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

Orcs Over Orcs (2)

The joy of victory and at Adrian’s return had quickly abated. The atmosphere had become subdued, somber, almost as if the day had been a defeat rather than a victory. Maximilian felt as if he was suffocating. He knew he had to bolster the men’s morale, yet his lips refused to move.

That terrible roar from the mountains had left him standing still like some idiot. He chewed his lips, wishing that he could move.

“Look here!” An arrogant-sounding voice called out. All eyes focused on the First Prince as he moved further into the courtyard, leaving only the carnage of battle in his wake. At an order, Rangers started to spread something across the ground. It was the hides of large beasts, colored almost like the skin of a human yet far tougher and intersected by yellowish and red hues. As they were laid out, a large head flopped onto the ground.

The sound of disgusted gasps was heard from every quarter. Everyone stared at the head of a vicious monster, the head itself looking as if it would come alive at any moment. “We have slain fourteen Ogres and eleven Trolls,” Adrian declared. “Had we more time, the hides would have been drier,” he added, with the obvious arrogance in his tone giving voice to the pride in his heart.

“Why is there but a single head?” asked Vincent.

“Why lug such useless things with us? One souvenir is more than enough. What, do you doubt my word?”

“Not entirely, yet I see only four hides. It is your accounting that I doubt.”

Upon hearing Vincent’s words, Adrian crossed his arms. “We have been very busy. You think I would dare lie about such things?” As if he had just remembered, Adrian held out his hand, into which a Ranger placed something wrapped in red cloth. “A halberd from the Orc Noble I had slain, as well as the wand from the Orc Shaman who had tested your walls.”

Rangers had been watching the Prince’s attempts at proving his prowess, like a child seeking praise from its parents. “What’s the score now?” One of the Rangers asked loudly.

“After our breach of their lines, and me taking their banner, my count is on thirty-nine,” Adrian declared imperiously.

“Our captain killed thirty-eight!” a Ranger shouted, naming the true number. The First Prince thrust out his arm, his fist clenched.

“Vincent Balahard!” he exclaimed, raising his thumb and then thrusting it downward. “I won.”

Vincent’s face crumpled at hearing this.

“His Majesty has overtaken our captain!”

“The captain lost!”

“You stole the banner from behind their lines! Admit it!” Vincent cried out. Knights and Rangers started to jeer and boo upon hearing Vincent’s words.

“Admit defeat, leader! Show honor!”

“If we add the Ogres and Trolls he killed, you are far behind, captain! Admit defeat!”

“Have you all forgotten who truly rules Winter Castle?” shouted Vincent, abandoned by his officers. No one deigned to respond to his petulance.

At that moment, a strong voice was heard. “Ah, so you have all found the greatest warrior in Winter Castle, then?” Everyone turned their heads to the speaker. It was Count Bale Balahard, who had been silent all along.

“I killed fifty-nine,” he plainly stated. “You whelps still have a long way to go.”

Shame spread through the ranks of men as their memories were refreshed. Here stood a knight among knights, a man who had fought Orcs for so many winters. He had slaughtered the most.

“Ah, so an old man plays with the young ones, now,” Adrian spat out cheekily.

“My record never disappears,” the Count countered with a winning smile. Maximilian, having been confused by events, now realized that the prestigious Count had intentionally involved himself in the contest for the banner. The atmosphere in Winter Castle had become jovial once more after the soul-deadening roar of the Warlord. Maximilian noticed as the Count and his son exchanged meaningful glances, and the realization hit him then: These men did not care about the banner or their kill count. They merely wished to focus the soldiers’ attention on something other than the terror of the Warlord’s roar.

“Well, I did not hear my Uncle’s words. I am still the best,” Adrian stated as he clung to the banner like a monkey to a tree. The recent tension and anxiety of the army had all but evaporated.

“The wounded should head to barracks for healing. Those who are still hale will clear the battlefield,” commanded the Count as men started to move once more.

“Stop fucking around and go fetch your arrows, Rangers! I don’t want to hear about it, just get it done,” an officer spat at his men. “The milksops who fail to collect every arrow they fired will run along the walls until dawn!”

“Huh, now we have to cut the arrows out of these green-skins with our own eating knives,” a Ranger grumbled as he headed through the gates.

Maximilian continued to study the scene with an undiminished sense of awe. The commanders here truly knew how to improvise, and he could see that they have grown up alongside the men they commanded. It only took a few well-placed orders instead of grandiose speeches to bolster the men’s morale. Still more impressive was Adrian himself, a prince who had lived in the lap of luxury at the palace all his life, yet carried himself as if he was a veteran who had seen the harshest faces of war.

“Your Majesty, I report,” said Ehrim Kiringer as he approached the Second Prince with his head bowed.

“Go to my chambers,” Maximilian ordered.

The old knight would surely have many tales to tell.

* * *

The Ogre, a terrifying thing in life, managed to inspire the same terror by the mere presence of its corpse.

I had exhibited its head for all to see, just like triumphal generals would exhibit their loot after a campaign. I only prayed that the soldiers who had seen the slain beast would gain courage from the sight. I knew that my success was also half a failure. The gloom that had beset the castle had not been fully dissipated by my exhibition, for the presence of the Warlord had lain heavily upon everyone’s hearts. The Ranger, the knights, and all their commanders feared to even utter the name of the Warlord.

They feared that naming the evil would somehow grant it even greater power.

I clucked my tongue at the thought. Even the Rangers, veterans of the war against the monsters, held to such superstitions. I knew that the men from the capital would be even more shaken by the magnitude of the foe that they faced. I saw two men walk by, the mercenaries that Antoine had attached to my party. Even so long after the Warlord’s roar, I could see the absolute terror written plain on the faces of these men.

