah.” Still, they heard nothing.

Then the wind blew. The flames burning the corpses leaned with it.

Following the wind’s direction, they saw someone standing on a rooftop. There was no light behind the figure, yet it was cloaked entirely in shadow, nothing but a black silhouette. Its clothes fluttered.

The instant Silverrich saw it, gooseflesh prickled over him and every fine hair stood on end. A sense of wrongness, inexplicable wrongness, swept over him. And he was not alone. Everyone on the battlefield felt it.

Lightning flashed across the cloudy sky, and thunder struck at the same instant. In the world that had briefly lost all sound, a tremendous roar battered their ears as though to burst their eardrums.

KRA-BOOM!

Everyone who had been caught up in the fury of battle squeezed their eyes shut, clapped their hands over their ears, and collapsed. Weapons fell from their hands.

What was happening? What in the world was happening? What was about to happen? Trembling with fear, they all looked at the figure on the rooftop. Then two lights appeared within the pitch-black silhouette.

Its eyes.

He drew his sword and raised it toward the sky. As though it had been waiting, a bolt of lightning plunged from above.

KRA-BOOM!

None had ever seen lightning so close. They shut their eyes against the blinding flash. Some, terrified of heaven’s wrath, instinctively covered their heads and flung themselves to the ground.

But when they opened their eyes and looked up again, he was gone.

Somehow, he was standing on the wall beside Silverrich.

Along the straight line he had traversed, the duke’s soldiers were falling, their heads severed or their bodies cut clean apart. Electricity crackled across the ground.

Silverrich’s legs gave way, and he slumped down. From closer than anyone else, he looked up at the man.

He had fought countless battles and thought there was nothing left to fear. Now terror paralyzed his mind and body. He could do nothing but tremble.

An angry face that looked ready to weep. Two eyes blazing with light. A sword charged with lightning. This was no human. At the very least, it was something beyond human. A superhuman being, or a god itself.

Valeri hovered on the boundary between consciousness and oblivion. He could not tell whether he was moving himself or whether something else moved him.

Only one thing was certain: he was filled with immense sorrow and a pain like his heart burning.

Valeri raised his sword, Wound, then brought it down. A single bolt of lightning fell from the farthest reaches of the sky to the earth, crossing that vast distance in an instant.

KRA-BOOM!

What resistance could anyone offer? Silverrich burned black, his entire body splitting apart. It seemed to happen before death itself could reach him.

From atop the wall, Valeri turned toward the people. He drew a deep breath, spread his arms wide, and shouted as though pouring out all that immense pain and sorrow.

It was not like thunder rolling in the distant heavens, but thunder heard at close quarters.

“Who dares stand against me!”

Once again, their eardrums seemed about to burst. A high ringing filled their ears, and their sense of balance briefly failed, leaving them dizzy.

One man had done more than overwhelm this vast force. He had subdued it with a single shout.

Friend and foe alike could scarcely stand, their legs shaking beneath them. For the duke’s soldiers, courage now meant not fighting, but fleeing.

Someone farther from Valeri finally found the courage to run.

Then the duke’s army broke, everyone scrambling to escape. Thought deserted them. Fear alone ruled their minds.

Even the hatred and malice that had swelled toward their enemies during battle seemed crushed beneath sheer power.

Conquest? Victory? Defeat? None of those things even entered their heads.

Rain fell. The flames burning the bodies in the trench subsided, and Valeri released his sword.

On the hushed battlefield, where only the rain could be heard, the falling sword rang out loudly.

CLANG!

Valeri dropped to his knees and clutched his heart. Brief though it had been, that impossible, nearly divine power had a price. But had he not already decided to pay it for Gringen? Then that was enough.

As his trance gradually faded, the power dispersed, leaving only unbearable agony. Would his heart burst and kill him, as Regin had warned?

Still, to feel pain was also to be alive. For a dead heart to live again, such pain was inevitable.

It hurt so much he thought death would be preferable. But if he had to go on living like this, that too would be part of the price.

As his awareness grew hazy, unable to tell whether his heart was bursting or he was merely fainting from pain, Valeri sensed his surroundings brighten and lifted his head.

A light that had appeared far away among the marsh reeds was drawing closer. Was he imagining it? Was it a vision?

The light was not dazzling, only soothing. As it approached, he made out a human shape surrounded by radiance. A mage holding a staff. A rune mage.

“Those who willingly shoulder suffering deserve to be granted rest. All is accomplished. Close your eyes and be at peace.”

Could any voice in the world be so sweet? A sudden thought came to him: he had never seen his mother, but he wished her voice had sounded like this.

The rune mage enfolded Valeri in a warm embrace so that he could sleep peacefully.

At the edge of consciousness, he saw the frog banner hanging limp and sodden in the rain. Yet to the very end, it had neither fallen nor been taken by the enemy.

Just like Valeri.

Chapter 11 – When a Dead Heart Lives Again. End.