The fear of the soldiers irked me, their response to the situation bordering on the pathetic. Yet, that did not mean that I did not understand their reaction. The roar that had slammed into us had not been of a mundane nature. It had been loosed by a monster that has transcended the limits of its brutish species, its roar containing such great reserves of fervor as it announced its terrible presence.

It was a declaration of war. Its raw power had pressed upon the souls of even those who had experienced the harshest of battles. Even such veterans would struggle in the battle to come. The same counted for the mercenaries, men who had made war their bread and butter.

One reason why I saw the Silver Foxes’ response as pathetic was that the men of Winter Castle had already recovered from the peril and went about their duties with great alacrity. I knew that the mercenaries were not weak; rather, it was the people of Winter Castle who were stronger. Yet, even these strong men would not survive the coming war. We needed more soldiers.

“Why have more men not come to aid us?” I asked loudly.

I had expected more reinforcements from the lords of the realm by now, yet none had arrived while I had hunted in the mountains. I had sent out many heralds upon detecting the presence of the Warlord. I had stressed the direness of our situation, beseeching the nobility to arm and send soldiers as soon as they were able. The reinforcements from the capital had arrived, yet not a single squad from the provinces bordering Balahard had so far graced us with their presence. Something was awry.

“The stragglers from the capital had arrived in your absence. Through them I gathered news of the other lords,” Vincent responded, deep anger in his tone. “According to these men, the central and other northern lords have no intention to send troops to our aid.”

“If this fortress falls, do they not know that they shall be doomed and their lands ravaged!?” I roared, no longer able to control the fury that beat in my breast.

“Adrian, relax and take heart,” Count Balahard interceded gently. “Winter Castle shall never fall.”

I narrowed my eyes upon hearing his words. He met my gaze, his eyes so strangely deep.

“Surely?” I asked, knowing full well that sarcasm dripped like poison from my tongue.

“It hasn’t fallen yet, has it? But we’ve come close,” he responded with a laugh.

I admired him then, for how unfazed he appeared to be.

It felt like yesterday when he had viewed me as nothing but a fat little nuisance who went around falling on swords. He had long ago overcome such petty reservations regarding my nature.

“Admittedly, it would be pleasant if we had more time. Yet in war, time is ever in short supply.”

Even after saying this, I could see little fear in him. No, it seemed as if he welcomed the coming of the Warlord.

“Have no worries. Winter Castle and its knights have never faltered against Orcs,” he stated with absolute confidence, with the confidence of a quad-chain knight.

* * *

The Orcs, who had attacked the castle every four days, did not do so again. The forces within Winter Castle enjoyed their rest as they prepared for the upcoming battle. I had spoken with Maximilian, asking that he request reinforcements using his own name and title.

“If the name of Count Balahard does not secure aid, at least yours will.”

I did not think that the lords would ignore the title of the Second Prince. My brother did not say much, but having assessed the political situation, he wrote his letter requesting support in a fairly strong and heavy-handed tone. Those rangers who possessed the greatest stamina were sent out as messengers to the neighboring lords.

“Will they come?”

“They will come. The question remains, will they come in time?”

Maximilian shared my anxiety. He clearly felt the enormity of the threat that we faced.

“Brother,” I told him. “If things go awry, lead the retreat.”

“Why do you sound so grim, brother?”

“Our troops are insufficient. Yet, the men of Winter Castle will defend its stones to last. They shall never abandon this place.”

My Uncle had once stated in clear terms that the troops who lived in the castle would die in the castle. Never would they retreat and surrender its walls if they still drew breath. However, I knew that they had to be prepared for the possibility of retreat against the Warlord.

Maximilian balked at my order, saying that even if he was not a man of Winter Castle, his duty was still to command his men in battle.

The subsequent power struggle as to the succession to the throne did not seem to concern him at all. I smiled at this, happy that at least one of the scions of Gruhorn Leonberger still had fiery blood flowing through his veins. As the Rangers scattered across the realm with their messages, knights called the Black Lancers, the pride of Balahard, arrived at the castle.

“We have completed our mission. Forgive us for arriving late,” their commander said. The Count had sent them out on a special mission, and upon their arrival, I smelled the dark blood on their jet-black armor. If the Winter Knights were well-forged swords, the Black Lancers could only be described as ravening beasts of war. They struggled to keep their mana chained, and to a man, they looked fierce and hardened.

“Ah, the First Prince. It honors me to meet you in this time of war.” The man who had spoken was Quéon Lichtheim, the commander of the Black Lancers. He had stared and grinned at me like a hungry wolf.

“I might hurt the pride of young Vincent Balahard by saying this, but to fight alongside Your Majesty will be an exquisite experience.”

“Lord Quéon!” chided the Count.

“Regardless, Prince Adrian, I look forward to the coming war,” Lichtheim said, this time bowing to me.

“Oh, so do I, Sir Quéon,” I said. I was surprised that he treated me without prejudice. Clearly, word of my deeds had reached his ears.

The welcoming ceremony for the Black Lancers, consummate experts in assault, soon ended. At that point in time, the Warlord’s presence had drawn close to the castle. At most, he was between four days and a week away from us. There was truly little time left to prepare for his arrival.

My mind was set, then. I contemplated the fragments of my soul that slumbered within me, mentally preparing myself to face this dire foe.

No sign of reinforcement reached us, though unwelcome guests did arrive.

A blizzard blew in upon that day, and with it came a great army of Orcs. The selfsame red banner flew above their ranks, though its symbology was different this time.

It was the banner of the King of the Orcs, their hero who had transcended the base nature of his race.

It was the banner of the Warlord.

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